He pocketed his revolver and went up the hill to
the house of Kitty Cline's mother. It was the first time he had ever
been there. At the door he hesitated, but knocked presently, and was
admitted by Kitty, who, at sight of him, turned faint with sudden joy,
and grasped the lintel to steady herself.
Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and shut the door. She
recovered, and gently disengaged herself. He made no further advance,
and they stood looking at each other for a minute: he, as one who had
come to look at something good he was never to see again; she, as at
something she hoped to see for ever. They had never before been where
no eyes could observe them. He ruled his voice to calmness.
"I am going away," he said, "and I have come to say good-bye."
Her eyes never wavered from his. Her voice was scarce above a whisper.
"Why do you go? Where are you going?"
"I have been here too long. I am what they call a villain and a
plunderer. I am going to-mon Dieu, I do not know!" He shrugged his
shoulders, and smiled with a sort of helpless disdain.
She leaned her hands on the table before her. Her voice was still that
low, clear murmur.
"What people say doesn't matter." She staked her all upon her words.
She must speak them, though she might hate herself afterwards. "Are you
going--alone?"
"Where I may have to go I must travel alone.
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