"Nay," Monsieur cried; "I believe thee, Étienne."
And he took his son in his arms.
XXII
The signet of the king.
lready a wan light was revealing the round tops of the plum-trees in M. de Mirabeau's garden, the high gray wall, and the narrow alleyway beneath it. And the two vague shapes by me were no longer vague shapes, but were turning moment by moment, as if coming out of an enchantment, into their true forms. It really was Monsieur in the flesh, with a wet glint in his eyes as he kissed his boy.
Neither thought of me, and it was none of my concern what they said to each other. I went a rod or two down the lane, round a curve in the wall, and watched the bands of light streaking the eastern sky, in utter content. Never before had the world seemed to me so good a place. Since this misery had come right, I knew all the rest would; I should yet dance at M. Étienne's wedding.
I leaned my head back against the wall, and had shut my eyes to consider the matter more quietly, when I heard my name.
"Félix! Félix! Where is the boy got to?"