She still stood looking at the pistols on the table. Was she thinking,
as I was, of the irony, and the comedy and the tragedy that had been
so strangely blended in the last hour? Slowly she turned and faced me,
her slender fingers tugging aimlessly at her handkerchief. For a
moment her eyes met mine. Then she looked away, and the color had
deepened in her cheeks.
"So," said Mademoiselle, "It is almost over. Are you not glad, Monsieur,
that it is finished?"
The wick of a candle had dropped to the wax, and was spluttering
fitfully. Mechanically I moved to fix it.
"No," I said, "I am not glad."
"Not glad? Surely you are glad it has ended so. Surely you are glad
your father--"
"No," I said, and my voice was so much louder than I had intended that
the sound of it in the quiet room made me stop abruptly. She looked up at
me, a little startled.
"At least Monsieur is frank," she said. "Do you know--have you thought
that you are the only one of us who has been wholly so, who has not had
something to conceal? Pray go on, Monsieur. It is pleasant to hear
someone who is frank again. Continue! You must be glad for something.
Every cloud must have--do you not say--a silver lining? If it is not your
father--surely you are glad about me?"
She made a graceful little gesture of interrogation.
"Come, come," she went on, "You are not yourself tonight. Never have I
seen you look so black. Think, Monsieur! The men are on deck and the wind
is fair. Soon I shall be going. Soon you will forget."
"No," I said, "Mademoiselle is mistaken. I shall not forget."
"Nor I," she said gravely, "I wonder, Monsieur, if you understand--but
you cannot understand what it has meant to me. I have tried to tell you
once before, but you are cold, like your father. I have seen many men who
have said gallant things, but only you two of all I know have done them."
"I have done nothing," I said. "You know I have done nothing."
"But it has not been your fault," she answered. "And was it nothing to
protect a stranger from a strange land, when you had nothing to gain from
it and everything to lose?"
"Mademoiselle forgets," I said, "that I had nothing to lose. It was
lost already."
"Then surely," she replied lightly, "surely you must be glad I am going?"
"You know better than that," I answered. "Ah, Mademoiselle, do you not
see? I hoped I might show you that I did not always blunder. I hoped I
might show you--"
The words seemed to choke me.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," I cried, "if I had only been on the stairs at
Blanzy!"
"Blanzy!" she echoed, "Pray what has Blanzy to do with you and me?"
Even now I do not know what made me speak, save that she was going. The
very ticking of the clock was bringing the moment nearer, and there she
was, staring at me, wide-eyed, half puzzled and half frightened. It
seemed already as though she were further away.
"Do you not see?" I said. "It is not like you not to understand. Nor is
it very kind. How can I see you go and be glad? How can I be glad you
love my father?"
"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed suddenly startled, "Your father! I care for
your father!"