At that, with a moan, Jean Jacques collapsed. He shed no tears, but he sat with his hands between his knees, whispering his child’s name.
The Young Doctor laid a hand on his shoulder gently, but presently went out, shutting the door after him. As he left the room, however, he turned and said, “Courage, Monsieur Jean Jacques! Courage!”
When the Young Doctor came back a half-hour later he had in his hand the letters found in Zoe’s pocket. “Monsieur Jean Jacques,” he said gently to the bowed figure still sitting as he left him.
Jean Jacques got up slowly and looked at him as though scarce understanding where he was.
“The child—the child—where is my Zoe’s child? Where is Zoe’s Zoe?” he asked in agitation. His whole body seemed to palpitate. His eyes were all red fire.
CHAPTER XXV. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?
The Young Doctor did not answer Jean Jacques at once. As he looked at this wayworn fugitive he knew that another, and perhaps the final crisis of his life, was come to Jean Jacques Barbille, and the human pity in him shrank from the possible end to it all. It was an old-world figure this, with the face of a peasant troubadour and the carriage of an aboriginal—or an aristocrat. Indeed, the ruin, the lonely wandering which had been Jean Jacques’ portion, had given him that dignity which often comes to those who defy destiny and the blows of angry fate. Once there had been in his carriage something jaunty. This was merely life and energy and a little vain confidence; now there was the look of courage which awaits the worst the world can do. The life which, according to the world’s logic, should have made Jean Jacques a miserable figure, an ill-nourished vagabond, had given him a physical grace never before possessed by him. The face, however, showed the ravages which loss and sorrow had made. It was lined and shadowed with dark reflection, yet the forehead had a strange smoothness and serenity little in accord with the rest of the countenance. It was like the snow-summit of a mountain below which are the ragged escarpments of trees and rocks, making a look of storm and warfare.
“Where is she—the child of my Zoe?” Jean Jacques repeated with an almost angry emphasis; as though the Young Doctor were hiding her from him.
“She is with the wife of Nolan Doyle, my partner in horse-breeding, not very far from here. Norah Doyle was married five years, and she had no child. This was a grief to her, even more than to Nolan, who, like her, came of a stock that was prolific. It was Nolan who found your daughter on the prairie—the driver dead, but she just alive when found. To give her ease of mind, Nolan said he would make the child his own. When he said that, she smiled and tried to speak, but it was too late, and she was gone.”