CHAPTER XVIIILIGHT
Theday passed without further incident. I took a turn about the room on Fronsac’s arm and found that my strength was fast returning. I ate the food that he brought me, and lay staring at the ceiling till drowsiness overtook me. Yet, despite myself, I was not content. More than once I caught myself listening for I know not what—a light step in the corridor, the rustle of a dress, the sound of a voice—expecting the door to open and show Claire there. What a fool I was! What time had she for me? She was busy with the affairs of her duchy—a great lady!
Night came at last, and darkness, bringing sleep with it. Dawn found me strong, refreshed. I arose and walked about the room, and though my legs still trembled somewhat, I was certain that, once on horseback, I should be quite myself. I was determined to leave Marleon as soon as might be—a horror of the place possessed me.
Fronsac found me dressed, and I lost no time inannouncing my wish to set out with him for Cadillac.
“But you are not strong enough,” he urged. “Let us wait. There is no cause for haste.”
“If Mademoiselle Valérie heard you say that!” I laughed. “I can see her awaiting you in that arbor by the river’s edge.”
“So it is for my sake!” he said.
“No, it is not for your sake, my friend,” I answered earnestly. “At least, not wholly. I am itching to leave this place. There is no quiet for me here.”
He looked at me for a moment questioningly, but I did not meet his eyes. My secret must remain my own.
“Very well,” he said quietly at last, “since you wish it, we will set out to-day. I will inform Madame la Duchesse. You will doubtless wish to thank her for her kindness.”
“Yes,” I assented thickly. “Yes.”
It would try my strength to set eyes on her again—to speak to her. But I was a man, thank God! I could hide my heart!
Yet when at last we stood before her, I forgot my injured pride in the joy of seeing her—thecalm brow, the dark eyes, the arching mouth, the white hand, and the swell of the arm lost in the lace above. What a woman! No longer the girl fresh from the convent—the fine lady! A duchesse—a queen!
“And so you are leaving us, M. de Marsan?” she asked at last.
Her voice brought me back to myself—she on the hill-top, I in the valley.
“Yes, I am leaving, Madame,” I said. “I am quite well again, and my friend here is hungering for Cadillac and those that await him there.”
Her face changed, and she sat gazing at me in silence for a moment. There was that in her eyes—but there!—why be, a second time, a fool?
“You do not seem well,” she said. “Nor strong. Are you quite sure you can bear the journey?”
“Quite sure, Madame.”
She made a little gesture of impatience.
“I have to thank you, Madame,” I added, “for your kindness in receiving me here. It was very foolish of me to be ill.”
“Very foolish,” she agreed, looking at me again. “Very foolish. I do not think you realize howfoolish. I had thought you a man of wit, M. de Marsan, but I find you very dense!”
I flushed at the words, but dared not look at her. I must go, or I should be upon my knees before her, a beggar for her slightest favor. I glanced at Fronsac, who stood with folded arms, frowning deeply.
“Adieu, then, Madame,” I said.
She held out her hand to me. I knelt and kissed it, not daring to look up into her face; remembering, with a great rush of tenderness, the times I had already kissed it. I was aflame to snatch her to me, to assert my claim to her, to kiss her arms, her neck, her lips, to ask her if she had forgot that scene in the moonlight——
“M. de Fronsac,” she was saying, “listen—I have a little story I wish you to hear. You, M. de Marsan, remain where you are. There was once a girl taken suddenly from a convent, where she had spent her whole life, and planted in the midst of a turbulent court. The ruler of the court looked on her with lustful eyes, yet had the honor to offer her his title. But she heard strange tales of him which frightened her, and at last she saw another, nearer her own age, who seemed to her the veryrose of gallantry and courage. So she put away from her all thought of the other, and at last—one night—her lover claimed her. But the other lay dying. He was lord of wide lands and of a proud title. These, he said, he wanted her to have, even at this last moment, when their marriage must be one unconsummated. And as she knelt beside his bed, listening to him in patience, for she remembered he was dying, of a sudden the thought came to her—why not take these things for her lover? Oh, it would be a joy to give him place and power—more than her mere self! Why not give him these as well?”
She paused for a moment—her voice was trembling so. I could not look up—I dared not, lest my eyes be blinded.
“You will pardon me, M. de Fronsac, if I tell the story very badly,” she said, with a little, unsteady laugh. “But it moves me greatly, for her lover did not understand. He fancied she desired place and wealth for herself, when it was alone for him. He did not comprehend the greatness of her love. He was stricken with fever—and as, night after night, she listened to him in his delirium, she knew that it was her fault—that she had drivenhim mad—and her heart grew cold with fear that he might not get well. But he did get well—he came to her to say good-by—he closed his eyes to all she had intended, to all she let him see. He wrapped himself about with his pride, which he fancied had been injured, and would not look at her. What think you of such a man, M. de Fronsac?”
“I think him a fool!” said Fronsac savagely.
But I did not heed him. I was looking up, up into her eyes. And I read there the same story they had told me once before. There could be no mistaking!
“Claire!” I cried,—“Claire!”
And she, in her great love and strength, stooped and raised me to the seat beside her.
THE END