"I forgot him, too," Monsieur sorrowed. "Shame to me; he would not have forgotten me."
"Monsieur," his son said, "it was no negligence of yours. You could have saved him only by following when he ran. And that was impossible."
"In sight of the door," Monsieur said sadly. "In sight of his own door."
We held silent. Monsieur got soberly to his feet.
"I never lost a better man."
"Monsieur," I cried, "he asks no better epitaph. If you will say that of me when I die, I shall not have lived in vain."
He smiled at the outburst, but I did not care; if he would only smile, I was content it should be at me.
"Nay, Félix," he said. "I hope it will not be I who compose your epitaph. Come, we must get to the house and send after poor Huguet."
"Félix and I will carry him," M. Étienne said, and we lifted him between us—no easy task, for he was a heavy fellow. But it was little enough to do for him.
We bore him along slowly, Monsieur striding ahead. But of a sudden he turned back to us, laying quick fingers on the poor torn breast.