The consequence was—a fresh batch of prisoners arrived at Norman Cross, and it was probably the last.
Captain Tournier was standing talking with a number of other officers, both English and French, near the entrance gate of the barracks, when they saw them approaching along the road.
As the new comers passed by, their reception, as always, was respectful and sympathetic. The Frenchmen scrutinized their fellows with friendly eyes to see if they could detect among them some former comrade, and when they happened to do so, which of course was not often, gave lively tokens of recognition. Tournier was not in the front part of the group of officers, but nevertheless could see fairly well.
And he did see! He saw a face he had not looked on for years, and which he had hoped never to see again: a face that he had tried, oh, so hard, to forget: a face that haunted him in his dreams: the face of the man he hated more than anybody in the world! and there he was walking along (even in this his humiliation,) with his old air of a man for whom all the world was made; handsome as ever, but with those same cold eyes that looked on everything as a joke, whether it were a man’s life or a woman’s honour!
“What’s the matter with Tournier?” said one of the officers; “he has broken through like a madman and gone after someone yonder, as if he meant to do him grievous bodily harm!”
It was true. Tournier had uttered a strong exclamation, and broken through those in front of him with almost violence, and gone after somebody. He made for his man, and got up to him near enough to touch him, when he stopped short. “Fool that I am!” he thought;
“I shall save his life by exposing him now! No! I will wait till I can make sure of him!”
And he turned away in terrible agitation.
All was brought back to his mind, and yet more to his heart. The man that had wronged him, that had caused him such anguish, that had well-nigh destroyed his life as he had his happiness, was brought close to him, at his very elbow, by this strange chance. And what for? Was it not that he might take vengeance on the scoundrel? He had forgiven her, but he never could forgive him. It was not meant that he should. So he thought.
And up and down the road he walked for hours, still thinking, till the stars came out in their glory, and looked down on him like pitying eyes. And once he looked up and noticed them, and they seemed to repeat the sweet refrain, “God is good, and can help.” But he thrust it from him, and said aloud, “Then why did God send him to me.”