“I do not know,” answered Mademoiselle Brun, smoothing her gloves. “It will, at all events, show the world that we are not afraid.”
De Vasselot looked at her non-committing face and held his peace. There was more in this than a man's philosophy might dream of.
“When do you go?” he asked after a pause.
“To-night, from Nice,” was the answer.
And, as has been noted, Denise and mademoiselle arrived at Bastia in the early morning, and drove to the Casa Perucca, in the face of more than one rifle-barrel. Mademoiselle Brun never asked questions, and, if she knew why Denise had returned to Perucca so suddenly, she had not acquired the knowledge from the girl herself, but had, behind her beady eyes, put two and two together with that accuracy of which women have the monopoly. She meekly set to work to make the Casa Perucca comfortable, and took up her horticultural labours where she had dropped them.
“One misses the Château de Vasselot,” she said one morning, standing by the open window that gave so wide a view of the valley.
“Yes,” answered Denise; and that was all.
Mademoiselle went into the garden with her leather gloves and a small basket. The odd thing about her gardening was, that it was on such a minute scale that the result was never visible to the ordinary eye. Denise had, it appeared, given up gardening. Mademoiselle Brun did not know how she occupied herself at this time. She seemed to do nothing, and preferred to do it alone. Returning to the house at midday, mademoiselle went into the drawing-room, and there found Denise and Colonel Gilbert seated at the table with some papers, and a map spread out before them.
Both looked up with a guilty air, and Denise flushed suddenly, while the colonel bit his lip. Immediately he recovered himself, and rising, shook hands with the new-comer.
“I heard that you had returned,” he said, “and hastened to pay my respects.”