He had some wild idea of mounting his horse and pursuing Michelle—but where? He knew nothing of the country, and could have no inkling of the direction she had taken. No. In the midst of his wildness he realized that the only thing to do was to wait for the letter.
He returned to the château as nearly mad as a sane man could be. To desert him in that manner! Had she, then, ever truly loved him? Yesterday—last night—this morning—what answer would his heart have given him? But now— He struck his forehead and swore to himself that she had never, never loved him.
He had a dreadful conviction that the thing was final with her; and going all over the château, and wandering amid the grounds was like going to the old familiar places the day that the one who made them bright has been laid in the earth. Yes,—this was the very spot in the bridge-room where they had sat the evening before. Not even the chair had been moved in which he had sat when she knelt before him, and her hair had fallen upon his shoulder. On the window-seat lay her embroidery, just as her hand had dropped it. Close to it lay the volume of Ronsard. The place they had last read was marked with some rose leaves; she had gathered them from the bold marauder whose lovely face had laughed in at the window—and those leaves were not yet withered.
In the old saloon was the viol. Roger had thrown it down carelessly on a table. Michelle, with a woman’s orderly instinct, had put it in its case, and carefully closed it. That had been only twenty-hours before.
These things almost broke his heart. As sunset approached he went back to the bridge-room and sullenly threw himself into the same chair in which he had sat when last he saw Michelle vanish through the door. It came to him that there was something like farewell in that last long look, and the memory of it softened him. Love was in her eyes; the mere recollection of that look was convincing. Dwelling upon it, he fell into a better frame of mind, and gradually he came to his other self. And when the evening shadows lay upon the land, and the dying light wrapped all the earth in its soft, mysterious splendor, and the unseen bell echoed sweetly from the hill, Roger Egremont, changed and melted, cried out aloud in his agitation, “Michelle, Michelle, forgive me! Forgive me, Michelle!”
As if in answer to this, her letter was thrown in to him at the window. This is it,—
“You will know why I went secretly, and why I have caused you to spend this day of misery. If I had once seen you, I never could have left you. I go to Pont-à-Mousson. I shall be there when you receive this letter. Forgive me, dearest. But for me, we should not have remained a single day at la Rivière. It is I, and I alone who am to blame; and the greatest blame of all is that I should have made you, the soul of honor, act dishonorably. For that I implore your forgiveness. I ask you to confess all to the Duke of Berwick. I feel sure that he can save you from the consequences of my wrong-doing. I shall confess to the Mother Superior where I am going. This is not to save myself, but you—for I assure you I care not what becomes of me.
“We can never meet again—that much is certain.”
Here some illegible words followed, and then her name.