“It is a man,” he said, “who will not be denied, and says he must speak to Monsieur le Comte. He is from Corsica.”
Denise turned, and her face was quite changed. She had until that moment forgotten Corsica.
CHAPTER XXI. FOR FRANCE.
“Lov'd I not honour more.”
The servant retired to bring the new arrival to the verandah. Denise followed him, and, after a few paces, returned to Lory.
“If it is one of my people,” she said, “I should like to see him before he goes.”
The man who followed the servant to the verandah a minute later had a dark, clean-shaven face, all drawn into fine lines and innumerable minute wrinkles. Such lines mean starvation; but in this case they told a tale of the past, for the dark eyes had no hungry look. They looked hunted—that was all. The glitter of starvation had left them. He glanced uneasily around, took off his hat and bowed curtly to Lory. The hat and the clothes were new. Then he turned and looked at the servant, who lingered, with a haughty stare which must have been particularly offensive to that respectable Parisian menial. For the Corsicans are bad servants, and despise good servitude in others. When the footman had gone, the new-comer turned to Lory, and said, in a low voice—
“I saw you at Toulon. I have not seen many faces in my life—for I have spent most of it in the macquis—so I remember those I have once met. I knew the Count de Vasselot when he was a young man, and he was what you are now. You are a de Vasselot.”