I leaped to the ground.
"You must wait while I run back." "He will shoot you after all," grinned Jean.
"The devil take him!" said I, picturing the poor duchess utterly forsaken--at the mercy of Delhasses, husband, and what not.
I declare, as my deliberate opinion, that there is nothing more dangerous than for a man almost to forget a lady who has shown him favor.

If he can quite forget her--and will be so unromantic--why, let him, and perhaps small harm done.

But almost--That leaves him at the mercy of every generous self-reproach.

He is ready to do anything to prove that she was every second in his memory.
I began to retrace my steps toward the _chteau_.
"I shall get the sack over this!" called Jean.
"You shall come to no harm by that, if you do," I assured him.
But hardly had I--my virtuous pride now completely smothered by my tender remorse--started on my ill-considered return journey, when, just as had happened to Gustave de Berensac and myself the evening before, a slim figure ran down from the bank by the roadside.

It was the duchess.