“I loved her so tenderly, monsieur,” said he.
The cry, so human, went straight to Aristide’s heart. A sympathetic tear glistened in his bright eyes. He was suddenly filled with an immense pity for this grief-stricken, helpless giant. An odd feminine streak ran through his nature and showed itself in queer places. Impulsively he stretched out his hand.
“You’re going?” asked Bocardon.
“No. A sign of good friendship.”
They gripped hands across the table. A new emotion thrilled through the facile Aristide.
“Bocardon, I devote myself to you,” he cried, with a flamboyant gesture. “What can I do?”
“Alas, nothing,” replied the other, miserably.
“And Zette? What does she say to it all?”
The mountainous shoulders heaved with a shrug. “She denies everything. She had never seen the letter until I showed it to her. She did not know how it came into her room. As if that were possible!”
“It’s improbable,” said Aristide, gloomily.