To which advice, in spite of his amusement at Dr Jules’s manner, Mr Maxwell heartily agreed.
CHAPTER XXII.
MR MAXWELL FINDS OUT THE TRUTH.
‘WELL, my friend, and what hast thou found out?’
It was the Vicomte who spoke, and the question was addressed to Mr Maxwell, who had just come down from Pierre’s room with a puzzled look on his face.
Ten days had passed since the operation, and the boy was recovering rapidly. At his last visit, Dr Jules had pronounced him out of danger, and had predicted that he would be able to be outside in a fortnight; and he had added, ‘There is now no reason why monsieur may not see him, and try to learn something about his history, if only monsieur is careful not to press things too far. Let everything come naturally, just as the boy seems inclined to talk about the past.’
The good clergyman had eagerly availed himself of the permission, and had gone twice to Pierre’s room—hoping to hear what strange chance had brought him to the château disguised as a Breton peasant, for, from certain things he had said to Sister Lucie, there was no doubt whatever that he was not French—but each time he had returned grievously disappointed.
Pierre answered his inquiries as to his health and comfort in perfect English, and would talk freely about any little incident which had happened in his sick-room; but when Mr Maxwell tried to lead the conversation back to the past, and to find out carefully how much the little boy remembered, he grew flushed and restless, and relapsed into an uneasy silence, and the anxious listener was too good a nurse to disobey the doctor’s orders and press the matter, although he grew more and more puzzled as he saw that Pierre certainly remembered more than he was willing to talk about.
‘I am completely puzzled, Arnauld,’ he said, in answer to the Vicomte’s question. ‘The boy is English, so much I know; he has owned to that. But who he is, or how he came here, is a mystery, and it is a mystery that for some reason he is unwilling to clear up. As yet he is too weak for it to be safe for me to force matters. He seems to be so suspicious of my questions, and to be always on his guard, and yet I see such a longing look in his big brown eyes. Ah well! we must have patience. Perhaps when he knows me better he will confide in me of his own accord. I shall make no attempt, for the present at least, to find out his secret.’