“But at least you saw him!” said Valentine, and the emotion she was holding in check showed itself hungrily for a moment. “O, if only I had been in your place!”
“Indeed, I only wish you had, Madame,” returned Camain gently.
“And you found him——?”
“Quite well, Madame, and perfectly composed, though I think the respite was a great surprise to him. You know, I expect,” he went on, looking away for a second, “that the iniquitous sentence was to have been carried out yesterday afternoon?—Of course,” he added hastily, for her face told him that she had not known, “this respite has changed all that. . . . As I say, we had only a moment or two, and the letter which I understand M. le Duc would have written to you, had this change not occurred, he had not yet begun, so in that moment on the stairs he scribbled a line on a page from my pocketbook, which he did me the honour to commit to me, and I was to explain why it was so short. I was also charged to ask you to convey to a certain person who had brought a warning his profound regret for the way he had received it, and to his aides-de-camp an assurance that they were not to blame themselves in any way for what happened at Hennebont; that since his arrest was inevitable he wished it to take place without their knowledge, and that he was only grieved to hear that in the end it had not done so. . . . Here is M. de Trélan’s note, Madame.”
He put a tiny piece of paper in her hand, and, clearing his throat, walked away to the fireplace.
Valentine opened the little torn-off twist. It contained only one word, and Gaston’s initials. The word was “Always.”
She pressed it to her lips. For a moment she seemed to feel his arms about her. Ah, never again, perhaps. . . . She murmured some words of thanks. The Deputy turned round.
“I wish to God I could have done more,” he said, surreptitiously pocketing his handkerchief. “It is abominable—beyond words—this affair! And to think that it was brought about . . .” he checked himself and looked at her strangely, but she did not seem to notice anything, and he went on, “Now, alas, I can do nothing further. I have no influence with the present Government. I must pursue my journey to Lorient.”
“If you had done nothing but bring me this,” replied Valentine, rousing herself, “a world of thanks would be no payment. But you have shown me besides, Monsieur Camain, the treasure of a kind and generous heart.”
“As long as you live, Duchesse,” said the bricklayer’s son, bending over the hand she gave him, “you will not lack that offering. It is your own heart that calls it out. . . .”