But she did not give herself up to poignant sorrow on his account, or, indeed, since the night at Godeau's inn, on account of anything. She seemed to have set herself to bear her troubles in Spartan manner, and to find in herself, perhaps with surprise, the strength to do so. So the days passed, and still my plans in regard to her father remained unformed, the men on whom I relied did not appear, and mademoiselle did not speak of resuming her flight southward. There came no further sign of the existence of De Berquin. From or of the outside world we heard nothing, save occasionally, when the wind was in the right direction, the faint sound of the bell of Clochonne. We seemed to dwell apart, in a region of our own, an enchanted forest which none other might enter, a place where we were forever safe from the strife of humanity, the touch of war, the reach of the King's edicts, the power of provincial governors, the vengeance of the great. The gypsies remained with us, and sweetened the time with their songs and the music of their instruments. My men treated mademoiselle with the utmost respect. I had caused them to know that she was a refugee, a lady most precious in my esteem, one for whose safety and happiness any other consideration must, should occasion arise, be sacrificed. The weather was dry, sunny, and, for the time of year, mild. It was like a sweet dream, and I, for one, had no premonition of the awakening that was to come. Often during that time I spoke of my love for her. I told her that, to me, at least, religion was not so much as to drive me from the woman whom I had so long sought in vain among the beauties of our Henri's court, whom I had so long worshipped in the ideal, whom I had instantly recognized as being the embodiment of that ideal, of whose presence I could not endure to be deprived even in thought. She would sit looking in my eyes while I told her these things. Sometimes she would seem to yield to a kind of bliss in hearing them, to forget all else than ourselves and my words. Then suddenly a look of anguish would come on her features, she would rise and press her hands to her eyes, as if to blot out the memory of my look, and say: "Monsieur, you must not! You must not! You do not know! Oh, if you knew!" And she would quickly glide away into the chateau, keeping her face turned from me until she had disappeared. I began to think that there might be another obstacle than that of our difference in religion. Perhaps a promise to another or some vow! But I swore to myself that, whatever the obstacle might be, I would remove it. The only matter for present disposition was to get her consent to my doing so. She would soon return, composed and smiling, with no sign of wishing to elude me. For the life of me, I could not long refrain from the subject that had before so strangely put her to flight.