XI
It all seemed like a lovely dream after that: this walking together arm in arm down the high road with the waning moon throwing great patches of silvery light to guide them on their way.
They went through the village, not caring whom they met. They belonged to each other now; that wonderful kiss was a bond between them that only death could sever. That was how they felt; supremely, marvellously happy, thrilled with this new delight, this undreamed joy: and with it all a cloud of measureless sorrow at the impending farewell. The magic words had been spoken: “You love me, Fleurette?” The eternal question to which the only answer is a sigh. No, they did not care whom they met. They could laugh at gossip now: from this night they were tokened to one another, and only M. le Curé’s blessing could make their happiness more complete.
As a matter of fact they met no one, for they avoided the main street of the village and made their way to Lou Mas along narrow bypaths that meandered through orchards of almond-trees heavy with blossom. For the most part they were silent. Fleurette’s little hand rested on Amédé’s arm. Now and then he gave that hand a quick, excited squeeze and this relieved his feelings for the time being. Under his other arm he hugged the casket, the precious treasure that had been the mute but main spring of his happiness. It represented Fleurette’s trust in him; that priceless guerdon he would not have bartered for a kingdom.
“You will not part with Madame’s valuables, will you, Amédé?” she had enjoined him most solemnly. “Not to anyone?”
“Never, Fleurette,” he had replied solemnly. “On my soul!”
When they were within sight of Lou Mas, they decided that it would be best for him to turn back. She, Fleurette, was quite safe now, and of course old Louise would be waiting for her—and perhaps Bibi. She was not going to make a secret of her walk home with Amédé. Indeed she wished it proclaimed from the housetops that they were tokened to one another, and that they would be married as soon as this horrible war was over. There was to be no secret about it, and Fleurette knew well enough that neither Bibi nor M’sieu’ Colombe would object; but because of Madame’s valuables, she did not want Amédé to come to Lou Mas until tomorrow. And so that first wonderful kiss found its successor in another—one that was perhaps even more delicious, because it was more poignant—the precursor of the last farewell.
Fleurette found Louise anxiously waiting for her. Bibi had not returned and the old woman knew nothing, of course, of the tragic events that had occurred at the château. Fleurette told her what had happened, and while she was speaking Bibi came in. He looked tired and anxious, but Fleurette thought it prudent not to appear to notice anything unusual about him. He made no reference to the events at Frontenac, and when nine o’clock came he kissed Fleurette as tenderly, as unconcernedly as usual. Nine o’clock! What a lifetime, as far as Fleurette was concerned had been crowded into this past hour!
She went to bed as in a dream, partly made up of sorrow and partly of great joy: even the excitement of her adventure at the château was lost in the immensity of that joy. Fleurette fell asleep with her cheek against the hand on which Amédé had planted that first timid kiss.
When she came down in the early morning Bibi had already gone.