He was now silent awhile, his strong, handsome features clear to see, as they lay on the scant grass in the sunshine. The thief had learned that at times this great seigneur would talk, and liked to do so; and that at other times he was to be left to the long silences which were difficult to secure where this morbidly gay crowd, of all conditions of men, was seeking the distraction of too incessant chat.
He rose quietly, and went away to talk with Domville of the Comédie, who himself was always glad of the company of François's cheery visage.
In the salon, which was now deserted, he saw Despard. Pierre stood at an open window, and was pulling at his fingers, as François had so often seen him doing. He was gazing at the people in the yard. His eyes wandered feebly here and there, as if without interest or purpose. His attitude of dejection touched some chord of pity in his partner's heart.
"Dame! he must have thought I was rough with him for a dog—a dog." He had no mind to explain.
Pierre turned to meet him. He was not angry, nor was he excited. The shifting phases of his malady had brought to him again the horrible misery of such melancholy as they who are sound of mind cannot conceive. When this torture has a man in its grip, the past is as nothing; the present a curse; duty is dead; the future only an assurance of continued suffering; death becomes an unconsidered trifle; life—continued life—an unbearable burden.
Poor Pierre said no word of his ex-partner's recent violence. The tears were running down his cheeks. The man at his side was, as usual, gaily cheerful.
"What is wrong with thee?" said François. "I was hard on thee, but thou knowest—"
"What is it?" replied Pierre. "I—it is no matter."
François, surprised, went on: "Can I help thee?"
"No. I cannot sleep; I cannot eat. I suffer. I am in a hell of despair."