"But, Madame," I exclaimed in astonishment, "we are not to say adieu here. I must see you to the convent."
"The convent is not so far now. I know the way; and I wish to go there alone. You will respect my wish, I know: have you not had your way entirely so far on our journey? You cannot justly refuse me my will now." She gave a wan little smile as if she knew the argument was not a fair one.
"But, Madame,—what can be your reason?—It is not safe. Surely you will not deny me the happiness of seeing my service fully accomplished,—of knowing that you are safe at the convent?"
"I am nearly there. I know the road,—it is a shorter way than the high roads, but little used. I shall meet no travellers. I fear no danger."
"But consider, Madame. The danger may be at the very end of your journey. The Count may have spies within sight of the convent. You may fall into a trap at the last moment."
"I can go first to the house of a woodman in the forest, whose wife was a servant of my mother's. They are good, trustworthy people, and can see if all is safe before I approach the convent. If there is danger, I can send word by them to the Mother Superior, who can find means to get me in secretly at night. You may deem your service accomplished, Monsieur. I must take my leave now."
"But it is so strange! What can be your reason?—what can be your objection to my going with you?"
"Ah, Monsieur, it may be unfair, but a woman is exempt from having to give reasons. It is my wish,—is not that enough? I am so deeply your debtor already,—let me be your debtor in this one thing more.—You have spent money for me: I have no means of repaying—nay, I will not mention it,—you have given me so much that is above all price,—your courage and skill. But enough of this—to speak of such things in my poor way is to cheapen them. Adieu, Monsieur!—adieu, Henri!"
She held out her hand, to which I lowered my lips without a word, for I could not speak.
"You will go your way when I go mine," she said with tenderness. "To Paris, perhaps?"