It was Stephen Raguenel, who went slowly to and fro, leaning on the servant’s arm, his steps weak and hesitating, an expression of profound and patient melancholy upon his face. He stooped so much that he seemed to have lost three inches of his stature in a week. His eyes had lost their pointedness and their sparkle; they were fixed and vacant, the eyes of a man who is living largely in the past. From time to time the Vicomte would lift his head and look round him with the half-wistful wonder of a child. The second simplicity of life seemed to be taking possession of him, and the pride of the great seigneur had mellowed into the quiet gentleness of the old man.
The servant, whose head was but a shade darker than his master’s, kept step with him, and did not speak except when spoken to. Nor was his respect a thing of the surface only. He had felt much that the Vicomte himself had felt, and the shadow of humiliation fell also across his face.
“Girard, good fellow, what day of the week is it?”
“The third, sire.”
“Ah, ah, and the swallows are here. It is hardly a year ago since we rode to join Madame the Countess in the south.”
“Yes, sire, that is so.” And the servant, with the discretion of a good listener, contented himself with following where his master led.
“How do the apricots look on the south wall, Girard—eh?”
“They have been full of bloom, sire.”
“Madame Tiphaïne is fond of the fruit. Let me see, Girard—how many leagues is it to Josselin from here?”
Girard pretended to consider, though he was asked the same question twenty times a day.