Laurent had seen nothing.
"One moment more, Thérèse!" he said in a voice choked by tears. "They will ring a bell to warn those who are not passengers to go ashore."
She put her arm through his, and went to inspect his cabin, which was comfortable enough for sleeping-quarters, but smelt disgustingly of fish. Thérèse felt for her smelling-bottle to leave with him; but she had lost it on the island.
"Why are you so anxious?" he said, touched by these attentions. "Give me a piece of the wild lavender we plucked together in the sand yonder."
Thérèse had placed the flowers in her corsage; to leave them with him was like leaving a pledge of love. There seemed to her something indelicate, or equivocal at least, in that idea, and her womanly instinct rebelled; but, as she leaned over the rail, she saw in one of the skiffs made fast to the gangway a child offering great bunches of violets for sale. She felt in her pockets, and was delighted to find there one last remaining coin, which she tossed to the little fellow, who in return tossed his finest bunch over the rail; she caught it handily, and spread the flowers about Laurent's cabin. He appreciated his friend's modesty, but he never knew that those violets were paid for with Thérèse's last and only sou.
A young man, whose travelling costume and aristocratic air were in striking contrast to those of the other passengers, who were mostly dealers in olive-oil, or small traders along the coast, passed Laurent, and, after glancing at him, said:
"Hallo! is it you?"
They shook hands with the absolute coldness of gesture and feature which is the stamp of young men of fashion. And yet he was one of those former companions in debauchery whom Laurent, speaking of them to Thérèse in his days of ennui, had called his best, his only friends. "People of my rank!" he would add; for he never lost his temper with Thérèse without reminding her that he was a gentleman.
But Laurent had mended his ways, and, instead of rejoicing at this meeting, he inwardly consigned to the devil this unwelcome witness of his last farewell to Thérèse. Monsieur de Vérac—such was his former friend's name—knew Thérèse, having been presented to her by Laurent at Paris; and, having respectfully saluted her, he observed that he was very fortunate to meet two travelling companions like Laurent and herself on the wretched little Ferruccio.
"But I am not one of you," she replied; "I remain here."