"Yes, to-morrow. At what hour?"
"One o'clock."
"All right."
The child he had met in the avenue appeared before the open door, exclaiming:
"Dada!"
There was no answer.
Mordiane had risen up with a longing to escape, to run off, which made his legs tremble. This "dada" had hit him like a bullet. It was to him that it was addressed, it was intended for him, this "dada," smelling of garlic—this "dada" of the South.
Oh! how sweet had been the perfume exhaled by her, his sweetheart of bygone days!
Duchoux saw him to the door.
"This house is your own?" said the baron.