It grew lighter. The top of St Sulpice burned crimson. Far off a bugle fluttered, and then came the tramp of the morning guard mount. They came stumbling across the stony court and leaned on their rifles while one of them presented arms and received the word from the sentry. Little by little people began to creep up and down the sidewalks, and the noise of wooden shutters announced another day of toil begun. The point of the Luxembourg Palace struck fire as the ghastly gas-lamps faded and went out. Suddenly the great bell of St Sulpice clashed the hour—Eight o’clock!
Again a bugle blew sharply from the barracks, and a troop of cavalry danced and pawed through the gate, clattering away down the Rue de Seine.
Gethryn shut the window and turned into the room. Yvonne stood before the dying embers. He went to her, almost timidly. Neither spoke. At last she took up her satchel and wrap.
“It is time,” she whispered. “Let us go.”
He clasped her once in his arms; she laid her cheek against his.
The train left Montparnasse station at nine. There was hardly anyone in the waiting room. The Guard flung back the grating.
“Vernon, par Chartres?” asked Gethryn.
“Vernon—Moulins—Chartres—direct!” shouted the Guard, and stamped off down the platform.
Gethryn showed his ticket which admitted him to the platform, and they walked slowly down the line of dismal-looking cars.