He laughed.  And his laugh really alarmed me.

The train stopped at that moment at a dark and deserted spot, which proved to be Sittingbourne.  I hesitated, and then, giving up the struggle, sped out of the compartment, and entered another one lower down.  My new compartment was empty.  The sensation of relief was infinitely soothing.  Placing the jewel-case carefully on my knees, I breathed freely once more, and said to myself that another quarter of an hour of that detestable presence would have driven me mad.

I began to think about Rosetta Rosa.  As a solace after the exasperating companionship of that silent person in the other compartment, I invited from the back of my mind certain thoughts about Rosetta Rosa which had been modestly waiting for me there for some little time, and I looked at them fairly, and turned them over, and viewed them from every side, and derived from them a rather thrilling joy.  The fact is, I was beginning to be in love with Rosa.  Nay, I was actually in love with her.  Ever since our first meeting my meditations had been more or less busy with her image.  For a long period, largely owing to my preoccupation with Alresca, I had dreamed of her but vaguely.  And now, during our interviews at her hotel and in the church of St. Gilles, she had, in the most innocent way in the world, forged fetters on me which I had no desire to shake off.

It was a presumption on my part.  I acknowledged frankly that it was a presumption.  I was a young doctor, with nothing to distinguish me from the ruck of young doctors.  And she was—­well, she was one of those rare and radiant beings to whom even monarchs bow, and the whole earth offers the incense of its homage.

Which did not in the least alter the fact that I was in love with her.  And, after all, she was just a woman; more, she was a young woman.  And she had consulted me!  She had allowed me to be of use to her!  And, months ago in London, had she not permitted me to talk to her with an extraordinary freedom?  Lovely, incomparable, exquisite as she was, she was nevertheless a girl, and I was sure that she had a girl’s heart.

However, it was a presumption.

I remembered her legendary engagement to Lord Clarenceux, an engagement which had interested all Europe.  I often thought of that matter.  Had she loved him—­really loved him?  Or had his love for her merely flattered her into thinking that she loved him?  Would she not be liable to institute comparisons between myself and that renowned, wealthy, and gifted nobleman?

Well, I did not care if she did.  Such is the egoism of untried love that I did not care if she did!  And I lapsed into a reverie—­a reverie in which everything went smoothly, everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, and only love and love’s requital existed....

Then, in the fraction of a second, as it seemed, there was a grating, a horrible grind of iron, a bump, a check, and my head was buried in the cushions of the opposite side of the carriage, and I felt stunned—­not much, but a little.