‘For how many, Monsieur?’ he asked in a scared tone.
‘For five,’ I answered; and I could not help smiling at myself.
For what would Zaton’s say could it see Berault turned housewife? There was a white glazed cup, an old-fashioned piece of the second Henry’s time, standing on a shelf. I took it down and put some late flowers in it, and set it in the middle of the table, and stood off myself to look at it. But a moment later, thinking I heard them coming, I hurried it away in a kind of panic, feeling on a sudden ashamed of the thing. The alarm proved to be false, however; and then again, taking another turn, I set the piece back. I had done nothing so foolish for—for more years than I like to count.
But when Madame and Mademoiselle came down, they had eyes neither for the flowers nor the room. They had heard that the Captain was out beating the village and the woods for the fugitive, and where I had looked for a comedy I found a tragedy. Madame’s face was so red with weeping that all her beauty was gone. She started and shook at the slightest sound, and, unable to find any words to answer my greeting, could only sink into a chair and sit crying silently.
Mademoiselle was in a mood scarcely more cheerful. She did not weep, but her manner was hard and fierce. She spoke absently, and answered fretfully. Her eyes glittered, and she had the air of straining her ears continually to catch some dreaded sound.
‘There is no news, Monsieur?’ she said as she took her seat. And she shot a swift look at me.
‘None, Mademoiselle.’
‘They are searching the village?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Where is Clon?’ This in a lower voice, and with a kind of shrinking in her face.