“You speak in riddles, and I am not good at guessing.” She swung her jewelled riding-whip impatiently in her hand, and it was as much as I could do to restrain myself from telling her I knew all now, every detail of the treachery by which she had lured me to love her to madness, and led me on to make sport for herself and her companions. But I held myself in. I could afford to wait, for my time was coming. “Your pardon,” I said. “I am afraid the past year has not improved me. I have changed much in heart and feelings. I am no longer a boy.” “Indeed!” The whip went up and down again. She was determined to have no allusion to the past, and, fool that I was, I was blundering into it more and more at each moment. “Come, monsieur!” she went on, “another half-league and we shall almost be at St. Loup,” and touching her horse lightly on the shoulder with her whip, she galloped on, I following at her heels. We were well in the forest by this, and the early winter’s night was coming on apace. From the damp and sodden ground a gray mist had arisen, and brooded sullenly over the earth. Through the opal shadows which quivered uneasily around us, the trees held out dim skeleton arms, to which here and there clung a few withered and yellow leaves. But the sky above us was clear, and augured a fair night, and as I looked up at it I had a grim satisfaction in thinking that there would be no cloud shadows to spoil the Spanish pass, to which I fully intended to introduce Monsieur de Richelieu. We had now slackened pace again almost unconsciously, and madame asked: “How far is it now?” “Not a quarter of a mile,” I said, a little surprised, because I thought the road was as well known to her as to me. “Ah!” she exclaimed, “is not that the château?” and she pointed with her riding-whip to where a vast, irregular shadow loomed between the mist and the trees. “Yes!” I answered, and at that moment madame’s whip somehow slipped from her hand and fell to earth, where it lay with its jewelled head flashing, for all the world like a snake. She uttered a little exclamation, and, dismounting, I picked up the whip and handed it to her, her gloved fingers touching mine for a moment. And then, I do not know how it was, but I stood there by the side of her horse, and she, playing with the handle of the whip, said in her low, sweet voice: “Monsieur, I hear that you are to be married. If it is true, will you permit an old friend to wish you all happiness?” The blue eyes looked down upon me kindly; there was a smile upon the arch of her lips. I had seen the temptress so before, leading me on, but though I tried to steel myself my heart began to beat, and my voice trembled as I answered: “The story is not true, madame; but I thank you for your good wishes.” “I am sorry,” she answered; “I had hoped it was true.”