“Sooner than see you dead,” he grumbled as he resumed his task. Thereafter, whilst he rowed, Michelot entertained me with some quaint ideas touching that which fine gentlemen call honour, and to what sorry passes it was wont to bring them, concluding by thanking God that he was no gentleman and had no honour to lead him into mischief.
At last, however, our journey came to an end, and I sprang ashore some five hundred paces from the little chapel, and almost exactly opposite the Château de Canaples. I stood for a moment gazing across the water at the lighted windows of the château, wondering which of those eyes that looked out upon the night might be that of Yvonne's chamber.
Then, bidding Michelot await me, or follow did I not return in half an hour, I turned and moved away towards the chapel.
There is a clearing in front of the little white edifice—which rather than a temple is but a monument to the martyr who is said to have perished on that spot in the days before Clovis.
As I advanced into the centre of this open patch of ground, and stood clear of the black silhouettes of the trees, cast about me by the moon, two men appeared to detach themselves from the side wall of the chapel, and advanced to meet me.
Albeit they were wrapped in their cloaks—uptilted behind by their protruding scabbards—it was not difficult to tell the tall figure and stately bearing of St. Auban and the mincing gait of Vilmorin.
I doffed my hat in a grave salutation, which was courteously returned.
“I trust, Messieurs, that I have not kept you waiting?”
“I was on the point of expressing that very hope, Monsieur,” returned St. Auban. “We have but arrived. Do you come alone?”
“As you perceive.”