"And Maxence?"
The man answered them seriously and directly, perceiving from their manner that his reply was of great import to these two, whatever the reason for it might be.
"Maxence?—But we do not know where he is. There was a fog. He was out in a dory, alone. We picked up the dory the next day. Perhaps"—he shrugged his shoulders incredulously—"perhaps he might have been picked up by another vessel. Who can say?"
The girls gave him no answer. They reeled, and would have fallen, save that each found support in the other's arms. Sinking to the string piece of the wharf, they buried their faces on each other's shoulders and sobbed. Happy fathers and mothers and sweethearts, gathered on the wharf, looked at them in wonder, and left them alone, ignorant of the cause of their grief. So a long time passed, and still they crouched there, tight clasped, with buried heads.
"He was so good, so brave!" sobbed Suzanne.
"I loved him so much," repeated Zabette, over and over.
"I shall die without him," moaned Suzanne.
"So shall I," responded the other. "I cannot bear to live any longer."
"If only I had a picture of him, that would be some comfort," said the poor girl from l'Étang.