"The court-martial . . . you were acquitted?"
"I was acquitted. My honour is cleared . . . in the eyes of the world at least. I succeeded in keeping your name from the public. If you really wish to hear any details, M. de Courtomer will no doubt give them to you." He paused a moment, and then added, "Before I relieve you of my presence I should be glad if you will tell me why you are in Paris?"
She tried to answer, but nothing came. If he would only look at her—but he kept his eyes resolutely averted.
"No, of course it is no business of mine," he agreed, still gently. "I had hoped . . . but that was not very likely in the circumstances. I am sorry to have deprived you of a home also. There is no more to be said." He bowed, and this time turned in earnest and walked to the door.
But the room was long, and the faint, heart-broken cry fluttered to him before he reached it. "Aimé . . . Aimé . . . !" Too many memories clung about that name for it to pass unregarded. Aymar paused, while the lips that had uttered it tried to say more, and could not for tears.
And slowly Aymar turned, and came back to the little figure—came much closer this time; and now he looked at her at last.
"Why are you crying, Avoye? Why do you . . . have you been ill?" he asked, himself as white as a sheet.
Twenty minutes later a self-posted sentry, Laurent, still leant over the balustrade of the great staircase outside. He had already beaten off Tante Clotilde, desirous of offering her congratulations on general grounds to the "hero of Penescouët," and equally outraged and puzzled at being refused admittance by her great-nephew and told with a nervous laugh that her felicitations might be premature.
And now . . . it seemed a long time that they had been left alone in there—those two. Was it a hopeful sign or no? Surely, surely. . . . But when Aymar was hers in very truth, would he be less his friend? . . . A surge of loneliness went over Laurent, but he fought it back. What did that matter, if Aymar had his heart's desire?
He heard the door open at last. He was afraid to turn round. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a voice said "Laurent!" and he did turn . . . to learn what Aymar's eyes were like when he was really happy.