“I forgot,” he said, soberly; “you don’t know what’s been going on.”
He began to dress, raising his head now and then to gaze out across the ocean towards Groix, where the cruiser once lay at anchor.
“Of course you don’t know that the circus has gone,” he remarked.
“Gone!” I echoed, astonished.
“Gone to Lorient.”
He came and sat down on the edge of the gilded bedstead, buttoning his collar thoughtfully.
“Buckhurst is in town again with a raft of picturesque ruffians,” he said. “They marched in last night, drums beating, colors unfurled—the red rag, you know—and the first thing they did was to order Byram to decamp.”
He began to tie his cravat, with a meditative glance at the gilded mirror.
“I was here with you. Kelly Eyre came for me—Madame de Vassart took my place to watch you—”
A sudden heart-beat choked me.