"Now, my dear Mary, do you expect me to remember the name of a Frenchman?"
Thus it was that Pierre Menard, lean, tropically brown, his hair about the temples white and everywhere streaked with gray, his mustache and imperial still black, entered Mary's life again. Mary was glad that the auditorium was darkened when she saw him first, not so much because she feared that anybody would notice her agitation, but because she wanted to stare hard at Pierre without being oppressed by the consciousness of her surroundings. It seemed to her that he must be aware of her regard and that presently over a hundred heads he would glance back his recognition.
"Dis, Madeleine, n'est-ce pas qu'il est beau?" one of the girls whispered to her neighbor.
It was that nice and pretty creature Yvonne who had spoken. She had always been one of Mary's favorites.
Driving back to Campden Hill, while street-lamp after street-lamp tossed its bouquet of golden light into the brougham, Mary pondered the course of her behavior in the near future. It might be that Pierre would scornfully reject the proffer of renewed friendship. If he had remembered her at all, she might be now a bitter memory; if he had forgotten her so completely that a letter from her would bring a puzzled frown to his brow.... Oh, it was difficult to decide what she ought to do. Mary did not consider the effect upon herself of bringing Pierre back into her life. It was of nothing except her effect upon him that she thought during that black and golden drive to Campden Hill.
At home she found Adèle, who was her maid these days, waiting up. Madame must prepare herself for a shock; Madame must have courage; Madame must not give way to grief at the news she must break to Madame.
"Nothing has happened to the children?" Mary exclaimed in terror.
"Ah, mais non, grâce à Dieu. Nothing to them. It is the poor little Mac who is dead. He was run over, Madame, and must be shot, Monsieur said."
"Where is Monsieur?"