The cough came droning through the floor.
“If he’d only—ah! I’d do anything for him, anything; anybody would. I saw Sophie look at him as she never looked at Magon. If she did—if she dared to care for him—”
All at once she shivered as if with shame and fright, drew the bedclothes about her head, and burst into a fit of weeping. When it passed, she lay still and nerveless between the coarse sheets, and sank into a deep sleep just as the dawn crept through the cracks of the blind.
CHAPTER VIII
The weeks went by. Sophie had become the wife of the member for the country, and had instantly settled down to a quiet life. This was disconcerting to Madame Lavilette, who had hoped that out of Farcinelle’s official position she might reap some praise and pence of ambition. Meanwhile, Ferrol became more and more a cherished and important figure in the Manor Casimbault, where the Lavilettes had made their home soon after the wedding. The old farmhouse had also secretly become a rendezvous for the mysterious Nicolas Lavilette and his rebel comrades. This was known to Mr. Ferrol. One evening he stopped Nic as he was leaving the house, and said:
“See, Nic, my boy, what’s up? I know a thing or so—what’s the use of playing peek-a-boo?”
“What do you know, Ferrol?”
“What’s between you and Vanne Castine, for instance. Come, now, own up and tell me all about it. I’m British; but I’m Nic Lavilette’s friend anyhow.”
He insinuated into his tone that little touch of brogue which he used when particularly persuasive. Nic put out his hand with a burst of good-natured frankness.