“You have not kept me waiting at all; I have but just come,” and then she went on: “It was with the greatest difficulty I got away.”
“We had better not delay a moment,” I answered, and putting our horses to the trot, we went forward at a rapid pace. Up to the time we were free of the gates we did not exchange a word, and the silence continued for a short time after, as we galloped along the winter road; but at last we reined in, to give our horses breathing space, and then she spoke.
“Monsieur,” she said, “I feel I ought to thank you for what you are doing. Believe me, I shall remember this.”
“As long as an old glove or a worn-out mask,” I said bitterly, and she flushed scarlet.
“You speak in riddles, and I am not good at guessing.” She swung her jewelled riding-whip impatiently in her hand, and it was as much as I could do to restrain myself from telling her I knew all now, every detail of the treachery by which she had lured me to love her to madness, and led me on to make sport for herself and her companions. But I held myself in. I could afford to wait, for my time was coming.
“Your pardon,” I said. “I am afraid the past year has not improved me. I have changed much in heart and feelings. I am no longer a boy.”
“Indeed!” The whip went up and down again. She was determined to have no allusion to the past, and, fool that I was, I was blundering into it more and more at each moment. “Come, monsieur!” she went on, “another half-league and we shall almost be at St. Loup,” and touching her horse lightly on the shoulder with her whip, she galloped on, I following at her heels.
We were well in the forest by this, and the early winter’s night was coming on apace. From the damp and sodden ground a gray mist had arisen, and brooded sullenly over the earth. Through the opal shadows which quivered uneasily around us, the trees held out dim skeleton arms, to which here and there clung a few withered and yellow leaves. But the sky above us was clear, and augured a fair night, and as I looked up at it I had a grim satisfaction in thinking that there would be no cloud shadows to spoil the Spanish pass, to which I fully intended to introduce Monsieur de Richelieu. We had now slackened pace again almost unconsciously, and madame asked:
“How far is it now?”
“Not a quarter of a mile,” I said, a little surprised, because I thought the road was as well known to her as to me.