Part 23 (1/2)
Oh, comrades mine, go roam the earth, You'll find in all your roving That all its other joys are worth Not half the joys of loving!”
”Ah, mademoiselle,” I whispered, ”before yesterday those words would have meant nothing to me!”
She made no answer, but closed her eyes, as if to shut out every thought but consciousness of that moment.
And now the gypsy, in an air and voice expressive of sadness, as he had before been expressive of rapture, sang a second stanza:
”But, ah, the price we have to pay For joys that have their season!
And, oh, the sadness of the day When woman shows her treason!
Her look of love is but a mask For plots that she is weaving.
Alas, for those who fondly bask In smiles that are deceiving!”
I thought of Mlle. d'Arency, but not for long; for suddenly Mlle. de Varion started up, as if awakened from a dream, and looked at me with an expression of unspeakable distress of mind.
”Oh, monsieur!” she cried. ”You must leave me! I must never see you again. Go, go,--or let me go at once!”
”Mademoiselle!” I cried, astonished.
”I beg you, make no objections, ask no questions! Only go! It is a crime, an infamy, for me to have listened while you spoke as you spoke a while ago! I ought not to have accepted your protection! Go, monsieur, and have no more to do with the most miserable woman in France!”
She started to go into the inn, but I caught her by the hand and detained her.
”Mademoiselle,” I said, gently, ”the difference in our religions need not forbid such words between us as I have spoken. I can understand how you regard it as an insuperable barrier, but it is really a slight one, easily removed, as it has been in many notable cases.”
”Monsieur,” she replied, resolutely, shaking her head, ”I say again, we must part. I am not to be urged or persuaded. The greatest kindness you can do me is to go, or let me go, without more words.”
”But, mademoiselle,” I interposed, ”it will be very difficult for you to continue your flight across this border without a guide. Not to speak of the danger from men, there is the chance of losing your way.”
”The Sieur de la Tournoire will not refuse me his guidance,” she said, in a voice that seemed forced to an unwonted hardness.
”Then you will discard my protection, and accept his, a stranger's?”
”Yes, because he is a stranger,--thank G.o.d!”
What, I asked myself, was to be the end of this? Would she not, on learning that La Tournoire was myself, all the more decidedly insist on going her own way? Therefore, before disclosing myself to her, I must accustom her to the view that a difference in religion ought not to separate two who love each other. In order to do this, I must have time; so I said:
”At least, mademoiselle, you will let me show you the way to Maury, and present to you the Sieur de la Tournoire. That is little to ask.”
”I have already accepted too much from you,” she replied, hesitating.
”Then cancel the obligation by granting me this one favor.”
”Very well, monsieur. But you will then go immediately?”
”From the moment when you first meet La Tournoire, he shall be your only guide, unless you yourself choose another. In the meantime,” I added, for she had taken another step towards the inn, ”grant me at least as much of your society as you would bestow on an indifferent acquaintance, who happened to be your fellow-traveler in this lonely place.”
She gave a sigh which I took as meaning that the more we should see each other, the harder the parting would be at last, but she said, tremulously:
”We shall meet at supper, monsieur, and to-morrow, when you conduct me on to Maury.” Then she entered the inn, but stopped on the threshold, and, casting on me a strangely wistful look, she added, ”Great must be the friends.h.i.+p between you and La Tournoire, that you can so confidently a.s.sure his protection to those for whom you ask it.”