Yet, such is the inconsistency of men, I was conscious of a faint, inexplicable pity for him. I felt myself stronger than he, and wiser in the knowledge of life. But he had the promise of that which to me was more than life. He had, as I kept telling myself, Yvonne’s love; yet—had he? So obstinate is hope, I would not yield all credence to this telling. At least I had one advantage, if no other. I was wiser than he in this, that I knew my love for Yvonne, and he did not know it. Yet this was but a poor vantage, and even upon the moment I had resolved to throw it away. I resolved that he should be as wise as I on this point, if telling could make him so.
I had just arrived at this significant determination when I was roused from my reverie by Anderson making his farewells. He was holding out his hand to me.
“Your face is stern, monsieur,” he said. “Were you fighting your old battles o’er again?”
“No—new ones!” I laughed, springing up and seizing his hand.
“May you win them, as of old!” he exclaimed, with great heartiness.
“You are generous, monsieur,” I said gently, looking him in the eyes.
But this remark he took as quite the ordinary reply, and with a bright glance for us all he moved toward the door. Yvonne followed him, as it seemed was expected of her.
“_Must_ you go so early?” she asked, with a kindness in her voice which pierced me.
“Yes,” he said, looking down at her upturned face. “The tide is just right now, and this fair wind must not be lost. It will be a fine run under this moon; and Pierre has the new boat over to-night.”
“It _is_ a good night,” she assented, peering through the open door with a gesture of gay inquiry; “and how sweet the apple-blossoms smell! Have you as good air as this, Monsieur Grande, on those western rivers of yours, or at Trois Pistoles?”
As she did not turn her head or seem to require an answer, I made none. And, indeed, I was spared the necessity, for Anderson intervened with matter of his own.
“Come down to the gate with me, won’t you?” I heard him beg in a low voice.
But for some reason Mademoiselle was not disposed to be kind that night. She drew back, and looked down pointedly at her dainty embroidered moccasins.
“Oh,” she cried lightly and aloud, with a tantalizing ring in her voice, “just think how wet the path is!”