For a space her hair
burned like ore in a furnace and her eyes sparkled with golden flashes;
then the day smoldered and died, leaving the world enveloped in a
silvery pallor. To the thought which wanders visual beauty is without
significance, and madame's thought was traversing paths which were many
miles beyond the sea.
"Madame, are you not truly a poet?"
The vicomte stood at her side, his hat under his arm. "I daresay," he
went on, "that many a night while you were crossing the sea you stood
by the railing and watched the pathway of the moon. How like destiny
it was! You could not pass that ribbon of moonshine nor could it pass
you, but ever and ever it walked and abided with you. Well, so it is
with destiny."
"And when the clouds come, Monsieur le Vicomte, and shut out the moon,
there is, then, a cessation to destiny?"
"You are not only a poet, Madame," he observed, his fingers straying
over his mustache. "You have eclipsed my metaphor nicely, I will
admit."
"And this preamble leads . . . ?"
"I have something of vital importance to tell you; but it can not be
told here. Will you do me the honor and confidence, Madame, to follow
me to the chateau?"
"How vital is this information?" the chill in her voice becoming
obvious and distinct.
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