It wanted a few minutes to noon as I left the room in which the old nobleman was confined, and by the door of which a trooper was stationed, musket on shoulder. With every pulse a-throbbing at the thought of my approaching interview with Mademoiselle, I made my way below and out into the bright sunshine, the soldiers I chanced to meet saluting me as I passed them.
On the terrace I found Mademoiselle already awaiting me. She was standing, as often I had seen her stand, with her back turned towards me and her elbows resting upon the balustrade. But as my step sounded behind her, she turned, and stood gazing at me with a face so grief-stricken and pale that I burned to unmask and set her torturing fears at rest. I doffed my hat and greeted her with a silent bow, which she contemptuously disregarded.
“My lieutenant tells me, Mademoiselle,” said I in my counterfeited voice, “that it is your desire to bear Monsieur your father company upon this journey of his to Paris.”
“With your permission, sir,” she answered in a choking voice.
“It is a matter for consideration, Mademoiselle,” I pursued. “There are in it many features that may have escaped you, and which I shall discuss with you if you will honour me by stepping into the garden below.”
“Why will not the terrace serve?”
“Because I may have that to say which I would not have overheard.”
She knit her brows and stared at me as though she would penetrate the black cloth that hid my face. At last she shrugged her shoulders, and letting her arms fall to her side in a gesture of helplessness and resignation—
“Soit; I will go with you,” was all she said.
Side by side we went down the steps as a pair of lovers might have gone, save that her face was white and drawn, and that her eyes looked straight before her, and never once, until we reached the gravel path below, at her companion. Side by side we walked along one of the rose-bordered alleys, until at length I stopped.