What the music was that afternoon the Count de Sabron could not have told very intelligently. Much of it was sweet, all of it was touching, but when Miss Redmond stood to sing and chose the little song of which he had made a lullaby, and sang it divinely, Sabron, his hands clasped behind his back and his head a little bent, still looking at her, thought that his heart would break. It was horrible to go away and not tell her. It was cowardly to feel so much and not be able to speak of it. And he felt that he might be equal to some wild deed, such as crossing the room violently, putting his hand over her slender one and saying:
"I am a soldier; I have nothing but a soldier's life. I am going to Africa to-morrow. Come with me; I want you. Come!"
All of which, slightly impossible and quite out of the question, nevertheless charmed and soothed him. The words of her English song, almost barbaric to him because incomprehensible, fell on his ears. Its melody was already part of him.
"Monsieur de Sabron," said Madame d'Esclignac, "you are going away to-morrow?"
"Yes, Madame."
"I expect you will be engaged in some awful native skirmishes. Perhaps you will even be able to send back a tiger skin."
"There are no tigers in that part of Africa, Madame."
The young soldier's dark eyes rested almost hostilely on the gorgeous marquise in her red gown. He felt that she was glad to have him go. He wanted to say: "I shall come back, however; I shall come back and when I return" ... but he knew that such a boast, or even such a hope was fruitless.
His colonel had told him only the day before that Miss Redmond was one of the richest American heiresses, and there was a question of a duke or a prince and heaven only knew what in the way of titles. As the marquise moved away her progress was something like the rolling of an elegant velvet chair, and while his feelings were still disturbed Miss Redmond crossed the room to him. Before Sabron quite knew how they had been able to escape the others or leave the room, he was standing with her in the winter garden where the sunlight came in through trellises and the perfume of the warmed plants was heavy and sweet. Below them flowed the Rhone, golden in the winter's light. The blue river swept its waves around old Tarascon and the battlements of King René's towers.
"You are going to Algiers to-morrow, Monsieur de Sabron?" Miss Redmond smiled, and how was Sabron to realize that she could not very well have wept there and then, had she wished to do so?