“The word?”
“Arcole.”
“Pass, 'Arcole;' and good-morrow.”
“Adieu, Lieutenant; adieu, Pierre,” said the abbé, as he waved his hand and passed out.
I stood for a minute or two uncertain of purpose; why, I know not. The tone of the last few words seemed uttered in something like a sneer. “What folly, though!” said I to myself. “D'Ervan is a strange fellow, and it is his way.”
“We shall meet soon, Abbé,” I cried out, as he was turning the corner of the park wall.
“Yes, yes, rely on it; we shall meet,—and soon.”
He kept his word.