Indian summer. The leaves rustled and sighed upon the damp earth. The
cattails waved their brown tassels. Wild ducks passed in dark flocks.
A stag sent a challenge across the waters. The lord-like pine looked
lordlier than ever among the dismantled oak and maple. The brown nuts
pattered softly to the ground, and the chatter of the squirrel was
heard. The Chevalier stood at the door of the hunting hut, and all the
varying glories of the dying year stirred the latent poetry in his
soul. In his hand he held a slip of paper which he read and reread.
There was a mixture of joy and puzzlement in his eyes. Diane. It had
a pleasant sound; what had she to say that necessitated this odd
trysting place? He glanced at the writing again. Evidently she had
written it in a hurry. What, indeed, had she to say? They had scarce
exchanged a word since the day in the hills when he told her that she
was not honest.
A leaf drifted lazily down from the overhanging oak, and another and
still another; and he listened. There was in the air the ghostly
perfume of summer; and he breathed. He was still young. Sorrow had
aged his thought, not his blood; and he loved this woman with his whole
being, dishonest though she might be. He carried the note to his lips.
She would be here at four. What she had to tell him must be told here,
not at the settlement. There was the woman and the caprice. Strange
that she had written when early that morning it had been simple to
speak. And the Indian who had given him the note knew nothing.
He entered the hut and looked carelessly around. A rude table stood at
one side. On the top of it Victor had carved his initials. The
Chevalier's eyes filled. Brave poet! Always ready with the jest,
light of heart and cheery, gentle and tender, brave as a lion, too.
Here was a man such as God intended all men to be. A beggar himself,
he gave his last crown to the beggar; undismayed, he would borrow from
his friend, paying the crown back in golden louis. How he loved the
lad! Only that morning he had romped about the mess-room like a boy
escaped from the school-room; imitated Mazarin, Uncle Gaston, the few
great councillors, and the royal actors themselves. Even the austere
visage of the Father Superior had relaxed and Du Puys had roared with
laughter. What was this sudden chill? Or was it his fancy? He
stepped into the open again, and found it warm.
"She will be here soon. It is after four. What can she have to say?"
Even as he spoke he heard a sound. It was madame, alone, and she was
hurrying along the path. A moment later and they stood together before
the threshold of the hut. There was mutual embarrassment which was
difficult to analyze. The exertion of the walk had filled her cheeks
with a color as brilliant as the bunch of maple leaves which she had
fastened at her throat. She was first to speak.