'Of the stream which has flowed between us from the day when I first saw you at St. Jean,' I said in a low voice. 'It has flowed between us, and it still does--separating us.'
'What stream?' she murmured, with her eyes cast down, and her foot playing with the moss. 'You speak in riddles, sir.'
'You understand this one only too well, mademoiselle,' I answered. 'Are you not young and gay and beautiful, while I am old, or almost old, and dull and grave? You are rich and well-thought-of at Court, and I a soldier of fortune, not too successful. What did you think of me when you first saw me at St. Jean? What when I came to Rosny? That, mademoiselle,' I continued with fervour, 'is the stream which flows between us and separates us; and I know of but one stepping-stone that can bridge it.'
She looked aside, toying with a piece of thorn-blossom she had picked. It was not redder than her cheeks.
'That one stepping-stone,' I said, after waiting vainly for any word or sign from her, 'is Love. Many weeks ago, mademoiselle, when I had little cause to like you, I loved you; I loved you whether I would or not, and without thought or hope of return. I should have been mad had I spoken to you then. Mad, and worse than mad. But now, now that I owe you my life, now that I have drunk from your hand in fever, and, awaking early and late, have found you by my pillow--now that, seeing you come in and out in the midst of fear and hardship, I have learned to regard you as a woman kind and gentle as my mother--now that I love you, so that to be with you is joy, and away from you grief, is it presumption in me now, mademoiselle, to think that that stream may be bridged?'
I stopped, out of breath, and saw that she was trembling. But she spoke presently. 'You said one stepping-stone?' she murmured.
'Yes,' I answered hoarsely, trying in vain to look at her face, which she kept averted from me.
'There should be two,' she said, almost in a whisper. 'Your love, sir, and--and mine. You have said much of the one, and nothing of the other. In that you are wrong, for I am proud still. And I would not cross the stream you speak of for any love of yours!'
'Ah!' I cried in sharpest pain.
'But,' she continued, looking up at me on a sudden with eyes that told me all, 'because I love you I am willing to cross it--to cross it once for ever, and live beyond it all my life--if I may live my life with you.'