The old man still showed reluctance. "It is only this, Madame," he said at last, "that a friend of ours, a naval officer—he, in fact, who saved my son-in-law—met an émigré who said that he had seen M. de la Vireville's name in a list of those who were shot at Auray or Quiberon on a certain date in August. But indeed, Madame, that is not evidence—still less so because this officer's informant affirmed that he had seen the name in both lists—which is surely impossible."
"I thank you, Monsieur," said the lady, putting down her long veil. "I had not really any hope. You will pardon me for having troubled you? Your son-in-law will, I trust, soon be restored to health. I am glad I have seen the little boy."
She was extraordinarily calm, the old man thought. He went with her to the gate. For one moment, forgetting that she had confessed to having only once seen him, he wondered whether she had been La Vireville's wife.
"May I know your name, Madame?" he asked, as he bowed over her hand.
"The Comtesse de Guéfontaine," said she, and was gone.
René de Flavigny, lying wearily in his mahogany fourposter, was a little reproachful when he heard of this visit, showing, in fact, some of the petulance of the convalescent. He asked why his father-in-law had not brought Mme. de Guéfontaine in to see him.
"I am sorry, my boy," said Mr. Elphinstone. "I thought it would be too much for you. Still, it might have been a consolation to her to talk with you."
"Not that I could have told her anything consoling," said the Marquis dismally. "Fortuné is engulfed with the rest—we shall never see him again. Did you tell her what Tollemache said?"
"Yes," said the old man, with a sigh. "She took it, I think, as conclusive. She had great self-command."