“I would not drive you away. You have said that you would be my guest for another night; you may remain as long as you care to remain.”
“I’ll go,” Cartaret repeated. “It isn’t you that’s driving me. Will you please send up to my room for my saddle-bags, and have my mare brought around?”
Don Ricardo bowed. He went out.
Cartaret stood for some time on the spot where he had been standing throughout the talk with his host. He was thinking of his ruined hopes and of the woman that had ruined them. Once he asked himself what had so changed her; but, when he could find no answer to that question, he asked what the cause could matter, since the effect was so apparent. He walked to a window. He could see that part of the terrace which lay between the gate and the drawbridge, but he saw no sign of his mare. What could Eskurola be doing? He seemed, whatever it was, to be a long time about it.
The oaken door of the room opened and closed with a bang. Don Ricardo stood before it. The dull red had returned to his cheeks.
“Sir,” said he, “I have just been having another word with the Doña Dolorez: she informs me that you have had the impertinence to tell her that you love her.”
Cartaret laughed bitterly. “In my country,” he said, “when a man wants to marry a woman it is customary to say something of that kind.”
“You are in Alava, sir, and you speak of a member of my family.”
“I was in Paris then.”
“But this morning—just now?” Eskurola came a step forward.