“I do not know,” answered Lory, thoughtfully. Then he turned in his quick way, and looked at his father with a smile. “Perhaps it was the good God who put the idea into my head, for it came quite suddenly. We shall grow accustomed to each other, and then we may find perhaps that it was a good thing that I came.”
The count looked at him with rather a puzzled air, as if he did not quite understand.
“Yes,” he said at length—“yes; perhaps so. I thought it likely that you would come. Do you mean to stay?”
“I do not know. I have not thought yet. I have had no time to think. I only know I am hungry. Perhaps Jean will get me something to eat.”
“I have not dined yet,” said the count, simply. “Yes; we will dine.”
He rose, and, going to the door, called Jean, who came, and a whispered consultation ensued. From out of the débris of his mind the count seemed to have unearthed the fact that he was a gentleman, and as such was called upon to exercise an unsparing hospitality. He rather impeded than helped the taciturn man, who seemed to be gardener and servant all in one, and who now prepared the table, setting thereon linen and glass and silver of some value. There was excellent wine, and over the simple meal the father and son, in a jerky, explosive way, made merry. For Lory was at heart a Frenchman, and the French know, better than any, how near together tears and laughter must ever be, and have less difficulty in snatching a smile from sad environments than other men.
It was only as he finally cleared the table that Jean broke his habitual silence.
“The moon is up,” he said to the count, and that was all.
The old man rose at once, and went to a window, which had hitherto been shuttered and barred.
“I sometimes look out,” he said, “when there is a moon.”