“Going?” said she. Her eyes were lowered now, but a frown suggested their expression to me. “Going whither?”
“Hence,” I answered. “That for the moment is all that signifies.” I paused to swallow something that hindered a clear utterance. Then, “Adieu!” said I, and I abruptly put forth my hand.
Her glance met mine fearlessly, if puzzled.
“Do you mean, monsieur, that you are leaving Lavedan—thus?”
“So that I leave, what signifies the manner of my going?”
“But”—the trouble grew in her eyes; her cheeks seemed to wax paler than they had been—“but I thought that—that we made a bargain.”
“'Sh! mademoiselle, I implore you,” I cried. “I take shame at the memory of it. Almost as much shame as I take at the memory of that other bargain which first brought me to Lavedan. The shame of the former one I have wiped out—although, perchance, you think it not. I am wiping out the shame of the latter one. It was unworthy in me, mademoiselle, but I loved you so dearly that it seemed to me that no matter how I came by you, I should rest content if I but won you. I have since seen the error if it, the injustice of it. I will not take what is not freely given. And so, farewell.”
“I see, I see,” she murmured, and ignored the hand that I held out. “I am very glad of it, monsieur.”
I withdrew my hand sharply. I took up my hat from the chair on which I had cast it. She might have spared me that, I thought. She need not have professed joy. At least she might have taken my hand and parted in kindness.
“Adieu, mademoiselle!” I said again, as stiffly as might be, and I turned towards the door.