“Yes, Henri Durien knows and M. Barre suspects.”
“So, you see.”
“But Henri Durien is a prisoner for life; he cannot hear of the marriage unless you tell him. M. Barre is a gentleman: he is my friend; his memory will be dead like you.”
“For M. Barre, well! But the other—Henri. How do you know that he is here for life? Men get pardoned, men get free, men—get free, I tell you.”
Shorland noticed the interrupted word. He remembered it afterwards all too distinctly enough.
“The twenty-sixth, the twenty-sixth,” she said.
Then a pause, and afterwards with a sudden sharpness: “Come to me on the twenty-fifth, and I will give you my reply, M. Shorland.”
He still held the portrait in his hand. She stepped forward. “Let me see it again,” she said.
He handed it to her: “You have spoiled a good face, Gabrielle.”
“But the eyes are not hurt,” she replied; “see how they look at one.” She handed it back.