They had travelled all night, and it was not yet midday when mademoiselle first saw, and pointed out to Lory, the white turret of the chateau among the pines.
The baroness was on the steps to greet them. Like many persons of a gay exterior, she had a kind heart and a quick sympathy. She often did, and said, the right thing, when cleverer people found themselves at fault. She laughed when she saw Lory lying full length across her smart carriage—laughed, despite his white cheeks and the grey weariness of mademoiselle's face. She seemed part of the sunshine and the brisk resinous air.
“Ah, my cousin,” she cried, “it does the eyes good to see you! I should like to carry you up these steps.”
“In three weeks,” answered de Vasselot, “I will carry you down.”
“His room is on the ground floor,” said the baroness to mademoiselle, in an aside. “You are tired, my dear—I see it. Your room is the same as before; you must lie down this afternoon. I will take care of Lory, and Denise will—but, where is Denise? I thought she was behind me.”
She paused to guide the men who were carrying de Vasselot through the broad doorway.
“Denise!” she cried without looking round, “Denise! where are you?”
Then turning, she saw Denise coming slowly down the stairs. Her face was whiter than Mademoiselle Brun's. Her eyes, clear and clever, were fixed on Lory's face as if seeking something there. There was an odd silence for a moment—such as the superstitious say, is caused by the passage of an angel among human beings—even the men carrying Lory seemed to tread softly. It was he who broke the spell.
“Ah, mademoiselle!” he said gaily, “the fortune of war, you see!”
“But it might have been so much worse,” said the baroness in a whisper to Mademoiselle Brun. “Bon Dieu, it might have been so much worse!”