The whole scene had become like a dream. Micheline leaning against the balustrade of the gallery, strained her ears to listen. She only caught snatches of what the man was saying because he spoke in whispers. Jasmin had put the candle down upon the table, and then had shuffled quietly away. At one time Micheline heard the rustle of paper, at another an exclamation from Bertrand. In the end Bertrand said formally:
“And where do you go after this?”
“Straight back to Avignon, mon lieutenant,” the man replied, “to report.”
“You can say I will start in the morning.”
“At your service, mon lieutenant.”
A moment or two later Micheline heard the click of the man’s spurs as he saluted and turned to go, then the ring of his footsteps upon the flagged floor: finally the opening and closing of the great entrance door, Bertrand calling to Jasmin, the clink of metal and creaking of leather, the champing of bit and clang of iron hoofs. The messenger had gone, and Bertrand was still lingering in the hall. Micheline craned her neck and saw him standing beside the heavy oak table. The light of the candle flickered about him, throwing a warm fantastic glow and weird distorting shadows upon his face, his hands, the paper which he held between his fingers, and in which he seemed wholly absorbed. After a few moments which appeared like an eternity to the watching girl, he folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to cross the hall. Micheline met him at the top of the stairs.
“What is it, Bertrand?” she asked breathlessly. “I am so anxious.”
He did not know she was there, and started when he heard her voice. But at once he took hold of her hand and patted it reassuringly.
“There is nothing to be anxious about, little sister,” he said, “but I shall have to leave here to-morrow.”
“Yes,” she said, “but why?”