Ranulph stooped over his father, his eyes alive with anger, his face blurred with disgust.
“Go home,” said he, “and never mention this again while you live, or I’ll take you to prison myself.” Ranulph watched his father disappear down the Rue d’Egypte, then he retraced his steps to the Vier Marchi. With a new-formed determination he quickened his walk, ruling his face to a sort of forced gaiety, lest any one should think his moodiness strange. One person after another accosted him. He listened eagerly, to see if anything were said which might show suspicion of his father. But the gossip was all in old Delagarde’s favour. From group to group he went, answering greetings cheerily and steeling himself to the whole disgusting business.
Presently he saw the Chevalier du Champsavoys with the Sieur de Mauprat. This was the first public appearance of the chevalier since the sad business at the Vier Prison a fortnight before. The simple folk had forgotten their insane treatment of him then, and they saluted him now with a chirping: “Es-tu biaou, chevalier?” and “Es-tu gentiment, m’sieu’?” to which he responded with amiable forgiveness. To his idea they were only naughty children, their minds reasoning no more clearly than they saw the streets through the tiny little squares of bottle-glass in the windows of their homes.
All at once they came face to face with Detricand. The chevalier stopped short with pleased yet wistful surprise. His brow knitted when he saw that his compatriot had been drinking again, and his eyes had a pained look as he said eagerly:
“Have you heard from the Comte de Tournay, monsieur? I have not seen you these days past. You said you would not disappoint me.”
Detricand drew from his pocket a letter and handed it over, saying: “This comes from the comte.”
The old gentleman took the letter, nervously opened it, and read it slowly, saying each sentence over twice as though to get the full meaning.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “he is going back to France to fight for the King!”
Then he looked at Detricand sadly, benevolently. “Mon cher,” said he, “if I could but persuade you to abjure the wine-cup and follow his example!”
Detricand drew himself up with a jerk. “You can persuade me, chevalier,” said he. “This is my last bout. I had sworn to have it with—with a soldier I knew, and I’ve kept my word. But it’s the last, the very last in my life, on the honour of—the Detricands. And I am going with the Comte de Tournay to fight for the King.”