The interview with François which Joachim van der Deen sought did not alter the former’s decision. “He has a will of iron,” Joachim told his wife. “He cannot be moved from his intention, and, helpless though he is, one finds oneself agreeing with whatever he proposes. A pity so able a man should be smitten down at this early age. He is our enemy and could do us much harm, but one cannot remember that when one is in his presence. He means to return to Canada, and when all is said that is the sum of it.”
“Will you go in to see him?” Madam looked at Alaine, who followed without a word.
“This is kind, madam,” was the greeting from François. “And you, mademoiselle, I did not hope for this added grace from you. I am going. I mean to do more before I die. If I can, I will do more. We shall probably not meet again, and therefore I have asked to make my final adieux. Words are poor things. I cannot thank you as I would for all your motherly kindness to a wounded prisoner, Madam van der Deen, but I shall remember it as one of the few pleasant things which have come to me. Mademoiselle Hervieu, adieu. Will you come nearer?” She came to his side. “You said pray, and I will pray to the blessed Virgin day and night, to her and to all the saints, that you may have peace. If we do not meet again, I shall have tried to make amends. Will you remember that?”
She bowed her head in assent.
“Adieu, then.”
“Adieu, monsieur.”
They left him, so wreak in body, so strong of will, so wrong-headed, so weary-hearted, with determination written in his deep-set eyes, and even indicated by the nervous clasp of the wasted fingers. He turned to Adriaen. “Now, then, we remain for a space, and the saints spare me to do this thing which is not for revenge, nor for ambition, nor for fame.”
CHAPTER XVIII
PAPA LOUIS TELLS A STORY
Everything was gay and smiling in and around the home of the Merciers on that day when Alaine arrived. The door was open and there was the sound of some one singing as Alaine used to sing. “How soon one is forgotten!” she whispered to Madam van der Deen.
The goede vrouw shook her head. “That does not count. One sometimes sings to cover up a heartache.”