“I will tell everything—he has the right to know.”
He would not agree with her; but he watched her with kindly eyes, and when, long hours afterwards, the city of Strasburg, lying in purple and golden mists of the evening light, came to their view, he said to her almost earnestly—
“If ever you want a friend yonder, young lady, remember old Richard Watts. Any Englishman in Strasburg will show you where he lives. Come and tell him all about it. He understands women and he understands men. You will find him alone; he has been alone all his life.”
She thought that he spoke with an infinite tenderness; her own heart was heavy, and the sympathy he offered her touched a plaintive chord of melancholy which the hour, and the scene, and the city of the golden mists helped to linger in her path. She had come home, indeed—the bride of yesterday—yet she knew not whether to-morrow would permit the house of her affections to stand, or would leave her one true friend in all France. The hosts of Germany were about to cross that plain, above which rose up the spires and pinnacles of Strasburg. The very silence of the night was as of some herald of storm and tempest raging in the hearts of men. But it was fear for herself that dominated her when they entered the city by the northern gate, and the pony began to trot toward the Broglie Platz. If Edmond should not understand!
“I know that you wish to be kind to me,” she said, “and I will not forget. I have many friends here, for I am Madame Hélène’s grandchild. Everyone knows the Countess of Görsdorf. She lives in the Place Kleber.”
Richard Watts pulled the pony back upon its haunches.
“Eh, what’s that?” he exclaimed. “The Countess of Görsdorf—you know her?”
“She is my grandmother.”
“Then you are the daughter of Marie Douay—impossible!”