Two
years! Ah, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, was that quite fair? He thought of
all the old days, and a great wave of bitterness rushed over him. He
no longer heard the blackbird. The quill fell from his fingers, and he
laid his head upon his arms.
"I am tired," was all he said.
The Chevalier wended his way toward the Ursulines. His heart beat
furiously. Sometimes his feet dragged, or again they flew, according
to the fall or rise of his courage. The sight of a petticoat sent him
into a cold chill. He tramped here and there, in all places where he
thought possibly she might be found. Half the time he caught himself
walking on tiptoe, for no reason whatever. Dared he inquire for her,
send a fictitious note enticing her forth from her room? No, he dared
do neither; he must prowl around, waiting and watching for his
opportunity. Would she laugh, be indignant, storm or weep? Heaven
only knew! To attack her suddenly, without giving her time to rally
her forces,--formidable forces of wit and sarcasm!--therein lay his
hope.
"What a coward a woman can make of a man! I have known this woman two
years; I have danced and dined with her, made love, and here I can
scarce breathe! I am lost if she sees me in this condition, or finds a
weak spot.
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