“He is a good shot?”

“Mon Dieu!” said Jean with an expressiveness which was a little disquieting; for it was on the cards that the duke might still find me out.  And I was not a practiced shot—­not at my fellow-men, I mean.  Suddenly I leaped up.

“Good Heavens!” I cried.  “I forgot!  The duchess wanted me.  Stop, stop!”

With a jerk Jean pulled up his horse, and gazed at me.

“You can’t go back like that,” he said, with a grin.  “You’ll have to put on these clothes again,” and he pointed to the discarded suit.

“I very nearly forgot the duchess,” said I. To tell the truth, I was at first rather proud of my forgetfulness; it argued a complete triumph over that unruly impulse at which I have hinted.  But it also smote me with remorse.  I leaped to the ground.

“You must wait while I run back.”

“He will shoot you after all,” grinned Jean.

“The devil take him!” said I, picturing the poor duchess utterly forsaken—­at the mercy of Delhasses, husband, and what not.

I declare, as my deliberate opinion, that there is nothing more dangerous than for a man almost to forget a lady who has shown him favor.  If he can quite forget her—­and will be so unromantic—­why, let him, and perhaps small harm done.  But almost—­That leaves him at the mercy of every generous self-reproach.  He is ready to do anything to prove that she was every second in his memory.

I began to retrace my steps toward the château.

“I shall get the sack over this!” called Jean.

“You shall come to no harm by that, if you do,” I assured him.

But hardly had I—­my virtuous pride now completely smothered by my tender remorse—­started on my ill-considered return journey, when, just as had happened to Gustave de Berensac and myself the evening before, a slim figure ran down from the bank by the roadside.  It was the duchess.  The short cut had served her.  She was hardly out of breath this time; and she appeared composed and in good spirits.

“I thought for a moment you’d forgotten me, but I knew you wouldn’t do that, Mr. Aycon.”

Could I resist such trust?

“Forget you, madame?” I cried.  “I would as soon forget—­”

“So I knew you’d wait for me.”

“Here I am, waiting faithfully,” said I.

“That’s right,” said the duchess.  “Take this, please, Mr. Aycon.”

“This” was a small handbag.  She gave it to me, and began to walk toward the cart, where Jean was placidly smoking a long black cheroot.

“You wished to speak to me?” I suggested, as I walked by her.

“I can do it,” said the duchess, reaching the cart, “as we go along.”

Even Jean took his cheroot from his lips.  I jumped back two paces.

“I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed, “As we go along, did you say?”

“It will be better,” said the duchess, getting into the cart (unassisted by me, I am sorry to say).  “Because he may find out I’m gone, and come after us, you know.”