“Forgive me,” he said simply. “My sight is not very good, and there were so many shadows I thought I saw a lady in a dark mantle seated in that corner.”
The little man laughed.
“Mon Dieu, no, Monsieur.” He spoke pleasantly, being affected, almost unconsciously, by the sweetness and gentleness of the slight stooping gentleman who was so terribly marked by the smallpox and seemed to breathe with such an effort.
The guard entered to relight the lantern, and the two travellers descended and stood in the strip of light outside the inn, where the coachman, some peasants, and two starved-looking people, who had been travelling outside, were drinking hot spiced wine with wolfish relish.
Luc felt the night wind touch his face. He walked out of the radius of light, away from the sound of the talk, and stood facing the dark high road.
Can she, then, come back—has she, then, remembered? Did she mean to comfort me?
He breathed strongly and drew himself erect.
Why should I fear sorrow and loss? Who am I that I should hope to be free of grief and regret? I have not offended the Being who put me here, and I fear nothing.
He stood motionless, for the wind was rising higher, and passed him with a sound like the sweep of a woman’s skirt. He thought to feel a touch, a breath, to hear a voice, a sigh.
But the wind passed, and a great stillness fell.