“You? You—Mr. Pujol?”
“Oui, Mademoiselle, c’est moi. It is I, Aristide Pujol.”
She put her hands on her bosom. “It is rather a shock seeing you—so unexpectedly. Will you come in?”
She led the way into a tiny parlour, very clean, very simple with its furniture of old oak and brass, and bade him sit. She looked a little older than when he had seen her at Aix-en-Provence. A few lines had marred the comely face and there was here and there a touch of grey in the reddish hair, and, though still buxom, she had grown thinner. Care had set its stamp upon her.
“Miss Honeywood,” said Aristide. “It is on account of little Jean that I have come——”
She turned on him swiftly. “Not to take him away!”
“Then he is here!” He jumped to his feet and wrung both her hands and kissed them to her great embarrassment. “Ah, mademoiselle, I knew it. I felt it. When such an inspiration comes to a man, it is the bon Dieu who sends it. He is here, actually here, in this house?”
“Yes,” said Miss Anne.
Aristide threw out his arms. “Let me see him. Ah, le cher petit! I have been yearning after him for three years. It was my heart that I ripped out of my body that night and laid at your threshold.”
“Hush!” said Miss Anne, with an interrupting gesture. “You must not talk so loud. He is asleep in the next room. You mustn’t wake him. He is very ill.”