“What is your name?” said I.
“Jean—Labrouk,” he whispered.
Now I remembered him. He was the soldier whom Gabord had sent as messenger to Voban the night I was first taken to the citadel.
“Shall I carry word for you to any one?” asked I.
There was a slight pause; then he said, “Tell my—Babette—Jacques Dobrotte owes me ten francs—and—a leg—of mutton. Tell—my Babette—to give my coat of beaver fur to Gabord the soldier. Tell”...he sank back, but raised himself, and continued: “Tell my Babette I weep with her.... Ah, mon grand homme de Calvaire—bon soir!” He sank back again, but I roused him with one question more, vital to me. I must have the countersign.
“Labrouk! Labrouk!” said I sharply.
He opened his dull, glazed eyes.
“Qui va la?” said I, and I waited anxiously.
Thought seemed to rally in him, and, staring—alas! how helpless and how sad: that look of a man brought back for an instant from the Shadows!—his lips moved.
“France,” was the whispered reply.