“Corsica, farewell!” he cried. “As long as I live I’ll never set foot on your shores again. I’m free, free once more. And now for Paris ... Margot....”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARGOT
HOW strange is the romance of destiny! Four nights before he had lain in a cave in the hinterland of Corsica, listening to a brigand’s tale of blood, and now, behold, he was in Paris, walking the Boulevard Montparnasse, and searching for a certain number.
He found it, an old house sandwiched between two modern ones. Looking up to its mansarded roof he saw a window alight, a window with a small balcony. That must be her room. He had heard her speak of it so often, her “Mansard of Dreams” as she called it. His heart beat excitedly; then suddenly he saw a shadow on the blind. Yes, it was her shadow, Margot’s. Should he go up? He thought not. It was too late. She was probably very busy, preparing for the morrow, her marriage morn. No, he would not bother her to-night.
While he was thus arguing with himself, his feet were carrying him to the door. A fat concierge was giving a Pekinese spaniel an airing. Suddenly he heard himself asking.
“Does Mademoiselle Leblanc live here?”
“Yes, monsieur. Fifth floor. Door to the right.”
It sounded like an invitation to go up, and he accepted it. As he mounted the broken stairs, his heart beat faster. Very silly this! Why should making a call on her so excite him? It was hard to believe that she was there. It seemed years since he had seen her,—far back in a somewhat uncertain past.
He found himself at the door, knocking. How his confounded heart was knocking too! Damn! He could hear her moving about inside. Perhaps she thought it was some one else. Perhaps when she saw it was he, she would be disappointed. She was taking a long time to open the door. He felt a great longing come over him, a great tenderness. He would take her in his arms, kiss her, overwhelm her with passionate caresses.
He did none of these things. When the door opened, he was the punctilious, rather cold, young man she had always known.