‘What connection there might be between the message you brought and the appearance of those two on the road?’
Clerivault’s brow went down and his lower lip up. Desperation was making him sulky.
‘The message was not mine,’ he said, in a tone of chill civility. ‘As well ask the conduit what message it bears from the river to the fountain.’
Brion flung away. He was in a passion, and he had let his passion defeat his particular purpose. He had meant this question to Clerivault to serve as prelude to another even more curious and intimate; and now he could never put it. His pride would prevent him.
But reason soon reasserted itself, and with it came shame that he could have treated his so faithful henchman and comrade with such unkindness. And so, no sooner was his heat departed, but he sought out the poor fellow, and very sweetly asked forgiveness for his rudeness, saying that the fault was his own to have tempted an abuse of confidence, and that, in refusing him, Clerivault had not only vindicated his own honour, but had taught him a lesson in faith which he would not be quick to forget. All of which he said very feelingly, but with a stately manner, as though bestowing his own punishment on himself; but it so wrought on his hearer as quite to overcome him with emotion.
‘Thou dear soul!’ he cried. ‘If I might seek thy confidence without hurt to my trust!’
But Brion stayed him, with the action of a young prince.
‘It would hurt my honour more than thy trust. Say no more on it, I beseech you. I wish no more, and that is enow.’
And they were friends again, but at changed angles; the boy was a little more the patron and the man the client.
Yet it is never to be supposed that these sober and dignified relations represented the all of their comradeship. There was another side to it, which, if less sedate, was infinitely more humorous.