There was an affectionate and urgent note of command in the voice, and a small hand appeared, signaling him to come closer. The old man obeyed. He was pressed up against the coach. You couldn’t make out what he was doing. Maybe he was putting something into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“We must be in pretty dire straits,” he said.

But the friendly voice interrupted him. “You’re an old fool, Ardan.”

“It’s true,” said the old man, drawing back. “Can we expect to see you again soon, miss?”

“In less than a month, this time,” she said.

The old man climbed up the embankment and headed toward the Dartmoor Road.

“Put your hat back on,” said the voice.

“Thank you,” he said, without turning around. He put his hat back on and headed into the woods.

The young man hadn’t budged. He was gazing with ardor into the coach.

“Christopher, come on, don’t be so shy, I’m not an evil spirit.” But he didn’t budge. Only his mouth had become mobile and passionate.

“We can leave, Jack,” said the voice.

Herman had just been thinking that he’d wager a tidy sum . . .when he heard the voice again, in memory, as though it was still speaking. Meanwhile, the horses had gone back to trotting up the slope. In spite of the noise, he could still hear the voice. He really listened to it. This voice had soul. And the being reckless enough to have soul in our day and age, he thought, was a woman. Luckily for her, nine times out of ten, she was bound to run across fools. Even so, the men they’d met up with on the Dartmoor Road were no fools. Again, he saw the young man standing stock-still on the embankment, his gaze unwavering, his lips gradually becoming flushed and beautiful on his deathly face.

For a woman of such distinction, the terrible thing is to be a woman, that is to say, a thing that’s pleasant to take possession of without worrying about painful consequences. Who still believes in painful consequences except for the woman who has no choice but to know they’re real? Not all dandies are fools. Even if they are fools, they do have a certain something about them. There’s so little character in the faces one sees in fashionable salons that a frock coat from Henley’s or boots from Soupaut suffice to distract one’s mind from the boredom. And there’s so much generosity in that voice, she could go as far as to imagine soulfulness in someone who’s nothing but a well-cut frock coat and a pair of highly polished boots. That someone will regard the best in her as nothing but trouble in the salons—as an obstacle to all the cunning maneuvers. He’ll make fun of it. He’ll try to destroy it. And, as for what’s impassioned and honest in her look, he’ll say to her straightaway: My dear, be less natural. We can see everything you’re thinking. Don’t bare your heart. People will take you for a little bumpkin.