He went back late, but not to sleep. He sat on the dark porch of his hut and thought of the woman he had lost. Like a shadow she seemed to pass beside him, and if he shut his eyes he could feel her breath against his cheek and almost hear the beating of her heart. He closed his arms on the empty air and called her name aloud, half hoping that she might come to him. But she was a thousand miles at sea, and every minute was widening the distance between them. The folly and uselessness of these repinings suddenly came over him. She was a most charming girl, but would not any charming girl have captivated him after the life he had been leading? Was he not hungry for affection? Was he not in love with love? He rose and walked up and down the porch, greatly stirred by the new current of his thoughts. Yes; he was dying for something to love—something, were it only a dog. For twelve years he had sufficed for himself, but he could do so no more.
By dawn he was at Fitzroy’s, begging the Irishman for a black boy and a horse. A little later his messenger was galloping along the Noumea road, charged with a letter to the Chef de l’Administration Pénitentiaire to request that “le nommé de Charruel” be permitted to leave his farm for seven days. The permission was accorded almost as a matter of form, for it was not the custom to refuse anything to “le nommé de Charruel.”
The count went straight to the convent and asked to see the Mother Superior. She was a stately old lady, with silvery hair, an aristocratic profile, and a voice like an ancient bell. She at once cut short his explanations, closing her ears to his official number and other particulars of his convict life.
“M. le Comte,” she said, “I knew your mother very well, and your father also, whom you favour not a little. I have often thought of you out there by the strait—ah, monsieur, believe me, often.”
De Charruel thanked her with ceremony.
“Your errand cannot be the same as that which brings the others,” she went on, half smiling. “Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, as she saw the truth in his reddening face. “You, a noble! a chef de famille! It is impossible.”
“I am only the convict de Charruel,” he answered.
The old woman looked at him with keen displeasure.
“You know the rules?” she said in an altered voice. “You know, I suppose, that you can take your choice of three. If you are not satisfied you can return in six months.”
“Oh, madame,” he said, “spare me such a trial. I stipulate for two things only: give me not a poisoner nor a thief; but give me, if you can, some poor girl whose very honesty and innocence has been her ruin.”