He was writing a merchant at Marseillesabout a
ship. Two or three months thephysicians insisted, and no wine.
Shestood, she did not know how long, listening to
it.
As he raisedit to his lips there floated from it
the wings of a bee. Then they might have met, parted, and let pass. Ah, it will be
like this in America, will it not, Denis?
Wait in the tunnel, he cried, I shall only be a
moment.
Seeing his face become troubled, she threw herself
into his arms. Wherethe praetorium must have been, a young lamb was nuzzling
hismother.
America, perhaps, or Ireland, he had
relativesthere. The terrible time at Bourges with the plague. That would cause talk
and might get back to thechâteau.
Nowhere could she find rest or
satisfaction.
Their eyes grew wide in the watery, green light.
Wisps of it blew like hair across his lips and the smooth hands ofthe mistral
caressed his cheek.
Riding for an instant on the step he had just time
enoughto snatch a kiss. Maria pouted at this, but a knowing glance fromher companion
reminded her that it would never do.
The road began now in a series of long even curves
todescend. Soon their bells continued to soundagain gently. Despite himself and to
his surprise, his voice trembled.
The lane, almost a tunnel under its sturdy hedges,
extended acrossthe landscape like a ruled line. The wood which the wind hadpassed
through was strangely silent.