would have served only to call attention to
those things, to have given the whole game away, as it were. Besides,
what would be the good of it? She would leave him weaker in his
resolution than before. If she had loved him--ah, God, how his heart
throbbed--if that impulsive admission had been the truth of her heart!
Well, he told himself, he would have gone through the trial, accepted
the verdict, received the bullets of the firing-squad in his heart,
although it would have been harder. And yet--how he longed to see her.

He had not expected to see her ever again during his long tramp from
Salzburg to Grenoble. He had not entertained the least idea that she
would be there. He had schooled himself to do without her, contemplate
life absolutely sundered from her. But when he did see her his whole
being had flamed with the passion he had so long repressed in vain.

And the Countess Laure knew more of his heart than he fancied. During
the morning she had had young Pierre before her. She had questioned
him, suggesting and even prompting his artless revelations. The boy
needed no suggestions. He was quick-witted and keen-eyed. Admiring
Marteau extravagantly and devotedly as he did, he could not conceive
how any one could fail to share his feelings. He told the
hungry-hearted woman the story of their lives since they had been
captured together at Arcis.

Reticent at first, Marteau had finally made a confidant of the lad, who
had shown himself sympathetic, discreet, adoring. He had to tell
somebody, he had to ease his heart of his burden. And when he had once
begun naturally he poured it all out before the boy. He could not have
told a man, a woman, perhaps, had one been by sufficiently sympathetic
and tender, but, failing that, it was the boy who received the
confidences and who never once presumed on these revelations. Indeed,
he had a vein of romance in his peasant heart. He was a poet in his
soul. Perhaps that was one reason why the man could confide in him.
And then, when Marteau lay in the delirium of fever, the boy had shared
their watches with the good Sisters of Charity. He alone had
understood the burden of his ravings, for they were all about the
woman. And, when she questioned him and gave him the opportunity, he
poured forth in turn all the stored treasure of his memory.

And the poor, distraught, unhappy young woman hung on his words with
heaving breast and panting heart and tear-dimmed eye