What were Marcel Trouet and the London Corresponding Society to him now but traps to rob him of that newly cherished honour and love?
As for Steenie Berrington and Jack Denningham, he should tell them his mind plainly, and if they would not stomach his change of opinion, they might go to the devil for all he cared.
Of one thing he was resolved, and that was to ride to Varenac at once and proclaim himself for what he was—the Marquis—not citizen—Varenac, who had come to bid his people cry "Vive le roi Bourbon" rather than "À bas les aristocrats."
Fire ran in his veins, urging him to be up and doing. No time should be lost. When Jéhan came he should not be able to point to him as traitor.
The last thought caused him a perfect fever of anxiety. He must waste no time. Proof must come first ere denunciation.
But Cécile was loath to go. Might they not dream a little longer?
That was the question she would have asked, but shy diffidence withheld her.
Besides, the shadows fell, and she was no peasant lass—to be courted as Marie or Yvette might be,—but a demoiselle of Brittany.
Even as it was she feared her mother's disapproval, recalling the oft-told story of how demoiselles of thirty years ago very often never saw their future husbands till the day of fiançailles. Truly the world was going topsy-turvy now; but, in this particular respect, Cécile felt that the change was for the better.
Through the twilight they walked home together, whispering, from time to time, those foolish absurdities which make old grey-beards smile. Yet who, thus smiling, has not sighed too, remembering days when they themselves found foolishness the sweetest thing on earth!