I knew bad news was coming from the tone of the speakers.
I guessed what it would be, and blew angry clouds from my long wooden pipe.
“Pierre—Pierre Crépin, has Cécile Debois been here to see you?”
“She has. She was here this morning.”
“She is well off!” said one.
“She has to want for nothing!” said another.
And they shook their heads wisely, as those do who know more than they say.
“What of Cécile?” I asked, with somewhat of anger in my tone.
“Do you not know?”
“Did she not tell you?”