"Oh! nom d'un nom—to-night?" asked Charnac. "C'est embêtant, ça."
And, suddenly, Humphrey grew peaceful again, and all the turbulence of his thoughts calmed down and flowed towards the one desire that he had made paramount in his life—the desire of the journalist for news, the longing of the historian for history.
Fleet Street called to him from those blue strips with their printed message. "Go Narbonne immediately cover riots," and the signature that symbolized Fleet Street—"Ferrol"—held in it all the power that had made him a puppet of Fate.
But Narbonne.... From all parts of Europe the Special Correspondents would be converging on the town. There would be great doings to describe, new interests to make him forget rapidly.
Dagneau helped him on with his coat. "Send on my bag," he said, glancing at his watch. "I'm awfully sorry," he added to Charnac. "You'll understand. Explain to them, won't you? Dagneau, stop and finish my supper."
He forgot everything else ... what else mattered?
"Dis donc," Desirée said, "are you going again?" How surprisingly unimportant she seemed at this moment. Her expression was half-suppliant, half-petulant. "If you go," she said distinctly, "I will never speak to you again—never."
As if she could hold him back when others had failed! But he was moved to show her tenderness. A momentary pang of regret shot across him because he had to leave her. "Don't be cross," he whispered. "I shall be back in three days."
She turned her head away impetuously. And he realized that there never had been, nor ever could be, anything in common between them.