“Picture to yourselves!” he cried, standing in the doorway with his arms extended before him. “I was hurrying to head-quarters when I ran into the embrace of my dear Louis—my cousin. I have told you a hundred times that he is brother and father and everything to me. I am so glad that he should come to-day of all days.”
He turned towards the stairs with a gesture of welcome, still with his two arms outheld, as if inviting the man, who came rather slowly upstairs, to come to his embrace and to the embrace of those who were now his relations.
“There was a little suspicion of sadness—I do not know what it was—at the table; but now it is all gone. All is well now that this unexpected guest has come. This dear Louis.”
He went to the landing as he spoke, and returned bringing by the arm a man taller than himself and darker, with a still brown face and steady eyes set close together. He had a lean look of good breeding.
“This dear Louis!” repeated Charles. “My only relative in all the world. My cousin, Louis d'Arragon. But he, par exemple, spells his name in two words.”
The man bowed gravely—a comprehensive bow; but he looked at Desiree.
“This is my father-in-law,” continued Charles breathlessly. “Monsieur Antoine Sebastian, and Desiree and Mathilde—my wife, my dear Louis—your cousin, Desiree.”
He had turned again to Louis and shook him by the shoulders in the fulness of his joy. He had not distinguished between Mathilde and Desiree, and it was towards Mathilde that D'Arragon looked with a polite and rather formal repetition of his bow.
“It is I... I am Desiree,” said the younger sister, coming forward with a slow gesture of shyness.
D'Arragon took her hand.