For all that I realised that this love of mine for Yvonne was as a child still-born--a thing that had no existence save in the heart that had begotten it--I rejoiced meanly at the thought that she was not destined to become Andrea's wife. For since I understood that this woman--who to me was like no other of her sex--was not for so poor a thing as Gaston de Luynes, like the dog in the fable I wished that no other might possess her. Inevitable it seemed that sooner or later one must come who would woo and win her. But ere that befell, my Lord Cardinal would have meted out justice to me--the justice of the rope meseemed--and I should not be by to gnash my teeth in jealousy.
That evening, when the Chevalier de Canaples had gone to pay a visit to his vineyard,--the thing that, next to himself, he loved most in this world,--and whilst Geneviève and Andrea were vowing a deathless love to each other in the rose garden, their favourite haunt when the Chevalier was absent, I seized the opportunity for making my adieux to Yvonne.
We were leaning together upon the balustrade of the terrace, and our faces were turned towards the river and the wooded shores beyond--a landscape this that was as alive and beautiful now as it had been dead and grey when first I came to Canaples two months ago.
Scarce were my first words spoken when she turned towards me, and methought--but I was mad, I told myself--that there was a catch in her voice as she exclaimed, "You are leaving us, Monsieur?"
"To-morrow morning I shall crave Monsieur your father's permission to quit Canaples."
"But why, Monsieur? Have we not made you happy here?"
"So happy, Mademoiselle," I answered with fervour, "that at times it passes my belief that I am indeed Gaston de Luynes. But go I must. My honour demands of me this sacrifice."
And in answer to the look of astonishment that filled her wondrous eyes, I told her what I had told Andrea touching my parole to Montrésor, and the necessity of its redemption. As Andrea had done, she also dubbed it madness, but her glance was, nevertheless, so full of admiration, that methought to have earned it was worth the immolation of liberty--of life perchance; who could say?
"Before I go, Mademoiselle," I pursued, looking straight before me as I spoke, and dimly conscious that her glance was bent upon my face--"before I go, I fain would thank you for all that you have done for me here. Your care has saved my life, Mademoiselle; your kindness, methinks, has saved my soul. For it seems to me that I am no longer the same man whom Michelot fished out of the Loire that night two months ago. I would thank you, Mademoiselle, for the happiness that has been mine during the past few days--a happiness such as for years has not fallen to my lot. To another and worthier man, the task of thanking you might be an easy one; but to me, who know myself to be so far beneath you, the obligation is so overwhelming that I know of no words to fitly express it."