Part 23 (1/2)
”Will you let me know when we start?”
”As soon as ever you are rested sufficiently, mademoiselle.”
My tone was coldly polite, and there was equal indifference in her voice.
”It is very good of you to say this; but now that I have decided to go to Paris the sooner it is over the better.”
”The horses are ready.”
”Then, perhaps, we had better start.”
”I am at your service, mademoiselle.” And a quarter of an hour later we were on our way once again. I did not take the direct road by Chatellerault, but turned half westward, intending to enter Touraine by way of Chinon, and then to follow the route by which I had come to Poitiers.
It was a summer day, such as can only be met with in France. Overhead billowy white clouds rolled and piled in the sapphire blue of the sky.
A wind, fresh and cool, blew from the west, sweeping over the plain, hissing into the crests of the yellow broom and purple loosestrife, and bending them into lines of colour that chased each other like waves over the grey-green moorland. As we left the plain and came to the undulating lands of northern Poitou, where the country twisted down to the Bienne, the hedgerows, all glimmering in gold and green, and gay with blossoming thorn, were awake with the song of the thrush and the black-cap. We had pa.s.sed Lencloitre on our left, and in that dip, dark with walnut-trees, lay the little hamlet of Razines, which had so many memories for me.
Up to now neither mademoiselle nor I had exchanged a word, as I rode well in the rear of our party, sending Capus, who knew the country, to lead us. Diane had so far kept her word, and rode behind Capus in silence. At intervals I pushed a little to one side and watched her, and now and again, as we came to a turn or a bend in the road, I saw her full and fairly, but she never so much as glanced in my direction.
A little farther on we skirted some rising ground, and there, to our half-left, lay Richelieu, the smoke still rising from its burning houses, and, caught by the wind, stretching out in a long horsetail across the country. Mademoiselle reined up and watched the scene for a little, our party halting behind her. As we did so we heard a loud neigh, and a riderless horse, the saddlery still on him, came out of some stunted trees and trotted towards us. At a sign from me one of my men caught the horse and freed him of his bit and saddle, whilst I galloped up to the trees, upon which half a dozen or so of ravens were sitting. When I reached them I found what I expected there, and the hideous birds croaked down on me as if in derision, for what was lying there was past all aid of man. I came back as I went, and Diane asked:
”Is there anyone there, monsieur?”
”No, mademoiselle. And 'tis almost time for our midday halt; a little farther on and we will rest.”
Diane turned her horse's head, and I was about to turn back once more to my place when she said in a low tone:
”Monsieur, I have something to say to you.”
I bowed, and rode up beside her. And we let the men go onward, dropping together to the place I had left in the rear.
”Monsieur,” she said after a little, ”I have been trying to say what I want all the morning. I want you to forgive me for the cruel words I used to you last night. I--I never meant them.” She was flushed and trembling as she spoke, and I saw the tears in her eyes. I lifted my hat at her words.
”Mademoiselle, after all you were right. I am but Bertrand Broussel, a citizen of Paris, as you know, and you----”
”Oh yes; I know all that; but, oh! I feel hot with shame when I think of my words. Monsieur, say you forgive me!”
”With all my heart, mademoiselle! Think no more of it, I pray you.”
And then, to change the subject, I pointed to a grove of trees in front of us. ”There, mademoiselle, is where we halt for an hour or so. What say you to a race there?”
”Are you not afraid of that?”
”I will risk it,” I said. And, with a laugh, she touched her Norman with the whip, and I kept Lizette pounding after her, until she pulled up, flushed and hot, near the trees, beside which the Mable purled past.
”Beaten again,” she said as I came up.
”It is my fate.” And, pulling up, I pointed to the river. ”Do you remember this river, mademoiselle?”
”The Mable!” And she shuddered. ”But surely it was not here that we crossed on that awful night?”
”No; some miles lower down.” And then I helped her to dismount, and attended to the horses, whilst she borrowed my sword, and tying her 'kerchief to the point signalled to our men to come on.