“You should not walk around at night,” she replied irrelevantly.
Suddenly I remembered Gignoux, but even as I was about to tell her of the incident Antoinette appeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but her lips were set with excitement and her eyes shone strangely. She was still in her riding gown, in her hand she carried a leather bag, and behind her stood André with a bundle.
“Quick!” she said; “we are wasting time, and he may be gone.”
Checking an exclamation which could hardly have been complimentary to Auguste, the Vicomtesse crossed quickly to her and put her arm about her.
“We will follow you, mignonne,” she said in French.
“Must you come?” said Antoinette, appealingly. “He may not appear if he sees any one.”
“We shall have to risk that,” said the Vicomtesse, dryly, with a glance at me. “You shall not go alone, but we will wait a few moments at the hedge.”
We took the well-remembered way through the golden-green light under the trees, Antoinette leading, and the sight of the garden brought back to me poignantly the scene in the moonlight with Mrs. Temple. There was no sound save the languid morning notes of the birds and the humming of the bees among the flowers as Antoinette went tremblingly down the path and paused, listening, under the branches of that oak where I had first beheld her. Then, with a little cry, we saw her run forward—into the arms of Auguste de St. Gré. It was a pitiful thing to look upon.
Antoinette had led her brother to the seat under the oak. How long we waited I know not, but at length we heard their voices raised, and without more ado Madame la Vicomtesse, beckoning me, passed quickly through the gap in the hedge and went towards them. I followed with André. Auguste rose with an oath, and then stood facing his cousin like a man struck dumb, his hands dropped. He was a sorry sight indeed, unshaven, unkempt, dark circles under his eyes, clothes torn.
“Hélène! You here—in America!” he cried in French, staring at her.