“And you set out as M. de Benseval commanded?” “Yes, at daybreak.” “Joyfully, no doubt?” “Yes, joyfully--why attempt to conceal it? I told myself that I was going to execute my father’s last command, that he was looking down upon me with approving eyes. So I was very happy.” “You have forgotten another reason for that happiness, have you not, monsieur?” “Another reason?” “You have said nothing of the lady.” “Really, mademoiselle,” I said in some confusion, “I fear I scarcely thought of her. I was only a boy. I had never been out into the world. All women were the same to me.” “You mean they are no longer so?” she asked, and again I saw her eyes gleaming up at me from the shadow. “So little so, mademoiselle,” I answered hoarsely, “that I am longing to throw myself into the war in La Vendée in the hope that a kindly bullet will deliver me from the fate prepared for me. Death, it seems to me, is preferable to that a thousand times.” “Come, monsieur,” she protested lightly, “you exaggerate. Indeed, I can assure you that a month from now you will again find life very tolerable.” “Why a month from now?” “Because in that time you will be married, you will have become accustomed to your wife, your heart will have opened to her, and you will have forgotten the mood of this evening--or if you recall it, it will be with a smile of amusement, as at a boyish folly.” “You may think so perhaps,” I said, bitter that I should be so misunderstood. “You ask for my advice,” she retorted, “and yet you grow angry when I give it. Shall I not say what I believe?” “Pardon me,” I begged, “but you do not yet understand. I have told you that I have passed my whole life with my mother--for me she was the only woman in the world.” “And now?” she asked. I could have sworn that she was luring me on but for the gross absurdity of such a thought. “Now there is still only one woman, mademoiselle, but it is not the same one,” I answered simply. To this for a moment she found no reply, but sat gazing out at the river with pensive eyes. The moon had risen above the tree-tops, seeking her; and finding her at last, caressed and threw a halo round her. I turned a little giddy at her pure, transcendent beauty, and my heart hungered for her. At last she roused herself. “Well, monsieur,” she said, “now that perhaps I understand a little better, do you still desire my advice?” “Yes, mademoiselle; more than I can say.” “Not, I hope, as to whether you should prove false to this betrothal?” “Oh, no!--there can be no question of that. That is a matter which concerns not my honor alone, but that of my father also.” “Yes,” she assented; “M. de Benseval was right--the engagement is with the dead, and so is doubly sacred. So far we are agreed. What is it, then, that you propose?” “I propose to turn aside from my journey to Poitiers, and follow M. le Comte back to the Bocage. Can I do this with honor, mademoiselle?” “What will you do in the Bocage?”