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Updated: June 26, 2025
A young woman has just passed out through the door of her coquettish little house facing La Croisette. She stops for a moment to gaze at the promenaders, smiles, and with an exhausted air makes her way toward an empty bench facing the sea. Fatigued after having gone twenty paces, she sits down out of breath. Her pale face seems that of a dead woman.
He turned one way, and I another, my heart swelling with rage. Would he dare to harm us? Would even the Vidame dare to murder a Caylus' nephew openly and in cold blood? I did not think so. And yet and yet Croisette interrupted the train of my thoughts. I found that he was not following me.
We could not remember, not even Croisette the youngest of us who was seventeen, a year junior to Marie and myself we were twins the time when we had not been in love with her. But let me explain how we four, whose united ages scarce exceeded seventy years, came to be lounging on the terrace in the holiday stillness of that afternoon. It was the summer of 1572.
I feigned therefore to be asleep, but I heard Bure enter to bid us good-night and see that we had not escaped. And I was conscious too of the question Croisette put to him, "Does M. de Pavannes lie alone to-night, Bure?" "Not entirely," the captain answered with gloomy meaning. Indeed he seemed in bad spirits himself, or tired.
Croisette told me afterwards that he could have died of mortification of shame and anger that we had been so outwitted. For myself I did not at once grasp the position. I did not understand. I could not disentangle myself in a moment from the belief in which I had entered the house that it was Louis de Pavannes' house.
Then, Madame Roubere, with a self-contained and serious air, said very gently: "You see, sister, very often it is not a man that we love, but love itself. And your real lover that night was the moonlight." The long promenade of La Croisette winds in a curve along the edge of the blue water.
Our long journey was over. And I had but one idea. I had some time before communicated to Croisette the desperate design I had formed to fall upon Bezers and kill him in the midst of his men in the last resort. Now the time had come if the thing was ever to be done: if we had not left it too long already. And I looked about me.
A cripple, whom the bustle had attracted from his usual haunt, the church porch, held up his hand for alms. The Vidame as he passed, cut him savagely across the face with his whip, and cursed him audibly. "May the devil take him!" exclaimed Croisette in just rage. But I said nothing, remembering that the cripple was a particular pet of Catherine's.
'Out of your own mouth are you condemned, said the girl, quickly; 'you have betrayed my confidence and ruined me, so if you do not fix a day for our marriage, I swear I will drink this and die at your feet. 'How melodramatic you are, Bebe, said Vandeloup, coolly; 'you put me in mind of Croisette in "Le Sphinx". 'You don't believe I will do it. 'No! I do not.
So it was arranged as Sir Launcelot said and they rode in that wise: Croisette rode along the highway, and Sir Launcelot rode under the trees in the outskirts of the forest, where he was hidden from the eyes of anyone who might be looking that way. So they went on for a long pass until they came pretty nigh to where the castle was.
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