“I am thinking of you, madame.”
“Of me?” she had answered. “Why, of me they talk already—talk their fill. I must pretend blindness to the leering eyes that watch me each time I come to Pau; feign unconsciousness of the impertinent glances of the captain of the castle there as I ride in.”
“Then why do you come?” he had asked point-blank. But before her sudden change of countenance he had been quick to add: “Oh, madame, I am full conscious of the charity that brings you, and I am deeply, deeply grateful; but—”
“Charity?” she had interrupted sharply, on a laugh that was self-mocking. “Charity?”
“What else, madame?”
“Ask yourself,” she had answered, reddening and averting her face from his questioning eyes.
“Madame,” he had faltered, “I dare not.”
“Dare not?”
“Madame, how should I? I am an old man, broken by sickness, disheartened by misfortune, daunted by tribulation—a mere husk cast aside by Fortune, whilst you are lovely as one of the angels about the Throne of Heaven.”
She had looked into the haggard face, into the scars of suffering that seared it, and she had answered gently: “Tomorrow you shall come to me at Chantenac, my friend.”