to you—­something concerning your career.  That frightened me, though I might have guessed it was only a trick.  Indeed, I did guess, but I couldn’t be sure, so I saw him.  I didn’t want you to know—­I tell you that frankly, Raoul.  Because I’d told you not to come home with me, I hoped you wouldn’t find out that I meant to let Count Godensky drive part of the way back with me and Marianne.  I ran the risk, and—­the very thing happened which I ought to have known would happen.  As for what he had to tell me, it was nothing; only vague hints of trouble from which he, as one of an inner circle, might save you, if I—­would be grateful enough.”

“The scoundrel!” broke out Raoul, convinced now, his eyes blazing.  “I’ll—­”

He stopped suddenly.  But I knew what had been on his lips to say.  He meant to send a challenge to Count Godensky.  I must prevent him from doing that.

“No, Raoul,” I said, as if he had finished his sentence, “you musn’t fight.  For my sake, you mustn’t.  Don’t you see, it’s just what he’d like best?  It would be a way of doing me the most dreadful injury.  Think of the scandal.  Oh, you will think of it, when you’re cooler.  For you, I would not fear much, for I know what a swordsman you are, and what a shot—­far superior to Godensky, and with right on your side.  But I would fear for myself.  Promise you won’t bring this trouble upon me.”

“I promise,” he answered.  “Oh, my darling, what wouldn’t I promise you, to atone for my brutal injustice to an angel?  How thankful I am that I came to you to-night!  I meant not to come.  I was afraid of myself, and what I might do.  But at last I couldn’t hold out against the something that seemed forcing me here in spite of all resistance.  Do you forgive me?”

“As a reward for your promise,” I said, smiling at him through tears that would come because I was worn out, and because I knew that it was I who needed his forgiveness, not he mine.  “Now are you happy again?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m happy,” he said.  “Though on the way to this house I didn’t dream that it would be possible for me to know happiness any more in this world.  And even at your gate—­” He stopped suddenly, and his face changed.  I waited an instant, but seeing that he didn’t mean to go on, I could not resist questioning him.  I had to know what had happened at my gate.

“Even at the gate—­what?” I asked.

“Nothing.  I’m sorry I spoke.  I want to show you how completely I trust you now, by not speaking of that.”

But this reticence of his only made me more anxious to hear what he had been going to say.  I was afraid that I could guess.  But I must have it from his lips, and be able to explain away the mystery which, when it recurred to him in the future, might make him doubt me, even though in this moment of exaltation he did not doubt.

“Yes, speak of it,” I said.  “All the more because it is nothing.  For it can be nothing.”