One evening – I had been ten days at the chateau – we went a half-league or so up the Garonne in a boat, she and I. As we were returning, drifting with the stream, the oars idle in my hand, I spoke of leaving Lavedan.
She looked up quickly; her expression was almost of alarm, and her eyes dilated as they met mine – for, as I have said, she was all unversed in the ways of her sex, and by nature too guileless to attempt to disguise her feelings or dissemble them.
“But why must you go so soon?” she asked. “You are safe at Lavedan, and abroad you may be in danger. It was but two days ago that they took a poor young gentleman of these parts at Pau; so that you see the persecution is not yet ended. Are you” – and her voice trembled ever so slightly – “are you weary of us, monsieur?”
I shook my head at that, and smiled wistfully.
“Weary?” I echoed. “Surely, mademoiselle, you do not think it? Surely your heart must tell you something very different?”
She dropped her eyes before the passion of my gaze. And when presently she answered me, there was no guile in her words; there were the dictates of the intuitions of her sex, and nothing more.
“But it is possible, monsieur. You are accustomed to the great world–”
“The great world of Lesperon, in Gascony?” I interrupted.
“No, no; the great world you have inhabited at Paris and elsewhere. I can understand that at Lavedan you should find little of interest, and – and that your inactivity should render you impatient to be gone.”
“If there were so little to interest me then it might be as you say. But, oh, mademoiselle–” I ceased abruptly. Fool! I had almost fallen a prey to the seductions that the time afforded me. The balmy, languorous eventide, the broad, smooth river down which we glided, the foliage, the shadows on the water, her presence, and our isolation amid such surroundings, had almost blotted out the matter of the wager and of my duplicity.
She laughed a little nervous laugh, and – maybe to ease the tension that my sudden silence had begotten – “You see,” she said, “how your imagination deserts you when you seek to draw upon it for proof of what you protest. You were about to tell me of – of the interests that hold you at Lavedan, and when you come to ponder them, you find that you can think of nothing. Is it – is it not so?” She put the question very timidly, as if half afraid of the answer she might provoke.
“No; it is not so,” I said.
I paused a moment, and in that moment I wrestled with myself. Confession and avowal – confession of what I had undertaken, and avowal of the love that had so unexpectedly come to me – trembled upon my lips, to be driven shuddering away in fear.
Have I not said that this Bardelys was become a coward? Then my cowardice suggested a course to me – flight. I would leave Lavedan. I would return to Paris and to Chatellerault, owning defeat and paying my wager. It was the only course open to me. My honour, so tardily aroused, demanded no less. Yet, not so much because of that as because it was suddenly revealed to me as the easier course, did I determine to pursue it. What thereafter might become of me I did not know, nor in that hour of my heart’s agony did it seem to matter overmuch.
“There is much, mademoiselle, much, indeed, to hold me firmly at Lavedan,” I pursued at last. “But my – my obligations demand of me that I depart.”
“You mean the Cause,” she cried. “But, believe me, you can do nothing. To sacrifice yourself cannot profit it. Infinitely better you can serve the Duke by waiting until the time is ripe for another blow. And how can you better preserve your life than by remaining at Lavedan until the persecutions are at an end?”
“I was not thinking of the Cause, mademoiselle, but of myself alone –of my own personal honour. I would that I could explain; but I am afraid,” I ended lamely.
“Afraid?” she echoed, now raising her eyes in wonder.
“Aye, afraid. Afraid of your contempt, of your scorn.”
The wonder in her glance increased and asked a question that I could not answer. I stretched forward, and caught one of the hands lying idle in her lap.
“Roxalanne,” I murmured very gently, and my tone, my touch, and the use of her name drove her eyes for refuge behind their lids again. A flush spread upon the ivory pallor of her face, to fade as swiftly, leaving it very white. Her bosom rose and fell in agitation, and the little hand I held trembled in my grasp. There was a moment’s silence. Not that I had need to think or choose my words. But there was a lump in my throat – aye, I take no shame in confessing it, for this was the first time that a good and true emotion had been vouchsafed me since the Duchesse de Bourgogne had shattered my illusions ten years ago.
“Roxalanne,” I resumed presently, when I was more master of myself, “we have been good friends, you and I, since that night when I climbed for shelter to your chamber, have we not?”
“But yes, monsieur,” she faltered.
“Ten days ago it is. Think of it – no more than ten days. And it seems as if I had been months at Lavedan, so well have we become acquainted. In these ten days we have formed opinions of each other. But with this difference, that whilst mine are right, yours are wrong. I have come to know you for the sweetest, gentlest saint in all this world. Would to God I had known you earlier! It might have been very different; I might have been – I would have been – different, and I would not have done what I have done. You have come to know me for an unfortunate but honest gentleman. Such am I not. I am under false colours here, mademoiselle. Unfortunate I may be – at least, of late I seem to have become so. Honest I am not – I have not been. There, child, I can tell you no more. I am too great a coward. But when later you shall come to hear the truth – when, after I am gone, they may tell you a strange story touching this fellow Lesperon who sought the hospitality of your father’s house – bethink you of my restraint in this hour; bethink you of my departure. You will understand these things perhaps afterwards. But bethink you of them, and you will unriddle them for yourself, perhaps. Be merciful upon me then; judge me not over-harshly.”
I paused, and for a moment we were silent. Then suddenly she looked up; her fingers tightened upon mine.
“Monsieur de Lesperon,” she pleaded, “of what do speak? You are torturing me, monsieur.”
“Look in my face, Roxalanne. Can you see nothing there of how I am torturing myself?”
“Then tell me, monsieur,” she begged, her voice a very caress of suppliant softness, – “tell me what vexes you and sets a curb upon your tongue. You exaggerate, I am assured. You could do nothing dishonourable, nothing vile.”
“Child,” I cried, “I thank God that you are right! I cannot do what is dishonourable, and I will not, for all that a month ago I pledged myself to do it!”
A sudden horror, a doubt, a suspicion flashed into her glance.
“You – you do not mean that you are a spy?” she asked; and from my heart a prayer of thanks went up to Heaven that this at least it was mine frankly to deny.
“No, no – not that. I am no spy.”
Her face cleared again, and she sighed.
“It is, I think, the only thing I could not forgive. Since it is not that, will you not tell me what it is?”
For a moment the temptation to confess, to tell her everything, was again upon me. But the futility of it appalled me.
“Don’t ask me,” I besought her; “you will learn it soon enough.” For I was confident that once my wager was paid, the news of it and of the ruin of Bardelys would spread across the face of France like a ripple over water. Presently–
“Forgive me for having come into your life, Roxalanne!” I implored her, and then I sighed again. “Helas! Had I but known you earlier! I did not dream such women lived in this worn-out France.”
“I will not pry, monsieur, since your resolve appears to be so firm. But if – if after I have heard this thing you speak of,” she said presently, speaking with averted eyes, “and if, having heard it, I judge you more mercifully than you judge yourself, and I send for you, will you – will you come back to Lavedan?”