"Yes," she said. "He came to La Roche. He wanted to see François."
"What!" exclaimed Toussaint Lumineau, rising and pushing back the stool. "André? You have spoken to André?"
"Very early on Monday he came. His face had a look on it that is always coming back to me when I am alone. Oh! a look as of a world of sorrow. He pushed open the door, like you did, and said: 'François, I am going away from La Fromentière, because you are not there!' I am sure, father, it is a blow to you ... but do not be angry, for we said nothing to induce him to go. We were even sorry on your account."
She had put out her hand as if to ward the old man off; but she saw at once that there was nothing to fear, and the outstretched hand fell beside the dingy plastered wall. For Toussaint Lumineau was crying as he looked at her. The tears were coursing down his face, wrinkled by suffering. He wanted to know everything, and asked:
"Did he speak of me?"
"No."
"Did he speak of La Fromentière?"
"No."
"Did he at last say where he was going?"
"He would neither sit down nor stay. He kissed us both; but words neither came to him nor to us. François asked him: 'Where are you going, Driot?' and he answered: 'To Buenos Ayres, in America. I mean to try and make money. When I am a rich man you shall all hear of me. Good-bye, Lionore. Good-bye, François,' and he was gone."