But hardly had I--my virtuous pride now completely smothered by my tender remorse--started on my ill-considered return journey, when, just as had happened to Gustave de Berensac and myself the evening before, a slim figure ran down from the bank by the roadside. It was the duchess. The short cut had served her. She was hardly out of breath this time; and she appeared composed and in good spirits. "I thought for a moment you'd forgotten me, but I knew you wouldn't do that, Mr. Aycon." Could I resist such trust? "Forget you, madame?" I cried. "I would as soon forget--" "So I knew you'd wait for me." "Here I am, waiting faithfully," said I. "That's right," said the duchess. "Take this, please, Mr. Aycon." "This" was a small handbag. She gave it to me, and began to walk toward the cart, where Jean was placidly smoking a long black cheroot. "You wished to speak to me?" I suggested, as I walked by her. "I can do it," said the duchess, reaching the cart, "as we go along." Even Jean took his cheroot from his lips. I jumped back two paces. "I beg your pardon!" I exclaimed, "As we go along, did you say?" "It will be better," said the duchess, getting into the cart (unassisted by me, I am sorry to say). "Because he may find out I'm gone, and come after us, you know." Nothing seemed more likely; I was bound to admit that. "Get in, Mr. Aycon," continued the duchess. And then she suddenly began to talk English. "I told him I shouldn't stay in the house if Mlle. Delhasse came. He didn't believe me; well, he'll see now. I couldn't stay, could I? Why don't you get in?" Half dazed, I got in. I offered no opinion on the question of Mlle. Delhasse: to begin with, I knew very little about it; in the second place there seemed to me to be a more pressing question. "Quick, Jean!" said the duchess. And we lumbered on at a trot, Jean twisting his cheroot round and round, and grunting now and again. The old man's face said, plain as words. "Yes, I shall get the sack; and you'll be shot!" I found my tongue. "Was this what you wanted me for?" I asked. "Of course," said the duchess, speaking French again. "But you can't come with me!" I cried in unfeigned horror. The duchess looked up; she fixed her eyes on me for a moment; her eyes grew round, her brows lifted. Then her lips curved: she blushed very red; and she burst into the merriest fit of laughter. "Oh, dear!" laughed the duchess. "Oh, what fun, Mr. Aycon!" "It seems to me rather a serious matter," I ventured to observe. "Leaving out all question of--of what's correct, you know" (I became very apologetic at this point), "it's just a little risky, isn't it?" Jean evidently thought so; he nodded solemnly over his cheroot. The duchess still laughed; indeed, she was wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. "What an opinion to have of me!" she gasped at last. "I'm not coming with you, Mr. Aycon."