“Those cases are common enough,” I said. “I once knew a soldier—a common man—who was shot as he was in the act of demanding the countersign. He lingered months between life and death, but lived, with just such an impaired memory as you describe. At last a surgeon, experimenting on him, raised a piece of broken bone from his skull—straightway he recovered memory and understanding, remembered the countersign—remembered everything, except what had occurred from the time he was shot until he was finally cured. Of that time, he was confused and inaccurate, just as Gaston Cheverny is. And, Madame, those risks are taken by all soldiers alike, and if you can not accept this you should have married one of the gentlemen of the long robe, who stay at home and never risk their carcasses in battle.”
I thought Francezka would truly have scratched my eyes out at that, so did her own dark and eloquent eyes blaze. But she said nothing, for, at bottom, there was in her, as in Madame Riano, as I have often said, a strong good sense that always had the last word. Nothing—nothing could make her disbelieve in the true and hearty devotion I bore her—so much was plain. Presently she spoke again.
“It is hard—is it not—that I should see so much of Regnard, whom I ever hated, in Gaston whom I ever 392 loved? I see, as I tell you, Regnard’s soul shining out of Gaston’s eyes; I see Regnard’s nature speaking in Gaston’s words and acts. Brothers often grow the more alike as time goes on, but why could not Regnard have grown like Gaston, instead of Gaston like Regnard?”
“Has anything been heard of Monsieur Regnard lately?” I asked.
Francezka shook her head.
“I have asked Gaston repeatedly why he did not contrive to communicate with his brother; an officer in the army of the East India Company can not be lost, as my Aunt Peggy says, like a needle in a haystack. But Gaston shows a strange indifference that is unlike his nature. He was ever the most affectionate of brothers, nor was Regnard wanting in love for him—yet, Gaston does not like me to mention Regnard to him—except—”
I saw she wished to tell me all—all these painful things that preyed upon her heart in secret, and that might be dispersed by letting daylight in upon them.
“Except what, Madame?”
“You remember, Babache, that Regnard paid me great court the year of my marriage, when he knew nothing of it. I think the most painful interview of my whole life was when I was forced to tell Regnard that I was his brother’s wife; and most painful it must forever be to Regnard. Well, I thought it my duty to tell Gaston about it—and—and—”
She hesitated and then went on, her face coloring warmly.