Her small fingers resting for a second or so in his, she answered, “Very well. And you?” in the tone of one meeting a casual acquaintance after a few hours’ separation; but then she could not repress a nervous little laugh, for which she could instantly have beaten herself with rods.
“How do you come to be out so early?” he said, conversationally, his heart strumming against his side.
“And how did you enter the park?” she countered in unconscious retaliation.
“By the village gate. I came from the station in a most egregious cariole drawn by a magnificent Anglo-Norman, of course, and driven by a blue-bloused, cotton-bonneted native, who charged me one hundred sols-Parisis for the job, and whom I dismissed with something additional at the said gate.”
“But,” she argued, white now as the white rose at her waist—“but why didn’t you telegraph for a carriage—announce your arrival?”
“I thought of it, but decided that it was more in my line to sneak in like a thief in the morning.... That is misquoted, I believe.”
She was searching his dear face despairingly for information as to his true state of feeling. He was talking against time, she knew well enough, but what was there lurking behind that calm, almost apathetic expression? Had he heard about Laurence—about the wreck? Did he know already that the beautiful woman who had borne his name none too well was silently awaiting his return in a triple envelope of palisander and silver and lead, to be carried far away where all past Princesses Palitzin had been laid in state for many generations? And Piotr, wasn’t he going even to mention Piotr—Tatiana, or Jean? Her sweet countenance, like the valley below, was caught in a maze of swiftly lightening and darkening impressions, sunshine and shadow, doubt and fear, and again hope conquering them all; but he remained immovable to the verge of stupidity, aware, though, and fully, that she was suffering and—God!—that he too suffered, suffered unbearably—as, had she been quicker, she would have noticed by the almost imperceptible quiver of his under lip.
“Shall we move on?” he asked at length, shaking his shoulders ever so slightly.
She nodded the big, soft wings of her hat, her face hidden now, and stepped into the path five inches ahead of him. The belligerent beetles, scared by the voices, had prudently subdued their foaming wrath and postponed their jealous combat.
As they walked off Marguerite was mechanically counting the great men whom history has made famous for their inclination toward dullness—the heroes of romance likewise indicated—Porthos and Athos—and Charlemagne—and Barbarossa—and Ferdinand II. of Austria—and Bayard himself, despite all the glamour of his faith, his courage, and his purity. The monk Abélard (who—but she did not know that—had his excuses, of course), Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and many, many others, lovable, admirable, classic—and classified according to their merits. She stole a glance toward the splendid man striding beside her, and wondered why marriage, even unhappy marriage, had wrought such a change in him. He had never been lively even in the past, but since that memorable day when Laurence had appeared on the scene at Plenhöel he had appeared to be another being, triumphant and frozen, glorified and stupefied in turn; at first too visibly happy to be taken seriously, afterward sliding gradually into a half-tinted mood that lost him all power to show himself as he really was. And now had he really any heart left? she asked herself in amaze. His outward appearance was reassuring. He looked, as a matter of fact, younger than he had when she had last seen him—his forehead quite smooth, his finely cut features a hint more masterful than ever, his eyes dear and direct, and there was just a touch of haughtiness in his bearing she had not yet seen there, as though he were challenging the universe to come and pity him.