Like one possessed I flew across the intervening room and out on to the terrace. Geneviève and Andrea were walking there, deep in conversation. At another time I might have cursed their lack of prudence. At the moment I did not so much as remark it.
“Where is Mademoiselle de Canaples?” I burst out.
They gazed at me, as much astounded by my question and the abruptness of it as by my apparent agitation.
“Has anything happened?” inquired Geneviève, her blue eyes wide open.
“Yes—no; naught has happened. Tell me where she is. I must speak to her.”
“She was here a while ago,” said Andrea, “but she left us to stroll along the river bank.”
“How long is it since she left you?”
“A quarter of an hour, perhaps.”
“Something has happened!” cried Geneviève, and added more, maybe, but I waited not to hear.
Muttering curses as I ran—for 't was my way to curse where pious souls might pray—I sped back to the quadrangle and my horse.