“I’ll tell her. Go to your trunk.”
“I’m going, Tom.”
He opened the door, hesitated, then closed it again and came back to the fireplace, near which Rouvière was still standing.
“My dear friend,” said he softly, laying his hand on Tom’s arm, “you will be very gentle with her, will you not?”
A kind smile gleamed in the usually cold, sharp eyes of the traveller, as he looked in his friend’s anxious, agitated face.
“Don’t be afraid,” he replied; “but you—don’t you desert me when I’ve gone to the front.”
“Desert during the battle! You don’t know me, Tom!”
“Why, you see,” said Tom, “I should look wondrous silly if you did!”
“Tom Rouvière,” cried Dupuis solemnly, “permit me to assure you that my mind is made up, and that this evening at nine o’clock, come what will, I go with you. I pledge you my word of honor. Are you satisfied?”
“Go and pack your trunk!” laughed Rouvière, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him out of the room.