Claire René looked for a long time into Jacques' shining eyes; then she whispered: "My brothers!"
High among the tall trees of the forest the wind was singing and sighing; beneath on a green moss bank Jacques gathered Claire René in his arms; he gathered her up like a baby and rocked her back and forth. He cried and laughed into the bright tangle of her hair.
"My poor little one! My poor little one!" he said over and over. Then he released her from his arms and held her face between his knotted hands. "Now, listen!"
She listened, and even before Jacques had finished a song began in her heart—so strong and high and true that it reached up into the treetops and joined in the chorus of the forest.
The words that came from the lips of Jacques made a great beating in her ears. Could it be so—what he was saying—that the "Great Man from America" had come to save all the Brothers of France? That soon, soon he would send Clément and Fernand and Alphonse back to the tiny house in the forest? That all the wicked men in the world would be no more? That the great and terrible noise would cease—forever?
Jacques was very, very sure that he was right about it; he had read it all in a newspaper; he had walked miles and miles to hear men talk of nothing else.
Claire René asked where the great man lived.
"In Paris, ma petite."
"And what does he look like—the brave one?"
"He is grave and quiet, like a king."