I made all arrangements betimes for an early start the next morning; and, with a remembrance of what had passed between us last night, ordered a table, with one cover only, to be set for mademoiselle near the window of the dining-room. Then I went out into the garden to while away the time there until my charge was ready for the journey.

There was a little walk outside the open window, through which I could see all that passed within the dining-room. Here I paced backwards and forwards, reflecting on the events of the past few hours. I could, of course, see that for some reason or other Diane had apparently broken with De Ganache. It was not a trick of heartless coquetry—for that I gave her credit. Yet the change had been so swift and sudden that it was difficult to assign any other reason for it. So far as I was concerned I was sure my affair was utterly hopeless; but the air of the Italian campaign would doubtless cure me, and I almost caught myself wishing that I had lost the game last night and was free to turn my horse's head where I listed.

In this disjointed thought I passed some time, and it was well after nine o'clock that Diane came forth from her room. Through the window I saw her descending the stair, and, not wishing to intrude, withdrew to the extreme end of the walk, where I began to be interested in the operations of a spider weaving his web in a rose bush. I could, however, see into the room, and observed Diane stop near the table, hesitate a little, and then sit down. Pechaud began to flutter around her, but after a little she rose, and coming to the window looked straight out at me. My spider had by this time vanished into the petals of a half-open rose, and turning I met Diane's look, and lifted my hat in formal greeting, remaining, however, where I was, as I was determined to keep the position she had assigned to me.

"Monsieur Broussel!"

"Mademoiselle!" And now I stepped up to the window.

"Will you let me know when we start?"

"As soon as ever you are rested sufficiently, mademoiselle."

My tone was coldly polite, and there was equal indifference in her voice.

"It is very good of you to say this; but now that I have decided to go to Paris the sooner it is over the better."

"The horses are ready."

"Then, perhaps, we had better start."

"I am at your service, mademoiselle." And a quarter of an hour later we were on our way once again. I did not take the direct road by ChÂtellerault, but turned half westward, intending to enter Touraine by way of Chinon, and then to follow the route by which I had come to Poitiers.

It was a summer day, such as can only be met with in France. Overhead billowy white clouds rolled and piled in the sapphire blue of the sky. A wind, fresh and cool, blew from the west, sweeping over the plain, hissing into the crests of the yellow broom and purple loosestrife, and bending them into lines of colour that chased each other like waves over the grey-green moorland. As we left the plain and came to the undulating lands of northern Poitou, where the country twisted down to the Bienne, the hedgerows, all glimmering in gold and green, and gay with blossoming thorn, were awake with the song of the thrush and the black-cap. We had passed LencloÎtre on our left, and in that dip, dark with walnut-trees, lay the little hamlet of Razines, which had so many memories for me.

Up to now neither mademoiselle nor I had exchanged a word, as I rode well in the rear of our party, sending Capus, who knew the country, to lead us. Diane had so far kept her word, and rode behind Capus in silence. At intervals I pushed a little to one side and watched her, and now and again, as we came to a turn or a bend in the road, I saw her full and fairly, but she never so much as glanced in my direction. A little farther on we skirted some rising ground, and there, to our half-left, lay Richelieu, the smoke still rising from its burning houses, and, caught by the wind, stretching out in a long horsetail across the country. Mademoiselle reined up and watched the scene for a little, our party halting behind her. As we did so we heard a loud neigh, and a riderless horse, the saddlery still on him, came out of some stunted trees and trotted towards us. At a sign from me one of my men caught the horse and freed him of his bit and saddle, whilst I galloped up to the trees, upon which half a dozen or so of ravens were sitting. When I reached them I found what I expected there, and the hideous birds croaked down on me as if in derision, for what was lying there was past all aid of man. I came back as I went, and Diane asked:

"Is there anyone there, monsieur?"

"No, mademoiselle. And 'tis almost time for our midday halt; a little farther on and we will rest."

Diane turned her horse's head, and I was about to turn back once more to my place when she said in a low tone:

"Monsieur, I have something to say to you."

I bowed, and rode up beside her. And we let the men go onward, dropping together to the place I had left in the rear.

"Monsieur," she said after a little, "I have been trying to say what I want all the morning. I want you to forgive me for the cruel words I used to you last night. I—I never meant them." She was flushed and trembling as she spoke, and I saw the tears in her eyes. I lifted my hat at her words.

"Mademoiselle, after all you were right. I am but Bertrand Broussel, a citizen of Paris, as you know, and you——"

"Oh yes; I know all that; but, oh! I feel hot with shame when I think of my words. Monsieur, say you forgive me!"

"With all my heart, mademoiselle! Think no more of it, I pray you." And then, to change the subject, I pointed to a grove of trees in front of us. "There, mademoiselle, is where we halt for an hour or so. What say you to a race there?"

"Are you not afraid of that?"

"I will risk it," I said. And, with a laugh, she touched her Norman with the whip, and I kept Lizette pounding after her, until she pulled up, flushed and hot, near the trees, beside which the Mable purled past.

"Beaten again," she said as I came up.

"It is my fate." And, pulling up, I pointed to the river. "Do you remember this river, mademoiselle?"

"The Mable!" And she shuddered. "But surely it was not here that we crossed on that awful night?"

"No; some miles lower down." And then I helped her to dismount, and attended to the horses, whilst she borrowed my sword, and tying her 'kerchief to the point signalled to our men to come on.

There are days when all that happens is trivial, yet the memory of which is ever to be marked in white; and this was such an one to me. I let myself forget the impossible during that brief two hours' halt; nor ever had I known Diane so gracious. We spoke much of Paris. She had never seen the great city nor the Court, and I told her what I knew, though my knowledge of the Louvre was a little old. As a child she had seen the Queen once—on the day of the Lists of Amboise—and wondered whether she were altered.

"She is much the same. Time has dealt gently with her."

"Is it true that in secret she is of our—I mean my faith?"

"It is said that she favours the new religion, but I know not if this is true. It is certain, however, that she has never joined in the persecution, and 'tis said that both D'Andelot and Marot owed their escape to her."

"And you, monsieur—are you too of the faith?"

"Mademoiselle, I think, if the truth be told, that men who, like myself, have lived much in the world do not bind themselves in their hearts to this faith or to that, whatever they profess with their lips."

"But, monsieur——"

"Listen, mademoiselle. This does not mean that we do not know how infinite is the distance between us and God nor how hard the road is to His throne."

"There is the path of faith, monsieur."

"That is the path we search for, sometimes unconsciously; and perhaps, with God's aid, I may find it ere I die."

Then there was a silence, and after that the talk drifted to other things. And I but mention this conversation because it was due to it and it alone that I was set upon the track that led to the True Road.

A little later Pierrebon, who was indulging his appetite for a good sleep, awoke from his nap, and discovered it was time to be moving. So, fording the river, we took our way north. Towards sunset we saw the walls of the priory of Ile Bouchard, around which clustered the houses of the village, like barnacles to a galley's side. On arrival here I craved the hospitality of the good monks for the night, and this was readily afforded us. Early the following morning, having bidden farewell to our kind hosts, we looked our last on the grey pile, half monastery and half fortress, and went our way through the stunted forest that straggled downward to the Vienne. Between these narrow strips of woodland, through which the path wound, rose ragged knolls clad in short, dark green juniper, and here and there were bright splashes of colour, where flowering wild weeds clustered at the bases of the brown ribs of rock that stood up starkly over all. We crossed the river by the ferry between Auche and RiviÈre, where the little Veude falls into the Vienne, and halted for a space on a bluff to survey the landscape. At this hour of the morning, with the air so gay, the sky so blue, and the sun so bright, the lights were still soft enough to allow the whole beauty of the scene to be strongly felt. At our feet the river went dancing along in a sweeping blue curve, its left bank clothed with rich vineland, and on its right a belt of forest—the outskirts of the forest of Chinon—which stretched, a sea of green, grey, and dim, mysterious purples, to the far-distant Loire. There, on its wooded height, the pentice roofs glistening in the sunlight, stood Chinon, with its triple castle, so full of the memories of history; and all around spread the wide Tourangeais.

"Tourangeaux, Angevins
Bons esprits et bons vins,"

sang Capus, grizzled old war-dog though he was, and, the spirit of the morning seizing us, we urged our horses down the slope, and scurried through the forest towards Chinon.

After a little we slackened pace and went on slowly, until, towards midday, when about half a league—or perhaps less—from Chinon, we came upon a roadside inn, all covered with climbing roses in bloom, whilst the air was full of the cooing of numberless pigeons that circled around and perched upon a dovecote that looked like a tower. Here mademoiselle stopped, declaring that she would travel no farther that day; and accordingly, having made arrangements for our accommodation, I walked out with Diane into a long, straggling garden that lay at the back of the house. At the extreme end of the garden was a summer-house, and on entering this we found it occupied by an old man, who sat reading therein. We were about to draw back, but he rose, leaning upon a stout stick, and very courteously invited us to be seated. His hooded black cassock, and the tonsure which was visible, as he had removed his cap, marked the priest. He was very feeble, as we could see, though his eyes, bright and piercing, contrasted strangely with the deadly pallor of his cheeks. A straggling grey moustache and beard partly concealed his mouth, which was set in a smile half mirthful and half sardonic. I put him down as the curÉ of a neighbouring hamlet, as he gave us the benediction, and invited us to join him, saying as he did so:

"Mademoiselle, I have long looked in dreamland for the lady who would be chosen above all others as Abbess of Thelema—and now, behold! you have come!" Plucking a rose as he spoke he bowed with old-world grace, and held it out with a shaking hand to Diane, who took it with a flush on her face, and thanks on her lips, but a puzzled look in her eyes.

"I see, Monsieur le CurÉ," I said, "you are an admirer of Doctor
Rabelais."

"He is the most intimate friend I have, and, as you are doubtless aware, the Doctor is a townsman of Chinon."

"That, perhaps, is his book you are reading?"

"Alas, no! 'tis merely a Hebrew lexicon I was studying to decide a dispute I have with my friend Doctor Johannes Caballus of the University of Orange; but—you are learned in Hebrew, monsieur?"

"I cannot say I am," I laughed, "though we meet on common ground in admiration of Rabelais."

"In that case, monsieur, you and mademoiselle must be my guests at dinner. It is almost the hour, and we will dine here." And without waiting for a reply he seized a small handbell that lay beside him and rang it. In a little the host appeared, and the curÉ turned to him:

"Is dinner, as I ordered it, ready?"

"Monsieur!"

"Then serve it here, and set the table for four. Mayhap the Doctor Johannes Caballus may join us. Let me see what there is for dinner. Ah! three sucking-pigs, and a fourth to follow in quince sauce, six capons, twelve pigeons, twelve quails, four legs of mutton en brune patÉ, twelve sweetbreads, four tongues, four veal——"

But the landlord had fled, and Diane was staring with wide-open eyes, whilst I confess I thought that we had a harmless lunatic before us.

"Perhaps, monsieur, we have Gargantua dining with us?"

"That would be but a flea-bite to him. But there is the Doctor Caballus." And pushing aside the roses he pointed before him; all we could see was a sleek mule sunning itself in a patch of green.

"There is only a mule there," said Diane.

"True; but he is a Doctor of Laws of the University of Orange. I must tell you that the estimable beast is the property of Doctor Rabelais, who permits me to use him, being, as I said, a friend of friends to me. It so happened that the University of Orange conferred degrees on payment of fees without seeing or testing the candidate. My friend Rabelais, who loves a merry jest, sent them the money for a Doctor's degree for one Johannes Caballus, the same being his mule. And in due course the parchment came; and so our friend there is as much a Doctor of Laws as my lords the Bishops of Seez or Montpelier. But here comes our dinner."

I need not say that the dinner was not the feast for giants that was ordered; but, though it was plentiful, all that our old friend could eat was a little dish of peas fried in fat, which he washed down with thin wine and water. He kept all the talk to himself, delighting us with a thousand merry quibbles and jests, until, finally, he called for his mule, saying that he must depart.

"Mademoiselle," he said as he wished us farewell, "you are going on a long journey, and I on a much longer, but I know that wherever you are there will be the house of Thelema." And as I helped him to pull his domino over his shoulders he whispered in my ear: "Beati qui in domino moriuntur."

Then, slowly and painfully mounting his mule, and chuckling at his grim jest, he ambled away, the landlord bowing respectfully to him as he passed.

"Who is he?" asked Diane.

"That, mademoiselle," said our host, "is the Doctor Rabelais, whose name is honoured as that of the King here. He has a small estate called La DeviniÈre hard by, and comes here at times for his health. He returns to Paris to-morrow; but he will never come back—that I know." And he shook his head sorrowfully.

* * * * * *

We never met again, for Rabelais died a month later; but in my library at Orrain, which now contains close upon a hundred volumes, I have a copy of his works bound in red velvet, and clasped with silver. Nor ever do I touch it without thinking of that rose-clad summer-house in the old garden in Touraine.