At the theatre she met him again and grew unaccountably nervous.  It needed all her power of will and all the prompter’s aid to enable her to retain the thread of her part.  At times her mind would wander and she would forget the words.  Yet, to judge by the applause with which she was rewarded, her acting did not suffer noticeably.

When the curtain fell, she complained that her head ached, and sent for Raoul, and begged him to take her to walk by the sea, that the cool air might restore her.

They walked down to the Rue Louise and left the violin and then strolled on for half-an-hour by the water.  Then they turned away to the Place St. Amand.  The square was deserted.  A single lamp fluttered in the wind.  The stars shone brightly and the milky way stretched like a faint, pale cloud high over the huge black mass of the cathedral.

She was leaning on his arm, and she made him pause a moment while she stood to look up.

“If I were in pain,” she said, after a moment, “or if a passion consumed me, I should watch the stars all night.  They are so cold and passionless:  they would teach me patience.”

“You are beginning to talk poetry,” he answered quietly, “and that shows that you are tired out.”

“Yes,” she said, “I am tired out.  To-morrow I shall be better, and we will go to the woods.”

Then she stood in the shadow of the hotel door and watched him until his figure disappeared in the darkness.

VII.

The morning was bright and warm.  The woods above Rocheville were brown with autumn foliage, and the brambles were heavy with long sprays of berries, red and black.  Mademoiselle gave Raoul her cloak to carry, and wandered here and there, gathering the ripest fruit.  By-and-by she cast away all she had gathered, and came to walk soberly beside him.

At St. Pierre, a little beyond the woods, they lunched merrily.

In the afternoon they strolled slowly back until they came to the brow of the hill that rises to the west of Rocheville.

Overhead, white clouds floated in a clear blue sky.  Below, the purple-roofed houses huddled around the grey cathedral, and the distant sea, flashing in the sunlight, broke against the yellow beach.

Beside the dusty hill path were rough seats.  On one of these Mademoiselle spread her cloak and rested, bidding Raoul sit on the grass beside.  The birds stirred in the trees, and the low, long surge of the sea sounded monotonously.

* * * * *

It was after a long silence that Raoul looked up as if he were about to speak.  Their eyes met.  He paled visibly.  Her face became scarlet.  With a manifest effort he regained self-possession and stood up.

“It grows late, Mademoiselle,” he said; “let us go home.”  And his voice sounded dry and harsh.

She rose obediently.  He wrapped the cloak about her, and they walked on down the hill in silence, and entered the avenue that leads to Rocheville.  The swallows wheeled and fell in long graceful circles, and the setting sunlight streaming through the trees made of the white road a mosaic of light and shadow.  The glow had faded from Mademoiselle’s face.  Once as he moved her arm the cloak half fell.  He replaced it tenderly.