“And how reasonable is my anxiety?”
“Assuredly.”
“And you are in sympathy with me?”
“Pardieu! Why else did I go so near to killing your son?”
“True,” he mused. Then suddenly he added, “Apropos, have you heard that Eugène has become one of the leaders of these frondeur madmen?”
“Ah! Then he is quite recovered?”
“Unfortunately,” he assented with a grimace, and thus our interview ended.
That day wore slowly to its close. I wandered hither and thither in the château and the grounds, hungering throughout the long hours for a word with Mademoiselle—a glimpse of her, at least.
But all day long she kept her chamber, the pretext being that she was beset by a migraine. By accident I came upon her that evening, at last, in the salon; yet my advent was the signal for her departure, and all the words she had for me were:
“Still at Canaples, Monsieur? I thought you were to have left this morning.” She looked paler than her wont, and her eyes were somewhat red.