He took the hem of her cloak and kissed it. “Thank God for women like you.” She looked up with wet and terrified eyes. “Do not praise me--I do not know myself--I must have been very young--a few months ago--I said things I did not understand. Let me go, Monseigneur.” She made an effort to pass him, but he arrested her. “You will not leave me like this, Mademoiselle. He is not so changed--I wanted to prepare you, that is all--his mother thought there was very little difference.” “Ah, his mother,” murmured Clémence. “I was to be his wife.” “You will be. I will do anything for you--anything. You shall live in Aix--we shall all worship you--and you will be happy.” “But if I cannot make _him_ happy?” she asked mournfully. “You will, you will, you must! He loves you--there will be nothing else in the world for him.” The old man could not contain his anguish of apprehension. “Do not tell me that you could forsake him!” She dried her eyes on a little handkerchief she took from her muff; after a few seconds of self-control she spoke gently-- “Monseigneur, I shall be here to-morrow. I am not going to break the promise I gave Luc. I am quite--content--only a little shocked. Please do not grieve so--he might have died, you know.” She smiled wistfully. He kissed her hands, and she felt his hard wrung tears on them. When he raised his head she leant forward and kissed his poor wrinkled cheek, then left him swiftly with no backward look. “_Might_ have died,” she wailed to herself as she shivered down the hall; “he _ought_ to have died for every one’s sake--feeble, disfigured, nearly--blind!” Such a tumult of terror seized her as she fled from the house of the de Clapiers that she was aware of nothing but the tremendous beating of her heart that seemed to echo through her whole body. CHAPTER II RETURN TO LIFE! Luc de Clapiers lay on the humble bed in the back room of the gardener’s cottage; in the outer chamber his servant was packing and gossiping with the convent porter. Luc was fully dressed. His sword, hat, and cloak, sent yesterday from Aix (since all his infected clothing had been burned), lay across a chair beneath the window. Outside the birds were singing, and their flying shadows crossed and recrossed the white corner of the hospice wall. Presently Luc raised himself on one elbow. “Jean!” he called. The man came instantly. “What time is it, Jean?” “About half-past two, Monseigneur.” “Thank you. I am going into the chapel for a little while. I shall be back when Monsieur, my father, comes.” He rose stiffly and feebly, and stood leaning against the end of the bed. “What is that which continually goes past the window, Jean?” “Birds, Monseigneur--only little birds.” Luc smiled. “Indeed, I cannot see them, Jean.” The servant waited, not looking at his master. Presently Luc gave a little nod of dismissal, and Jean returned to the outer room.