"A nun?" stupefied.
"The idea seems to annoy you, Monsieur," a chill settling upon her
tones.
"Annoy me? No; it terrifies me. God did not intend you to be a nun;
you were born for love. And is there a man in all the world who loves
you half as fondly as I? You are here in Quebec! And I never even
dared dream of such a possibility!"
"I accompanied a dear friend of mine, whose intention to enter the
Ursulines stirred the desire in my own heart. Love? Is any man worthy
of a woman's love? What protestations, what vows to-day! And
to-morrow, over a cup of wine, the man boasts of a conquest, and casts
about for another victim. It is so."
"You wrote a letter to me," he said, remembering. "It was in quite a
different tone." He advanced again.
"Was I so indiscreet?" jestingly, though the rise and fall of her bosom
was more than normal. "Monsieur, do not think for the briefest moment
that I followed you!"
"I know not what to think. But that letter . . ."
"What did I say?"
"You said that France was large, but that if I loved you I would find
you."
"And you searched diligently; you sought the four ends of France?" with
quiet sarcasm.
He could find no words.
"Ah! Have you that letter? I should like to read it." She put forth
her hand with a little imperious gesture.
He fumbled in his blouse. Had his mind been less blunted he would have
thought twice before trusting the missive into her keeping. But he
gave it to her docilely. There beat but one thought in his brain: she
was here in Quebec.
She took down a candle from the mantel. She read aloud, and her tone
was flippant. "'Forgive! How could I have doubted so gallant a
gentleman!' What was it I doubted?" puckering her brow. "No matter."
She went on: "'You have asked me if I love you. Find me and put the
question. France is large. If you love me you will find me. You have
complained that I have never permitted you to kiss me.'" She paused,
glanced obliquely at the scrawl, and shrugged. "Can it be possible
that I wrote this--'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times'?"
Calmly she folded the letter. "Well, Monsieur, and you searched
thoroughly, I have no doubt. This would be an incentive to the most
laggard gallant."
"I . . . I was in deep trouble." The words choked him. "I was about
to start . . ." He glanced about helplessly.
"And . . . ?" The scorn on her face deepened. He became conscious
that the candle and the letter were drawing dangerously close.
"Good God, Diane! how can I tell you? You would not understand! . . .
What are you doing?" springing toward her to stay her arm. But he was
too late. The flame was already eating into the heart of that precious
testament.