Read El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel Page 13

  CHAPTER X. SHADOWS

  The tension on her nerves relaxed; there was the inevitable reaction.Her knees were shaking under her, and she literally staggered into theroom.

  But Armand was already near her, down on both his knees this time, hisarms clasping the delicate form that swayed like the slender stems ofnarcissi in the breeze.

  "Oh! you must go out of Paris at once--at once," she said through sobswhich no longer would be kept back.

  "He'll return--I know that he will return--and you will not be safeuntil you are back in England."

  But he could not think of himself or of anything in the future. He hadforgotten Heron, Paris, the world; he could only think of her.

  "I owe my life to you!" he murmured. "Oh, how beautiful you are--howbrave! How I love you!"

  It seemed that he had always loved her, from the moment that firstin his boyish heart he had set up an ideal to worship, and then, lastnight, in the box of the theatre--he had his back turned toward thestage, and was ready to go--her voice had called him back; it had heldhim spellbound; her voice, and also her eyes.... He did not know thenthat it was Love which then and there had enchained him. Oh, how foolishhe had been! for now he knew that he had loved her with all his might,with all his soul, from the very instant that his eyes had rested uponher.

  He babbled along--incoherently--in the intervals of covering her handsand the hem of her gown with kisses. He stooped right down to the groundand kissed the arch of her instep; he had become a devotee worshippingat the shrine of his saint, who had performed a great and a wonderfulmiracle.

  Armand the idealist had found his ideal in a woman. That was the greatmiracle which the woman herself had performed for him. He found in herall that he had admired most, all that he had admired in the leaderwho hitherto had been the only personification of his ideal. But Jeannepossessed all those qualities which had roused his enthusiasm in thenoble hero whom he revered. Her pluck, her ingenuity, her calm devotionwhich had averted the threatened danger from him!

  What had he done that she should have risked her own sweet life for hissake?

  But Jeanne did not know. She could not tell. Her nerves now weresomewhat unstrung, and the tears that always came so readily to her eyesflowed quite unchecked. She could not very well move, for he held herknees imprisoned in his arms, but she was quite content to remain likethis, and to yield her hands to him so that he might cover them withkisses.

  Indeed, she did not know at what precise moment love for him had beenborn in her heart. Last night, perhaps... she could not say ... but whenthey parted she felt that she must see him again... and then today...perhaps it was the scent of the violets... they were so exquisitelysweet... perhaps it was his enthusiasm and his talk about England... butwhen Heron came she knew that she must save Armand's life at all cost...that she would die if they dragged him away to prison.

  Thus these two children philosophised, trying to understand the mysteryof the birth of Love. But they were only children; they did not reallyunderstand. Passion was sweeping them off their feet, because a commondanger had bound them irrevocably to one another. The womanly instinctto save and to protect had given the young girl strength to bear adifficult part, and now she loved him for the dangers from which she hadrescued him, and he loved her because she had risked her life for him.

  The hours sped on; there was so much to say, so much that was exquisiteto listen to. The shades of evening were gathering fast; the room, withits pale-toned hangings and faded tapestries, was sinking into thearms of gloom. Aunt Marie was no doubt too terrified to stir out of herkitchen; she did not bring the lamps, but the darkness suited Armand'smood, and Jeanne was glad that the gloaming effectually hid theperpetual blush in her cheeks.

  In the evening air the dying flowers sent their heady fragrance around.Armand was intoxicated with the perfume of violets that clung toJeanne's fingers, with the touch of her satin gown that brushed hischeek, with the murmur of her voice that quivered through her tears.

  No noise from the ugly outer world reached this secluded spot. In thetiny square outside a street lamp had been lighted, and its feeble rayscame peeping in through the lace curtains at the window. They caught thedainty silhouette of the young girl, playing with the loose tendrils ofher hair around her forehead, and outlining with a thin band of lightthe contour of neck and shoulder, making the satin of her gown shimmerwith an opalescent glow.

  Armand rose from his knees. Her eyes were calling to him, her lips wereready to yield.

  "Tu m'aimes?" he whispered.

  And like a tired child she sank upon his breast.

  He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips; her skin was fragrant as theflowers of spring, the tears on her cheeks glistened like morning dew.