“I do not remember the years before,” answered Valentine.
“At least,” said he, very low, “the years since have been yours alone.” And still kneeling there, but with his arms about her, as she stooped to him he kissed her on the lips.
Afterwards she sat propped against the menhir, and her husband half sat, half knelt beside her, holding her hands and gazing at her as at what indeed she was, one returned from the dead. Very briefly, and only under the pressure of his questions, for she, too, desired chiefly to contemplate him, she had given him the outline of that past nine years, sliding as quickly as possible over the massacres and her subsequent year in prison, because he turned so pale that she feared he would faint next. And he had been wounded . . . but he said that it was an old injury—nothing . . .
“And now, Gaston,” she said breathlessly, “you—what are you doing here with this M. de Kersaint? Is he really a kinsman—is that why you are here? At first—before I recognised you—I thought you must be he.”
His grasp tightened on her hands, and before he answered he put them to his lips. “You were not mistaken, Valentine. That has been my name for seven years, since you . . . died. O, my wife” he almost crushed her hand, “are you alive—is it not some phantasy, some illusion of this place——”
“What!” she broke in, the colour rushing over her face and fleeing again, “you are M. de Kersaint—it was you at Rivoli—it is you who command Finistère for the King . . . that scarf means——”
Quite suddenly she drew away her hands and putting them over her face burst into tears.