Mademoiselle held the royal warrant of her father's banishment in her hand. She was pale, and her greeting of me had been timid. I stood before her, and by the door stood Rodenard, whom I had bidden attend me.

As I had approached Lavedan that day, I had been taken with a great, an overwhelming shame at the bargain I had driven. I had pondered, and it had come to me that she had been right to suggest that in matters of love what is not freely given it is not worth while to take. And out of my shame and that conclusion had sprung a new resolve. So that nothing might weaken it, and lest, after all, the sight of Roxalanne should bring me so to desire her that I might be tempted to override my purpose, I had deemed it well to have the restraint of a witness at our last interview. To this end had I bidden Ganymede follow me into the very salon.

She read the document to the very end, then her glance was raised timidly again to mine, and from me it shifted to Ganymede, stiff at his post by the door.

“This was the best that you could do, monsieur?” she asked at last.

“The very best, mademoiselle,” I answered calmly. “I do not wish to magnify my service, but it was that or the scaffold. Madame your mother had, unfortunately, seen the King before me, and she had prejudiced your father's case by admitting him to be a traitor. There was a moment when in view of that I was almost led to despair. I am glad, however, mademoiselle, that I was so fortunate as to persuade the King to just so much clemency.”

“And for five years, then, I shall not see my parents.” She sighed, and her distress was very touching.

“That need not be. Though they may not come to France, it still remains possible for you to visit them in Spain.”

“True,” she mused; “that will be something—will it not?”

“Assuredly something; under the circumstances, much.”

She sighed again, and for a moment there was silence.

“Will you not sit, monsieur?” said she at last. She was very quiet to-day, this little maid—very quiet and very wondrously subdued.

“There is scarce the need,” I answered softly; whereupon her eyes were raised to ask a hundred questions. “You are satisfied with my efforts, mademoiselle?” I inquired.

“Yes, I am satisfied, monsieur.”

That was the end, I told myself, and involuntarily I also sighed. Still, I made no shift to go.

“You are satisfied that I—that I have fulfilled what I promised?”

Her eyes were again cast down, and she took a step in the direction of the window.

“But yes. Your promise was to save my father from the scaffold. You have done so, and I make no doubt you have done as much to reduce the term of his banishment as lay within your power. Yes, monsieur, I am satisfied that your promise has been well fulfilled.”

Heigho! The resolve that I had formed in coming whispered it in my ear that nothing remained but to withdraw and go my way. Yet not for all that resolve—not for a hundred such resolves—could I have gone thus. One kindly word, one kindly glance at least would I take to comfort me. I would tell her in plain words of my purpose, and she should see that there was still some good, some sense of honour in me, and thus should esteem me after I was gone.

“Ganymede.” said I.

“Monseigneur?”

“Bid the men mount.”

At that she turned, wonder opening her eyes very wide, and her glance travelled from me to Rodenard with its unspoken question. But even as she looked at him he bowed and, turning to do my bidding, left the room. We heard his steps pass with a jingle of spurs across the hall and out into the courtyard. We heard his raucous voice utter a word of command, and there was a stamping of hoofs, a cramping of harness, and all the bustle of preparation.

“Why have you ordered your men to mount?” she asked at last.

“Because my business here is ended, and we are going.”

“Going?” said she. Her eyes were lowered now, but a frown suggested their expression to me. “Going whither?”

“Hence,” I answered. “That for the moment is all that signifies.” I paused to swallow something that hindered a clear utterance. Then, “Adieu!” said I, and I abruptly put forth my hand.

Her glance met mine fearlessly, if puzzled.

“Do you mean, monsieur, that you are leaving Lavedan—thus?”

“So that I leave, what signifies the manner of my going?”

“But”—the trouble grew in her eyes; her cheeks seemed to wax paler than they had been—“but I thought that—that we made a bargain.”

“'Sh! mademoiselle, I implore you,” I cried. “I take shame at the memory of it. Almost as much shame as I take at the memory of that other bargain which first brought me to Lavedan. The shame of the former one I have wiped out—although, perchance, you think it not. I am wiping out the shame of the latter one. It was unworthy in me, mademoiselle, but I loved you so dearly that it seemed to me that no matter how I came by you, I should rest content if I but won you. I have since seen the error if it, the injustice of it. I will not take what is not freely given. And so, farewell.”

“I see, I see,” she murmured, and ignored the hand that I held out. “I am very glad of it, monsieur.”

I withdrew my hand sharply. I took up my hat from the chair on which I had cast it. She might have spared me that, I thought. She need not have professed joy. At least she might have taken my hand and parted in kindness.

“Adieu, mademoiselle!” I said again, as stiffly as might be, and I turned towards the door.

“Monsieur!” she called after me. I halted.

“Mademoiselle?”

She stood demurely, with eyes downcast and hands folded. “I shall be so lonely here.”

I stood still. I seemed to stiffen. My heart gave a mad throb of hope, then seemed to stop. What did she mean? I faced her fully once more, and, I doubt not, I was very pale. Yet lest vanity should befool me, I dared not act upon suspicions. And so “True, mademoiselle,” said I. “You will be lonely. I regret it.”

As silence followed, I turned again to the door, and my hopes sank with each step in that direction.

“Monsieur!”

Her voice arrested me upon the very threshold.

“What shall a poor girl do with this great estate upon her hands? It will go to ruin without a man to govern it.”

“You must not attempt the task. You must employ an intendant.”

I caught something that sounded oddly like a sob. Could it be? Dieu! could it be, after all? Yet I would not presume. I half turned again, but her voice detained me. It came petulantly now.

“Monsieur de Bardelys, you have kept your promise nobly. Will you ask no payment?”

“No, mademoiselle,” I answered very softly; “I can take no payment.”

Her eyes were lifted for a second. Their blue depths seemed dim. Then they fell again.

“Oh, why will you not help me?” she burst out, to add more softly: “I shall never be happy without you!”

“You mean?” I gasped, retracing a step, and flinging my hat in a corner.

“That I love you, Marcel—that I want you!”

“And you can forgive—you can forgive?” I cried, as I caught her.

Her answer was a laugh that bespoke her scorn of everything—of everything save us two, of everything save our love. That and the pout of her red lips was her answer. And if the temptation of those lips—But there! I grow indiscreet.

Still holding her, I raised my voice.

“Ganymede!” I called.

“Monseigneur?” came his answer through the open window.

“Bid those knaves dismount and unsaddle.”