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"What does it matter now?" she murmured. "What does anything matter--after this?"
"You will marry me--soon?" he urged her.
She sighed softly and laid her hand in his.
"Whenever you want me to," she said, with eloquent simplicity.
"To-morrow?"
She smiled mischievously.
"I must, I think, Philidor. Would you have me compromised?"
He laughed happily.
"Yes. Compromised by reverence, pilloried by tenderness--"
"Not reverence, Philidor. I'm only a little devil, after all."
"Then devils are angels in Vagabondia. Your wings are white, Hermia."
"They're trailing now--"
"Brave wings--fluttering--weary of flight. They shall fly no more--"
"Not alone--broader ones shall bear them company."
A pause.
"After to-morrow--shall we go?"
"Afoot, Philidor--as before."
And then. "Poor Clarissa!"
He laughed. "You shall have her."
She started up in delight.
"You mean that you--?"
"Clarissa is languis.h.i.+ng in a stable in Paris>"
She spoke of Cleofonte and the Signora.
"We must find them, too, Philidor. And Stella--I promised her. We must do something for Stella."
It was growing late. There was a sound in the thicket behind them.
They started up and were confronted by the _ancien_, who hobbled toward them, with his stick and lantern, like _Diogenes_ searching for an honest man.
"G.o.d be praised!" he croaked. "You are here. We feared you might have fallen among the rocks."
"Among the roses, Pre Gu?gou. _Thy_ roses--" said Yvonne, her hand in Philidor's.
The old man stared at them witlessly, then turned and lighted them upon their way.
The End
