“And what happened then to your Lord of Burleigh?”
What was the purpose of this embarrassing question?
“I don’t know,” I answered at random. “I suppose he went on living.”
“Yes,” he announced, in a tone of utter despair that I can still hear. “Yes, one lives.”
He rose from his arm-chair at the corner of the hearth, where a fire was sputtering—one of those fires of half-dried wood which char, cry, and smoke. He paced the room two or three times, his pace growing quicker and quicker. His irregular gait and the fixed expression on his face impressed and worried us. Moreover we heard distinctly phrases not intended for us but referring to my story.
“He lived—He forgot the evil he had done—Perhaps he married again.”
Then, with sudden decision, he rushed to the door and disappeared. We looked at each other wearily. Some moments later we saw him rush bare-headed through the rain and wind, down the avenue of oaks, and disappear in the direction of the forest.
We found nothing more to say until Dilette went out to play. Then Mme. Mairieux assumed an air of importance and favoured us with this news:
“Listen to me, I know something. He is really going to marry again. He is already engaged.”
“How do you know,” demanded her husband.