“It is a pity,” continued the Chevalier, “for somehow all at once I recalled a resemblance. I saw de Tournay when he was fourteen—yes, I think it was fourteen—and when I looked at you, monsieur, his face came back to me. It would have made my cousin so happy if you had been the Comte de Tournay and I had found you here.” The old man’s voice trembled a little. “We are growing fewer every day, we Frenchmen of the ancient families. And it would have made my cousin so happy, as I was saying, monsieur.”
Detricand’s manner changed; he became serious. The devil-may-care, irresponsible shamelessness of his face dropped away like a mask. Something had touched him. His voice changed too.
“De Tournay was a much better fellow than I am, chevalier,” said he—“and that’s no lie,” he added under his breath. “De Tournay was a fiery, ambitious, youngster with bad companions. De Tournay told me he repented of coming with Rullecour, and he felt he had spoilt his life—that he could never return to France again or to his people.”
The old Chevalier shook his head sadly. “Is he dead?” he asked.
There was a slight pause, and then Detricand answered: “No, still living.”
“Where is he?”
“I promised de Tournay that I would never reveal that.”
“Might I not write to him?” asked the old man. “Assuredly, Chevalier.”
“Could you—will you—despatch a letter to him from me, monsieur?”
“Upon my honour, yes.”