Two days later she gave Lory Susini's message; and de Vasselot sent for the surgeon.
“I am going,” he said. “Patch me up for a journey.”
The surgeon had dealt so freely with life and death that he only shrugged his shoulders.
“You cannot go alone,” he said—“a man with one arm and one leg.”
Mademoiselle looked from one to the other. She was willing enough that Lory should undertake this journey, for he must needs pass through Provence to get to Corsica. She did not attempt to lead events, but was content to follow and steer them from time to time.
“I am going to the south of France,” she said. “The baron needs me no longer since the hospital is to be moved to Paris. I can conduct Monsieur de Vasselot—a part of the way, at all events.”
And the rest arranged itself. Five days later Lory de Vasselot was lifted from the railway carriage to the Baroness de Mélide's victoria at Frejus station.
“Madame's son is, no doubt, from Sedan?” said the courteous station-master, who personally attended to the wounded man.
“He is from Sedan—but he is not my son. I never had one,” replied mademoiselle with composure.
She was tired, for she had hardly slept since Lory came under her care. She sat open-eyed, with that knowledge which is given to so few—the knowledge of the gradual completion of a set purpose.