She shook her head negatively in reply, but would not give me any more satisfaction.
At last I said, abruptly, "Do you, then, wish me not to love you?"
She looked at me first as if she would answer yes, and then as if she would answer no, and finally, after a sigh, she said:
"Can we cause things by wishing?"
Finally, as a last means of trying her, I said:
"Mademoiselle, I have been thinking that it might be better if I were to go on alone to Guienne, and leave Blaise and my men to conduct you when you are able to follow."
She regarded me strangely, first as if the suggestion were a welcome one, then,—while her brow darkened, and a kind of mental anguish forced itself into her expression,—as if the plan were not at all acceptable.
"But you will not do that, monsieur?" was all that she said.
I could but sigh in puzzlement, and abandon my attempt to make her tell her feelings.
Sometimes I would suddenly turn my eyes towards her, and catch her looking at me with mingled tenderness and pity, as a man condemned to die might be looked on by the woman who loved him. At those times I thought that she had some fear or foreboding that I might yet fall a victim to the vengeance of those whom I had offended. Sometimes her look quite startled me, for it contained, besides a world of grief and pity, something of self-reproach. I then supposed that she blamed herself for allowing her fatigue to delay me in my departure from the province.