So touching is the blindness of those blinded by love!  It is enough to make one weep sometimes to see it,—­to see, as in this instance of Willan Blaycke, an upright, modest, and honest gentleman creating out of the very virtues of his own nature the being whom he will worship, and then clothing this ideal with a bit of common clay, of immodest and ill-behaved flesh, which he hath found ready-made to his hand, and full of the snare of good looks.

When Willan Blaycke rode away this time from the Golden Pear, he was, as we say, in a mood ready to do some desperate thing, he was so vexed and disappointed.  What he did do, proved it; he turned his horse and rode straight for Gaspard’s mill.  The artful Benoit had innocently dropped the remark, as he was holding the stirrup for Willan to mount, that Mistress Jeanne and her niece were at Pierre Gaspard’s; that for his part he wished them back,—­there was no luck about a house without a woman in it.

Willan Blaycke made some indifferent reply, as if all that were nothing to him, and galloped off.  But before he had gone five miles Benoit’s leaven worked, and he turned into a short-cut lane he knew which led to the mill.  He did not stop to ask himself what he should do there; he simply galloped on towards Victorine.  It was only a couple of leagues to the mill, and its old tower and wheel were in sight before he thought of its being near.  Then he began to consider what errand he could make; none occurred to him.  He reined his horse up to a slow walk, and fell into a reverie,—­so deep a one that he did not see what he might have seen had he looked attentively into a copse of poplars on a high bank close to his road,—­two young girls sitting on the ground peeling slender willow stems for baskets.  It was Annette Gaspard and Victorine; and at the sound of a horse’s feet they both leaned forward and looked down into the road.

“Oh, see, Victorine!” Annette cried; “a brave rider goes there.  Who can he be?  I wonder if he goes to the mill?  Perhaps my father will keep him to dinner.”

At the first glance Victorine recognized Willan Blaycke, but she gave no sign to her friend that she knew him.

“He sitteth his horse like one asleep,” she said, “or in a dream.  I call him not a brave rider.  He hath forgotten something,” she added; “see, he is turning about!” And with keen disappointment the girls saw the horseman wheel suddenly, and gallop back on the road he had come.  At the last moment, by a mighty effort, Willan had wrenched his will to the decision that he would not seek Victorine at the mill.

And this was why, when her aunt told her that he had been at the inn during their absence, Victorine shrugged her shoulders, and said with so pleased a laugh, “Eh! that is good.”  She understood by a lightning intuition all which had happened,—­that he had ridden towards the mill seeking her, and had changed his mind at the last, and gone away.  But she kept her own counsel, told nobody that she had seen him, and said in her mischievous heart, “He will be back before long.”