"I understand," the woman said in return as she walked by their side across the courtyard, in which one or two fowls were strutting about--"I understand. Is he truly the marquis?"
"He is, indeed."
"God help him!" and as she spoke, they reached the door of the house.
They entered a great hall with a tiled floor and, above it at the back, a window of stained glass, some panes of which were broken--a hall in which there was no furniture except a plain oaken bench, that looked as though it had been used to chop wood upon; and on to this the Marquis de Chevagny sank, exhausted already, while Bertie, saddened at such a home-coming as this, stood by to cheer and comfort him if possible.
"This is not as I left it," the old man said as his glance roved round the spacious but empty hall. "Has there been no one to guard it?" Then, as though such trifles were unworthy of consideration, he asked eagerly, while a strange light shone from his eyes: "I had a wife, a child, when they took me from here. Are they--they--still alive?"
"Is it possible monsieur does not know?"
"Know! What should I know? Woman, I tell you I have been dead to the world for forty-five years--buried alive in a place to which no news ever comes. Where," he continued, "where are my wife and child?"
"Alas! monsieur," she said, seeming while she spoke as though endeavouring to avoid answering him, "I have heard of you from my father; he was garde chasse at the Château de Chevagny many years ago."
"Lenoir! Was he your father?"
"Yes, monsieur, but he has been dead these twenty years; and then----"