"Yes, Mademoiselle," I answered. On which I saw the two smile at one another, and I added: "He is a strange creature. I wonder you can bear to have him near you."
"Poor man! You do not know his story?" Madame said.
"I have heard something of it," I answered. "Louis told me."
"Well, I do shudder at him, sometimes," she replied, in a low voice. "He has suffered--and horribly, and for us. But I wish it had been on any other service. Spies are necessary things, but one does not wish to have to do with them! Anything in the nature of treachery is so horrible."
"Quick, Louis! the cognac, if you have any there!" Mademoiselle exclaimed. "I am sure you are--still feeling ill, Monsieur."
"No, I thank you," I muttered hoarsely, making an effort to recover myself. "I am quite well. It was an old wound that sometimes touches me."
CHAPTER IV.
[MADAME AND MADEMOISELLE.]
To be frank, however, it was not the old wound that touched me so nearly, but Madame's words; which, finishing what Clon's sudden appearance in the garden had begun, went a long way towards hardening me and throwing me back into myself. I saw with bitterness--what I had perhaps forgotten for a moment--how great was the chasm which separated me from these women; how impossible it was we could long think alike; how far apart in views, in experience, in aims we were. And while I made a mock in my heart of their high-flown sentiments--or thought I did--I laughed no less at the folly which had led me to dream, even for a moment, that I could, at my age, go back--go back and risk all for a whim, a scruple, the fancy of a lonely hour.
I dare say something of this showed in my face: for Madame's eyes mirrored a dim reflection of trouble as she looked at me, and Mademoiselle ate nervously and at random. At any rate, I fancied so, and I hastened to compose myself; and the two, in pressing upon me the simple dainties of the table, soon forgot, or appeared to forget, the incident.