“And the château was empty when they burnt it?” inquired Lory.
“Yes; it has been empty since I was a boy. I remember it when I went to St. Florent to school, and it was then that I used to see your father, the count. He was powerful in those days—before the Peruccas began to get strong. But they overrun that country now, which is no doubt the reason why you have never been there.”
“Pardon me—I was there when the war broke out two months ago.”
“Ah! We never heard that in the macquis, though the Abbé Susini must have known it. He knows so much that he does not tell—that abbé.”
“Which makes him the strong man he is, mon ami.”
“You are right—you are right,” said the Corsican, rising energetically. “But I am wasting your time with my talk, and tiring you as well, no doubt.”
“Wait a minute,” replied Lory, touching the bell that stood on a table by his side. “I will give you a letter to a friend of mine, commanding a regiment in Paris.”
The servant brought the necessary materials, and Lory prepared awkwardly to write. His arm was still weak, but he could use his hand without pain. While he was writing, the man sat watching him, and at last muttered an exclamation of wonderment.
“It is a marvel how you resemble the count,” he said, “as I remember him thirty years ago, when I was a boy. And do you know, monsieur, I saw an old man the other day for a moment, in passing on the road, above Asco, who brought my heart into my throat. If he had not been dead this score of years it might have been your father—not as I remember him, but as the years would have made him. I was hidden in the trees at the side of the road, and he passed by on foot. He had the air of going into the macquis. But I do not know who he was.”
“When was that?” asked de Vasselot, pausing with his pen on the paper.