"But, ah, the price we have to pay
For joys that have their season!
And, oh, the sadness of the day
When woman shows her treason!
Her look of love is but a mask
For plots that she is weaving.
Alas, for those who fondly bask
In smiles that are deceiving!"
I thought of Mlle. d'Arency, but not for long; for suddenly Mlle. de Varion started up, as if awakened from a dream, and looked at me with an expression of unspeakable distress of mind.
"Oh, monsieur!" she cried. "You must leave me! I must never see you again. Go, go,—or let me go at once!"
"Mademoiselle!" I cried, astonished.
"I beg you, make no objections, ask no questions! Only go! It is a crime, an infamy, for me to have listened while you spoke as you spoke a while ago! I ought not to have accepted your protection! Go, monsieur, and have no more to do with the most miserable woman in France!"
She started to go into the inn, but I caught her by the hand and detained her.
"Mademoiselle," I said, gently, "the difference in our religions need not forbid such words between us as I have spoken. I can understand how you regard it as an insuperable barrier, but it is really a slight one, easily removed, as it has been in many notable cases."
"Monsieur," she replied, resolutely, shaking her head, "I say again, we must part. I am not to be urged or persuaded. The greatest kindness you can do me is to go, or let me go, without more words."
"But, mademoiselle," I interposed, "it will be very difficult for you to continue your flight across this border without a guide. Not to speak of the danger from men, there is the chance of losing your way."
"The Sieur de la Tournoire will not refuse me his guidance," she said, in a voice that seemed forced to an unwonted hardness.