‘I have, sir,’ said Paul.
‘I’ve known it,’ said his father. ‘I’ve thoughts in my mind when ye’re away: “Paul’s blythe,” or I thenk of ye, lad; I sit here in the auld arm-chair and think of ye, and eh, man, I’m just as certain of myself as if I were aware of every fact in your existence. Promise me this. I’m wearing we meet this last time for ever, and I want ye to keep the auld feelings from time to time. Write a little more regularly, about ye. Take me into confidence when ye’re gone.
Paul promised, and all the estrangement seemed to melt away. This was to be their last meeting, both or them guessed it, and when at last it grew to the time Paul must go, the father went down the long hall the front-door. Paul fumbled for the pocket-book in the darkness of the passage found a piece of paper, and kissed the old man at parting he thrust this into his hand.
Arrived at the station nearest to Montcourtois; then the voiture from the hotel with the grinning Victor on the box, and Laurent waiting.
‘No bad news’ asked Paul.
‘Things are not quite what they might be or what they should be,’ Laurent answered. ‘But get in, and we will talk as we drive. Do you remember,’ he asked, whilst Victor filled the night with the noise of a fusillade of whip-crackings—‘do you remember that I told, you some time ago that a man should have no secrets from his physician?
‘Yes,’ said Paul. ‘Well?’
‘Have you had any secrets from me in respect to Madame Armstrong?’
‘No; nothing that I can think of. I don’t quite see what you are driving at.’
‘Do you remember,’ Laurent asked, ‘the evening on which you first called me to attend her—the night on which she cried out that they were dancing in the wood, and that their bones were white? Do you remember?’