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“He sat down by her at that point, and whispered softly in her ear; at which she gave a cry which had both gladness and pain. ‘Surely, even that,’ he said, catching her to his breast. ‘And the Baron of Beaugard never broke his word.’ What should be her reply? Does not a woman when she truly loves always believe? That is the great sign. She slid to her knees and dropped her head into the hollow of his arm. ‘I do not understand these things,’ she said, ‘but I know that the other was death, and this is life. And yet I know, too, for my heart says so, that the end–the end, will be death.’

“‘Tut, tut, my flower, my wild-rose!’ he said. ‘Of course the end of all is death, but we will go a-Maying first, come October, and let the world break over us when it must. We are for Maying now, my rose of all the world!’ It was as if he meant more than he said, as if he saw what would come in that October which all New France never forgot, when, as he said, the world broke over them.

“The next morning the Baron called Garoche to him. The man was like some mad buck harried by the hounds, and he gnashed his teeth behind his shut lips. The Baron eyed him curiously, yet kindly, too, as well he might, for when was ever man to hear such a speech as came to Garoche the morning after his marriage? ‘Garoche,’ the Baron said, having waved his men away, ‘as you see, the lady made her choice–and for ever. You and she have said your last farewell in this world–for the wife of the Baron of Beaugard can have nothing to say to Garoche the soldier.’ At that Garoche snarled out, ‘The wife of the Baron of Beaugard, that is a lie to shame all hell.’ The Baron wound the lash of a riding-whip round and round his fingers quietly and said: ‘It is no lie, my man, but the truth.’ Garoche eyed him savagely, and growled: ‘The Church made her my wife yesterday; and you–you–you–ah, you who had all–you with your money and place, which could get all easy, you take the one thing I have! You, the grand seigneur, are only a common robber! Ah, Jesu–if you would but fight me!’

“The Baron, very calm, said: ‘First, Garoche, the lady was only your wife by a form which the Church shall set aside–it could never have been a true marriage. Second, it is no stealing to take from you what you did not have. I took what was mine–remember the glove! For the rest–to fight you? No, my churl, you know that’s impossible. You may shoot me from behind a tree or a rock, but swording with you–come, come, a pretty gossip for the Court! Then, why wish a fight? Where would you be, as you stood before me–you!’ The Baron stretched himself up, and smiled down at Garoche. ‘You have your life, man; take it and go–to the farthest corner of New France, and show not your face here again. If I find you ever again in Beaugard I will have you whipped from parish to parish. Here is money for you–good gold coins. Take them, and go.’

“Garoche got still and cold as stone. He said in a low, harsh voice: ‘M’sieu’ le Baron, you are a common thief, a wolf, a snake. Such men as you come lower than Judas. As God has an eye to see, you shall pay all one day. I do not fear you nor your men nor your gallows. You are a jackal, and the woman has a filthy heart–a ditch of shame.’

“The Baron drew up his arm like lightning, and the lash of his whip came singing across Garoche’s pale face. Where it passed, a red welt rose, but the man never stirred. The arm came up again, but a voice’ behind the Baron said: ‘Ah no, no, not again!’ There stood Falise. Both men looked at her. ‘I have heard Garoche,’ she said. ‘He does not judge me right. My heart is no filthy ditch of shame; but it was breaking when I came from the altar with him yesterday. Yet I would have been a true wife to him after all. A ditch of shame–ah, Garoche–Garoche! And you said you loved me, and that nothing could change you!’