He thought for a moment.
"You have given me my life. I should dislike to do anything that would give you unhappiness."
"As to that, mon petit," she said carelessly, "you s'all do what you t'ink bes'. You know perhaps dat to-morrow in de Place de la Concorde, your brother 'Arry is to receive de Croix de Guerre?"
He had forgotten, but the announcement had no effect upon him.
"It does not matter," he muttered. What he had been thinking in his moments of wakefulness was of Harry going to the studio in the Rue de Tavennes. Moira was his wife. Would she, like Piquette, learn at once of the deception? Or would she accept him...?
"You do not care for de honors you have won?" asked Piquette, breaking on his thought.
"They weren't my honors——"
"But you bear de wounds——"
"Yes, and they're proofs my brother will find it hard to answer. But tell me, Piquette, what you have heard. Do they suspect you of having carried me off?"
Piquette laughed. "No. I saw Émile Pochard las' night. 'E does not dare speak. Tricot, 'Arry, Le Singe—I saw dem at Pochard's. Dey t'ink you are a devil. It is de police worries dem mos'."