said, tugging his grey mustachios and standing like a ramrod. "We shall leave you the house and Madame, and you can take your line to find the man. For ourselves, we shall draw off our men to the village, and we shall take our line. That is all, M. le Capitaine, is it not?"
"I think so," the captain muttered, looking anywhere but at me.
"Then we bid you good-day, Monsieur," the lieutenant added. And in a moment he turned his companion round, and the two retired up the walk to the house, leaving me to look after them in a black fit of rage and incredulity. At the first flush there was something so offensive in the manner of their going that anger had the upper hand. I thought of the lieutenant's words, and I cursed him to hell with a sickening consciousness that I should not forget them in a hurry: "Was I playing the traitor to the Cardinal or to these women-which?" Mon Dieu! if ever question-but there! some day I would punish him. And the captain? I could put an end to his amusement, at any rate; and I would. Doubtless among the country bucks of Auch he lorded it as a chief provincial bully, but I would cut his comb for him some fine morning behind the barracks.
And then, as I grew cooler I began to wonder why they were going, and what they were going to do. They might be already on the track, or have the information they required under hand; in that case I could understand the movement. But if they were still searching vaguely, uncertain whether their quarry were in the neighbourhood or not, and uncertain how long they might have to stay, it seemed incredible that soldiers should move from good quarters to bad without motive.
I wandered down the garden thinking sullenly of this, and pettishly cutting off the heads of the flowers with my sheathed sword. After all, if they found and arrested the man, what then? I should have to make my peace with the Cardinal as I best might. He would have gained his point, but not through me, and I should have to look to myself. On the other hand, if I anticipated them-and, as a fact, I felt that I could lay my hand on the fugitive within a few hours-there would come a time when I must face Mademoiselle.
A little while back that had not seemed so difficult a thing. From the day of our first meeting-and in a higher degree since that afternoon when she had lashed me with her scorn-my views of her, and my feelings towards her, had been strangely made up of antagonism and sympathy; of repulsion, because in her past and present she was so different from me; of yearning, because she was a woman and friendless. Then I had duped her and bought her confidence by returning the jewels, and in a measure I had sated my vengeance; and then, as a consequence, sympathy had again begun to get the better, until now I hardly knew my own mind or what I intended. I did not know, in fact, what I intended. I stood there in the garden with that conviction suddenly new-born in my mind; and then, in a moment, I heard her step and turned to find her behind me.
Her face was like April, smiles breaking through her tears. As she stood with a tall hedge of sunflowers behind her, I started to see how beautiful she was. "I am here in search of you, M. de Barthe," she said, colouring slightly, perhaps because my eyes betrayed my thought, "to thank you. You have not fought, and yet you have conquered. My woman has just been with me, and she tells me that they are going!"
"Going?" I said. "Yes, Mademoiselle, they are leaving the house."
She did not understand my reservation. "What magic have you used?" she said, almost gaily-it was wonderful how hope had changed her. "Moreover, I am curious to learn how you managed to avoid fighting."
"After taking a blow?" I said bitterly.
"Monsieur, I did not mean that," she said reproachfully. But her face clouded. I saw that, viewed in this light-in which I suppose she had not seen it-the matter perplexed her still more.
I took a sudden resolution. "Have you ever heard, Mademoiselle," I said gravely, plucking off while I spoke the dead leaves from a plant beside me, "of a gentleman by name De Berault? Known in Paris, so I have heard, by the sobriquet of the Black Death?"
"The duellist?" she answered, in wonder. "Yes, I have heard of him. He killed a young gentleman of this province at Nancy two years back. It was a sad story," she continued, shuddering, "of a dreadful man. God keep our friends from such!"
"Amen!" I said quietly. But, in spite of myself, I could not meet her eyes.
"Why?" she answered, quickly taking alarm at my silence. "What of him, M. de Barthe? Why have you mentioned him?"
"Because he is here, Mademoiselle."
"Here?" she exclaimed.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," I answered soberly. "I am he."
CHAPTER IX
CLON
"You!" she cried, in a voice which pierced me, "You-M. de Berault? Impossible!" But, glancing askance at her. – I could not face her, – I saw that the blood had left her cheeks.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," I answered, in a low voice. "De Barthe was my mother's name. When I came here, a stranger, I took it that I might not be known; that I might again speak to a good woman and not see her shrink. That-but why trouble you with all this?" I continued proudly, rebelling against her silence, her turned shoulder, her averted face. "You asked me, Mademoiselle, how I could take a blow and let the striker go. I have answered. It is the one privilege M. de Berault possesses."
"Then," she replied quickly, but almost in a whisper, "if I were M. de Berault, I would use it, and never fight again."
"In that event, Mademoiselle," I answered cynically, "I should lose my men friends as well as my women friends. Like Monseigneur, the Cardinal, I rule by fear."
She shuddered, either at the name or at the idea my words called up, and, for a moment, we stood awkwardly silent. The shadow of the sundial fell between us; the garden was still; here and there a leaf fluttered slowly down, or a seed fell. With each instant of silence I felt the gulf between us growing wider, I felt myself growing harder; I mocked at her past, which was so unlike mine; I mocked at mine, and called it fate. I was on the point of turning from her with a bow-and a furnace in my breast-when she spoke.
"There is a late rose lingering there," she said, a slight tremor in her voice. "I cannot reach it. Will you pluck it for me, M. de Berault?"
I obeyed her, my hand trembling, my face on fire. She took the rose from me, and placed it in the bosom of her dress. And I saw that her hand trembled too, and that her cheek was dark with blushes.
She turned at once, and began to walk towards the house. Presently she spoke. "Heaven forbid that I should misjudge you a second time!" she said, in a low voice. "And, after all, who am I that I should judge you at all? An hour ago, I would have killed that man had I possessed the power."
"You repented, Mademoiselle," I said huskily. I could scarcely speak.
"Do you never repent?"
"Yes. But too late, Mademoiselle."
"Perhaps it is never too late," she answered softly.
"Alas, when a man is dead-"
"You may rob a man of more than life!" she replied with energy, stopping me by a gesture. "If you have never robbed a man-or a woman-of honour! If you have never ruined boy or girl, M. de Berault! If you have never pushed another into the pit and gone by it yourself! If-but for murder? Listen. You may be a Romanist, but I am a Huguenot, and have read. 'Thou shalt not kill!' it is written; and the penalty, 'By man shall thy blood be shed!' But, 'If you cause one of these little ones to offend, it were better for you that a mill-stone were hanged about your neck, and that you were cast into the depths of the sea."
"Mademoiselle,
