"They say that Monsieur le Marquis was a most handsome youth," Anne remarked, when the men had disappeared round an angle.
"Then it is possible the son will make a handsome old man," was madame's flippant rejoinder.
"Supposing, after all, you had married him?" suggested Anne, with a bit of malice; for somehow the Chevalier's face appealed to her admiration.
"Heaven evidently had some pity for me, for that would have been a catastrophe, indeed." Madame did not employ warm tones, and the lids of her eyes narrowed. "Wedded to a fop, whose only thought was of himself? That would have been even worse than Monsieur le Comte, who was, with all his faults, a man of great courage."
"I have never heard that the Chevalier was a coward," warmly. "In fact, in Rochelle he had the reputation of being one of the most daring soldiers in France. And a coward would never have done what he did for Monsieur de Saumaise."
"Good Heaven! let us talk of something else," cried madame. "The Chevalier, the Chevalier! He has no part in my life, nor I in his; nor will he have. I do not at present hate him, but if you keep trumpeting his name into my ears I shall." Madame was growing visibly angry. "I will leave you, Anne, with the Mother Superior's letters. I do not want company; I want to be alone. I shall return before the noon meal."
"Gabrielle, you are not angry at me? I was only jesting."
"No, Anne; I am angry at myself. My vanity is still young and green, and I can not yet separate Monsieur du Cévennes from the boot-heel which ground upon my likeness. No woman with any pride would forgive an affront like that; and I am both proud and unforgiving."
"I can understand, Gabrielle. You ought not to have joined me. By now you would have been in Navarre or in Spain."
"And lonely, lonely, lonely!" with a burst of tenderness, throwing her arms round Anne again and kissing her. "I must go; I shall weep if I remain."