Slowly and in great gloom of mind I climbed the hill again.  I supposed that I must take the troublesome ornament back to Marie Delhasse, confessing that my fine idea had ended in nothing save a direct and stinging insult for her and a scathing snub for me.  My pride made this necessity hard to swallow, but I believe there was also a more worthy feeling that caused me to shrink from it.  I feared that her good resolutions would not survive such treatment, and that the rebuff would drive her headlong into the ruin from which I had trusted that she would be saved.  Yet there was nothing else for it.  Back the necklace must go.  I could but pray—­and earnestly I did pray—­that my fears might not be realized.

I found myself opposite the gun-maker’s shop; and it struck me that I might probably fail to see Marie alone that evening.  I had no means of defense—­I had never thought any necessary.  But now a sudden nervousness got hold of me:  it seemed to me as if my manner must betray to everyone that I carried the necklace—­as if the lump in my coat stood out conspicuous as Mont St. Michel itself.  Feeling that I was doing a half-absurd thing, still I stepped into the shop and announced that, on further reflection, I would buy the little pistol.  The good man was delighted to sell it to me.

“If you carry valuables, sir,” he said, repeating his stock recommendation, “it will give you a feeling of perfect safety.”

“I don’t carry valuables,” said I abruptly, almost rudely, and with most unnecessary emphasis.

“I did but suggest, sir,” he apologized.  “And at least, it may be that you will require to do so some day.”

“That,” I was forced to admit, “is of course not impossible.”  And I slid the pistol and a supply of cartridges into the other pocket of my coat.

“Distribute the load, sir,” advised the smiling nuisance.  “One side of your coat will be weighed down.  Ah, pardon!  I perceive that there is already something in the other pocket.”

“A sandwich-case,” said I; and he bowed with exactly the smile the waiter had worn when I said that I came from Mont St. Michel.

CHAPTER X.

Left on my Hands.

“There is nothing else for it!” I exclaimed, as I set out for the hotel.  “I’ll go back to England.”

I could not resist the conclusion that my presence in Avranches was no longer demanded.  The duchess had, on the one hand, arrived at a sort of understanding with her husband; while she had, on the other, contrived to create a very considerable misunderstanding with me.  She had shown no gratitude for my efforts, and made no allowance for the mistakes which, possibly, I had committed.  She had behaved so unreasonably as to release me from any obligation.  As to Marie Delhasse, I had had enough (so I declared in the hasty disgust my temper engendered) of Quixotic endeavors to rescue people who, had they any moral resolution, could well rescue themselves.  There was only one thing left which I might with dignity undertake—­and that was to put as many miles as I could between the scene of my unappreciated labors and myself.  This I determined to do the very next day, after handing back this abominable necklace with as little obvious appearance of absurdity as the action would permit.