The town lay as if dead in the moonlight. Mr. Roquevillard’s steps resounded in the deserted streets. From Boigne Street, as he went up, he could see the castle tower clear before him, lengthened by the perspective of the night. A neighbouring tree traced the shadow of its leaves on the façade. In a few hours the hushed city would come to life again, to laugh insultingly at this family drama.
When he opened his door a white shadow came to him. It was Margaret.
“Father, what is it?”
In default of his wife he must share the weight of this trial with Margaret. He thought enough of her not to attempt concealment.
“They have gone,” he muttered briefly.
“Oh,” she breathed, understanding, and remembering the sad phrase her brother had used to her that evening.
Again father and daughter clasped each other to their hearts in a common anguish. Then tenderly he led her to her room and left her.
“Let your mother sleep, little girl,” he said. “She always finds out our troubles soon enough.”
IV
THE VENGEANCE OF MR. FRASNE
MR. FRASNE, bundled up in his overcoat on account of the early freshness of the air, and carrying a little bag in his hand, descended from the express in Chambéry at seven in the morning, after an absence of two days, and walked briskly home.