'André!' cried Paul. 'If you say that again, I shall write to the Pope and ask him to disfrock you.'
The next day was fine; but, though he spent the entire morning in the Smuggler's Pathway, he did not meet her. 'It's because the ground's still wet,' he reasoned. 'Oh, why don't things dry quicker?'
The next day he did meet her—and she passed him with a bow. He shook his fist at her unsuspecting back.
The next day he perceived Bézigue riderless near the opening among the trees. The horse neighed, as he drew near. She was seated on the moss. He stood still, and bowed tentatively from the path. 'Are you disengaged? May I come in?' he asked.
'Oh, do,' she answered. 'And—won't you take a seat?'
'Thank you,' and he placed himself beside her.
'Tell me about your life afterwards,' she said.
'My life afterwards? After what?'
'After you were carried off to Paris.'
'What earthly interest can that have?'