He would, and he would not.  Death that had stalked so near him preached its solemn sermon.  But death and pleasure are never far apart; and at no time and nowhere have they jostled one another more familiarly than in that age, wherever the influence of Italy and Italian art and Italian hopelessness extended.  Again, on the one side, La Tribe’s example went for something with his comrade in misfortune; but in the other scale hung relief from discomfort, with the prospect of a woman’s smiles and a woman’s flatteries, of dainty dishes, luxury, and passion.  If he went now, he went to her from the jaws of death, with the glamour of adventure and peril about him; and the very going into her presence was a lure.  Moreover, if he had been willing while his betrothed was still his, why not now when he had lost her?

It was this last reflection—­and one other thing which came on a sudden into his mind—­which turned the scale.  About noon he sat up in the hay, and, abruptly and sullenly, “I’ll lie here no longer,” he said; and he dropped his legs over the side.  “I shall go.”

The movement was so unexpected that La Tribe stared at him in silence.  Then, “You will run a great risk, M. de Tignonville,” he said gravely, “if you do.  You may go as far under cover of night as the river, or you may reach one of the gates.  But as to crossing the one or passing the other, I reckon it a thing impossible.”

“I shall not wait until night,” Tignonville answered curtly, a ring of defiance in his tone.  “I shall go now!  I’ll lie here no longer!”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“You will be mad if you do,” the other replied.  He thought it the petulant outcry of youth tired of inaction; a protest, and nothing more.

He was speedily undeceived.  “Mad or not, I am going!” Tignonville retorted.  And he slid to the ground, and from the covert of the hanging fringe of hay looked warily up and down the lane.  “It is clear, I think,” he said.  “Good-bye.”  And with no more, without one upward glance or a gesture of the hand, with no further adieu or word of gratitude, he walked out into the lane, turned briskly to the left, and vanished.

The minister uttered a cry of surprise, and made as if he would descend also.

“Come back, sir!” he called, as loudly as he dared.  “M. de Tignonville, come back!  This is folly or worse!”

But M. de Tignonville was gone.

La Tribe listened a while, unable to believe it, and still expecting his return.  At last, hearing nothing, he slid, greatly excited, to the ground and looked out.  It was not until he had peered up and down the lane and made sure that it was empty that he could persuade himself that the other had gone for good.  Then he climbed slowly and seriously to his place again, and sighed as he settled himself.

“Unstable as water thou shalt not excel!” he muttered.  “Now I know why there was only one egg.”