Temple. There was no
sound save the languid morning notes of the birds and the humming of the
bees among the flowers as Antoinette went tremblingly down the path and
paused, listening, under the branches of that oak where I had first
beheld her. Then, with a little cry, we saw her run forward--into the
arms of Auguste de St. Gre. It was a pitiful thing to look upon.
Antoinette had led her brother to the seat under the oak. How long we
waited I know not, but at length we heard their voices raised, and
without more ado Madame la Vicomtesse, beckoning me, passed quickly
through the gap in the hedge and went towards them. I followed with
Andre. Auguste rose with an oath, and then stood facing his cousin like
a man struck dumb, his hands dropped. He was a sorry sight indeed,
unshaven, unkempt, dark circles under his eyes, clothes torn.
"Helene! You here--in America!" he cried in French, staring at her.
"Yes, Auguste," she replied quite simply, "I am here." He would have
come towards her, but there was a note in her voice which arrested him.
"And Monsieur le Vicomte--Henri?" he said. I found myself listening
tensely for the answer.
"Henri is in Austria, fighting for his King, I hope," said Madame la
Vicomtesse.
"So Madame la Vicomtesse is a refugee," he said with a bow and a smile
that made me very angry.
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