“I have been happy,” he said, “in the moment of my arrival.”
Then he turned to Mathilde and bowed over the hand she held out to him. Sebastian had come forward with a sudden return of his gracious and rather old-world manner. He did not offer to shake hands, but bowed.
“A son of Louis d'Arragon who was fortunate enough to escape to England?” he inquired with a courteous gesture.
“The only son,” replied the new-comer.
“I am honoured to make the acquaintance of Monsieur le Marquis,” said Antoine Sebastian slowly.
“Oh, you must not call me that,” replied D'Arragon with a short laugh. “I am an English sailor—that is all.”
“And now, my dear Louis, I leave you,” broke in Charles, who had rather impatiently awaited the end of these formalities. “A brief half-hour and I am with you again. You will stay here till I return.”
He turned, nodded gaily to Desiree and ran downstairs.
Through the open windows they heard his quick, light footfall as he hurried up the Frauengasse. Something made them silent, listening to it.
It was not difficult to see that D'Arragon was a sailor. Not only had he the brown face of those who live in the open, but he had the attentive air of one whose waking moments are a watch.