"It is so many years ago, m'sieur. I remember badly."
Faber stepped across the room and laid his hand upon her arm.
"How did my father die, madame? Remember, I am his son."
"So very like him, m'sieur; he seems to stand beside me once more."
"You remember the night—you cannot have forgotten it?"
"No, no; it is all here. The heart knows, but the tongue will not speak."
"Did you see him when they brought him in?"
She quivered, as though the scene had been yester-night.
"M'sieur, it passed so swiftly—death came to him while he walked. I saw Captain d'Arny upon a white horse—I heard m'sieur's voice—how well I knew it! Then someone spoke in anger, a rifle was fired, madame ran from me, her tears choking her so that she could not speak to me. They brought monsieur in and laid him on the sofa; your hand is touching it now. I remember that his hand was in madame's, his eyes hurt by the bright light of the chandelier. He begged for a little wine and I went to the buffet; my hand shook, and I could not open the bottle. When we had found a glass m'sieur was dead. How shall I tell you more?—m'sieur was dead."
Her voice died down almost to a whisper; none of the others spoke for some minutes. It was still snowing, and a black cloud was over the city. Faber thought that it must have been just such a day when the Versaillese, drunk with victory, entered the Rue de Fleurus and found his father there.