The Countess had a thought which slowly flooded her face with crimson.
Madame St. Lo saw the change, saw the tender light which on a sudden
softened the other's eyes; and the same thought occurred to her. And
having a mind to punish her companion for her reticence--for she did not
doubt that the girl knew more than she acknowledged--she proposed that
they should return and find Badelon, and learn if he had seen the man.
"Why?" Madame Tavannes asked. And she stood stubbornly, her head high.
"Why should we?"
"To clear it up," the elder woman answered mischievously. "But perhaps,
it were better to tell your husband and let his men search the coppice."
The colour left the Countess's face as quickly as it had come. For a
moment she was tongue-tied. Then-"Have we not had enough of seeking and being sought?" she cried, more
bitterly than befitted the occasion. "Why should we hunt him? I am not
timid, and he did me no harm. I beg, Madame, that you will do me the
favour of being silent on the matter."
"Oh, if you insist? But what a pother--"
"I did not see him, and he did not see me," Madame de Tavannes answered
vehemently. "I fail, therefore, to understand why we should harass him,
whoever he be. Besides, M. de Tavannes is waiting for us."
"And M. de Tignonville--is following us!" Madame St. Lo muttered under
her breath. And she made a face at the other's back.
She was silent, however. They returned to the others and nothing of
import, it would seem, had happened. The soft summer air played on the
meal laid under the willows as it had played on the meal of yesterday
laid under the chestnut-trees. The horses grazed within sight, moving
now and again, with a jingle of trappings or a jealous neigh: the women's
chatter vied with the unceasing sound of the mill-stream. After dinner,
Madame St. Lo touched the lute, and Badelon--Badelon who had seen the
sack of the Colonna's Palace, and been served by cardinals on the
knee--fed a water-rat, which had its home in one of the willow-stumps,
with carrot-parings. One by one the men laid themselves to sleep with
their faces on their arms; and to the eyes all was as all had been
yesterday in this camp of armed men living peacefully.
But not to the Countess! She had accepted her life, she had resigned
herself, she had marvelled that it was no worse. After the horrors of
Paris the calm of the last two days had fallen on her as balm on a wound.
Worn out in body and mind, she had rested, and only rested; without
thought, almost without emotion, save for the feeling, half fear, half
curiosity, which stirred her in regard to the strange man, her husband.
Who on his side left her alone.