She shut the door, and then I saw, sitting in a corner, by a lighted table, an old man, bowed and shrunken, white hair and white beard falling all about him, and nothing of his features to be seen save high cheek-bones and two hawklike eyes which peered up at me.
"So, so, from Jean," he said in a high, piping voice. "Jean's a pretty boy—ay, ay, Jean's like his father, but neither with a foot like mine—a foot for the Court, said Frotenac to me—yes, yes, I knew the great Frotenac—"
The wife interrupted his gossip. "What news from Jean?" said she.
"He hoped to come one day this week."
"He says," responded I gently, "that Jacques Dobrotte owes you ten francs and a leg of mutton, and that you are to give his great beaver coat to Gabord the soldier."
"Ay, ay, Gabord the soldier, he that the English spy near sent to heaven." quavered the old man.
The bitter truth was slowly dawning upon the wife. She was repeating my words in a whisper, as if to grasp their full meaning.
"He said also," I continued, "'Tell Babette I weep with her.'"
She was very still and dazed; her fingers went to her white lips, and stayed there for a moment. I never saw such a numb misery in any face.
"And last of all, he said, 'Ah, mon grand homme de Calvaire—bon soir!'"
She turned round, and went and sat down beside the old man, looked into his face for a minute silently, and then said, "Grandfather, Jean is dead; our Jean is dead."