A dim, strangely tinted light cast dark shadows over everything. The strange furniture took on grotesque forms. The titles of the books along the wall gleamed out in a strange manner.
For a full five minutes the child talked to the old man in French. He exclaimed now and then, but other than that took no part in the conversation.
When she had finished, he held out a thin, bony hand to Lucile and said in perfect English:
“Accept my thanks for what you have done to protect this poor little one, my pretty Marie. You are a brave girl and should have a reward. But, alas, I have little to give save my books and they are an inheritance, an inheritance thrice removed. They were my great-grandfather’s and have descended direct to me. One is loath to part with such treasure.”
“There is no need for any reward,” said Lucile quickly. “I did it because I was interested in the child. But,” with a sudden inspiration, “if you wish to do me a favor, tell me the story of your life.”
The man gave her a quick look.
“You are so—so old,” she hastened to add, “and so venerable, so soldier-like, so like General Joffre. Your life must have been a wonderful one.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man settled back in his chair. As if to brush a mist from before his eyes, he made a waving motion with his hand. “Ah, yes, it has been quite wonderful, that is, I may say it once was.
“I was born near a little town named Gondrecourt in the province of Meuse in France. There was a small chateau, very neat and beautiful, with a garden behind it, with a bit of woods and broad acres for cattle and grain. All that was my father’s. It afterwards became mine.
“In one room of the chateau were many, many ancient volumes, some in French, some in English, for my father was a scholar, as also he educated me to be.