Artois's appearance was softened by his illness. In health he looked authoritative, leonine, very sure of himself, piercingly observant, sometimes melancholy, but not anxious. His manner, never blustering or offensive, was usually dominating, the manner of one who had the right to rule in the things of the intellect. Now he seemed much gentler, less intellectual, more emotional. One received, at a first meeting with him, the sensation rather of coming into contact with a man of heart than with a man of brains. Maurice felt the change at once, and was surprised by it. Outwardly the novelist was greatly altered. His tall frame was shrunken and slightly bent. The face was pale and drawn, the eyes were sunken, the large-boned body was frightfully thin and looked uncertain when it moved. As Maurice gazed he realized that this man had been to the door of death, almost over the threshold of the door.
And Artois? He saw a change in the Mercury whom he had last seen at the door of the London restaurant, a change that startled him.
"Come into our Garden of Paradise and rest," said Hermione. "Lean on my arm, Emile."
"May I?" Artois asked of Maurice, with a faint smile that was almost pathetic.
"Please do. You must be tired!"
Hermione and Artois walked slowly forward to the terrace, arm linked in arm. Maurice was about to follow them when he felt a hand catch hold of him, a hand that was hot and imperative.
"Gaspare! What is it?"
"Signorino, signorino, I must speak to you!"
Startled, Maurice looked into the boy's flushed face. The great eyes searched him fiercely.
"Put the donkeys in the stable," Maurice said. "I'll come."