“At last!” she cried. “But where is he? How did you hear of his return?”
“Ah! faith, it was just by chance. I was shooting yesterday at Fontainebleau, and I returned this morning by the express. On arriving at Paris, I alighted on the platform, and there I found myself face to face with a tall young man with a long beard, who, seeing me pass, called out, ‘Ah, Cayrol!’ It was Pierre. I only recognized him by his voice. He is much changed; with his beard, and his complexion bronzed like an African.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing. He pressed my hand. He looked at me for a moment with glistening eyes. There was something on his lips which he longed to ask, yet did not; but I guessed it. I was afraid of giving way to tenderness, that might have ended in my saying something foolish, so I left him.”
“How long ago is that?”
“About an hour ago. I only just ran home before coming on here. There I found Panine waiting for me. He insisted upon accompanying me. I hope you won’t blame him?”
Madame Desvarennes frowned.
“I will not see him just now,” she said, looking at Cayrol with a resolute air. “Where did you leave him?”
“In the garden, where I found the young ladies.”
As if to verify the banker’s words, a merry peal of laughter was heard through the half-open window. It was Micheline, who, with returning gayety, was making up for the three weeks’ sadness she had experienced during Panine’s absence.