caught sight of
a white robe in the middle of it. The next moment, appearing with a
suddenness which was like a blow on the cheek to me, Mademoiselle de
Cocheforet glided forward towards me. She had a hood on her head, drawn
low; and for a moment I could not see her face, I forgot her brother's
presence at my elbow, I forgot other things, and, from habit and impulse
rather than calculation, I took a step forward to meet her; though my
tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, and I was dumb and trembling.

But she recoiled with such a look of white hate, of staring, frozen-eyed
abhorrence, that I stepped back as if she had indeed struck me. It did
not need the words which accompanied the look--the 'DO NOT TOUCH ME!'
which she hissed at me as she drew her skirts together--to drive me to
the farther edge of the hollow; where I stood with clenched teeth, and
nails driven into the flesh, while she hung, sobbing tearless sobs, on
her brother's neck.

CHAPTER XII. THE ROAD TO PARIS

I remember hearing Marshal Bassompierre, who, of all the men within
my knowledge, had the widest experience, say that not dangers but
discomforts prove a man and show what he is; and that the worst sores in
life are caused by crumpled rose-leaves and not by thorns.

I am inclined to think him right, for I remember that when I came from
my room on the morning after the arrest, and found hall and parlour and
passage empty, and all the common rooms of the house deserted, and no
meal laid; and when I divined anew from this discovery the feeling of
the house towards me--however natural and to be expected--I remember
that I felt as sharp a pang as when, the night before, I had had to face
discovery and open rage and scorn. I stood in the silent, empty parlour,
and looked on the familiar things with a sense of desolation, of
something lost and gone, which I could not understand. The morning was
grey and cloudy, the air sharp, a shower was falling. The rose-bushes
outside swayed in the wind, and inside, where I could remember the hot
sunshine lying on floor and table, the rain beat in and stained the
boards. The inner door flapped and creaked on its hinges. I thought of
other days and of meals I had taken there, and of the scent of flowers;
and I fled to the hall in despair.

But here, too, were no signs of life or company, no comfort, no
attendance. The ashes of the logs, by whose blaze Mademoiselle had told
me the secret, lay on the hearth white