"You will ruin your eyes, mon frère."
"It is dark early this evening—early for the middle of July, that is," he said, looking up.
"It is raining," answered Mlle de Fresne. "—Dear me, was that a knock at the front door? Jeanne has gone to bed."
She went out, but was back in a moment. "It is a gentleman to see you on affairs, Nicolas. He did not give his name."
"Ask him to come in, then," said her brother, and, shuffling his papers together, went to put them in his desk. He had his back turned, the door was already ajar, and the lid of his desk, escaping at that moment from his hold with a bang, prevented his hearing it close.
"De Fresne!" said a well-known voice.
He jumped round as if he had been struck. "Great God!"
A gaunt young man in a cloak was standing just inside the door, the lamplight and the dark panelling behind him conspiring to accentuate his pallor and the ruddy gleam of his hair—a young man whom de Fresne had last seen (and felt he should always see) motionless against a grey tree trunk, ropes across him and a canopy of bright leaves above his bowed head. He was bereft of speech; a hand even sought the support of the desk behind him.
"I am afraid I have startled you," said Aymar gravely. "I am very sorry."
"I . . . I heard that you were dying . . . and therefore released," faltered the elder man. "But once I heard . . . I did not know what to believe . . ."