“Yes,” answered Lory.
“I thought so. That is why I followed you from Toulon—spending my last sou to do so.”
He stopped. His two hands were in the pockets of his dark corduroy trousers, and he jerked them out with a sudden movement, bringing the empty pockets to view.
“Voilà!” he said, “and I want to go to the war. So I came to you.”
“Good,” said Lory, looking him up and down. “You look tough, mon ami.”
“I am,” answered the Corsican. “Ten years of macquis, winter and summer—for one thing or another—do not make a man soft. I was told—the Abbé Susini told me—that France wants every man she can get, so I thought I would try a little fighting.”
“Good,” said Lory again. “You will find it very good fun.”
The man gave a twisted grin. He had forgotten how to laugh. He drew forward the chair that Denise had just quitted, and sat down close to Lory in quite a friendly way, for there is a bond that draws fighting men and roaming men together despite accidental differences of station.
“One sees,” he said, “that you are a de Vasselot. And I belong to the de Vasselots—! Whenever I have got into trouble it has been on that side.”
He looked round to make sure that none could overhear.