(1)
Just as on the day when he had first entered the cottage in Clouarnet village to look for his friend, and had met his deadly foe, so now Fortuné de la Vireville stood hesitating on the same threshold, because he feared to find, already in possession, a Foe more deadly still. As on that day, too, it seemed dark within, coming from the brilliant sunshine outside. Was that why he put his hand for a moment over his eyes?
On the floor by the wall, at the left of the door, under a cloak, could be dimly seen the figure of an officer, lying very still. Another sat by the empty hearth with his head between his hands. Fortuné straightened himself, went in, and touched the man by the hearth on the shoulder.
And René de Flavigny lifted the face of one who has come from a great distance, across centuries of time, and saw him standing there, powder-grimed, with sand on his clothes and in his hair, and carrying his left hand thrust into his short blue embroidered Breton vest. The sleeve of his coat bore, high up, a dark red stain.
"I was afraid for you," said La Vireville abruptly and rather hoarsely. "I knew that your regiment. . . I went to Fort Penthièvre. I had to step over the wounded, they are lying so thick there. . . . Well, thank God you are safe!"
"Yes, I am safe," responded de Flavigny, in a dull voice.
"You are not touched at all?"
The Marquis shook his head. "What of you?" he asked.
La Vireville gave a sort of laugh. "Oh, as for us Chouans," he said, replying in general terms, though he must have known that the inquiry was particular, "those of us who did not run shared the fate of Hector, and you know what that fate was. . . . We had to go back with them under the range of the guns. God alone—if He—knows what possessed d'Hervilly to give that order. He is dying, they say——"
"Your arm!" exclaimed his friend, pointing to it. He seemed incapable of prolonged speech.