Two years later Lacaze alighted at Ruffec from the Paris train.
The man was changed terribly. Five years in the German mines had left their mark. He had been broken down.
His hair was grisled, his broad, square shoulders were bowed, his carriage mean. None would have known the shrunken shambling figure for that of the mighty steeple-jack. His countenance, however, was unmistakable. This was ravaged, too, but the old faint smile still hung about those merciless lips, and the old insolent scorn still smouldered in the big black eyes.
Lacaze pulled his hat over his face and stood waiting till such travellers as had also alighted should have left the platform.
A horn brayed, and the train began to move.
“Good-bye!” cried a voice. “Good-bye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if he remembers Fernand Didier, and say I was sorry I had no time to visit him. Good-bye!”
The train gathered speed and rumbled out of the station.
Lacaze moved towards the gates thoughtfully.
Half an hour later he darkened the creamery’s hatch.
René looked up from his work. He was making a basket.