"Indeed, yes," I answered.
"Then it is good-bye, Henry. I shall not bother to offer you my hand.
Brutus, you will remain with my son until a quarter to seven."
Even now I cannot tell what made a mist come over my eyes and a lump in my throat any more than I can explain my subsequent actions on that evening. Was it possible I was sorry to see the last of him? Or was it simply self pity that shortened my breath and made my voice seem broken and discordant?
"And after that?" I asked.
He looked at me appraisingly, tapping his thin fingers on his sword hilt.
"After that—" He stared thoughtfully at the shadows of the darkened room. Was he thinking as I was, of the wasted years and what the end would be?
"After that," he repeated, half to himself, "come, I will make an appointment with you after that—on the other side of the Styx, my son. I shall be waiting there, I promise you, and we shall drink some corked ambrosia. Surely the gods must give a little to the shades, or at any rate, Brutus shall steal some. And then perhaps you shall tell me what happened after that. I shall look forward—I shall hope, even, that it may be pleasant. Good-bye, my son."
I think he had often planned that leave taking. Surely it must have satisfied him.
XIII
He was gone, like the shades of which he had spoken, and Mademoiselle and I were left staring at the black rectangle of the broken door. I drew a deep breath and looked about me quickly. It seemed somehow as though a spell were broken, as though the curtain had lowered on some final act in the theatre. Slowly my mind seemed to free itself from a hundred illusions, and to move along more logical paths. Brutus went to the arms rack in the corner, and selected a rusted cutlass from the small arms that still rested there, thrust it at me playfully and grinned. For a minute or even more, the single log that was still burning in the fireplace hissed drowsily, and I could hear the vines tapping gently on the windows. Then I heard a pistol shot, followed by a hoarse cry. Mademoiselle started to her feet, and then sank back in her chair again, and from where I was standing I could see that her face was white and her hands were trembling. So she loved him. My hand gripped hard against the back of a chair. Why should I have hoped she did not?