the men would have crossed to search for the fugitive, he forbade them, he scarcely knew why, save that it might please her; and when the women would have hurried to join her and hear the tale from her lips he forbade them also.
“She wishes to be alone,” he said curtly.
“Alone?” Madame St. Lo cried, in a fever of curiosity. “You’ll find her dead, or worse! What? Leave a woman alone after such a fright as that!”
“She wishes it.”
Madame laughed cynically; and the laugh brought a tinge of colour to his brow.
“Oh, does she?” she sneered. “Then I understand! Have a care, have a care, or one of these days, Monsieur, when you leave her alone, you’ll find them together!”
“Be silent!”
“With pleasure,” she returned. “Only when it happens don’t say that you were not warned. You think that she does not hear from him”
“How can she hear?” The words were wrung from him.
Madame St. Lo’s contempt passed all limits. “How can she!” she retorted. “You trail a woman across France, and let her sit by herself, and lie by herself, and all but drown by herself, and you ask how she hears from her lover? You leave her old servants about her, and you ask how she communicates with him?”
“You know nothing!” he snarled.
“I know this,” she retorted. “I saw her sitting this morning, and smiling and weeping at the same time! Was she thinking of you, Monsieur? Or of him? She was looking at the hills through tears; a blue mist hung over them, and I’ll wager she saw some one’s eyes gazing and some one’s hand beckoning out of the blue!”
“Curse you!” he cried, tormented in spite of himself. “You love to make mischief!”
