Martin’s eyes were moist. “My God!” said he, with a catch in his voice, “you are a good fellow.”
“Not a bit, mon cher. We are friends, and in friendship there is something just a little bit sacred. But tell me, nom d’une pipe! all about yourself.”
“I was on my way,” said Martin, with his conscientious honesty, “from Penang to New York. At Marseilles I heard for the first time of the war in which France will be involved and of which we have so often talked. And something, I don’t know what, called me here—et me voici!”
“C’est beau. C’est bien beau de ta part,” said Bigourdin seriously. “Let us go and find Félise.”
Now, when a Frenchman characterises a deed as beau, it is in his opinion very fine indeed.
But before they could move, Euphémie rushed from her kitchen and all but embraced the wanderer and Joseph, late plongeur at the Café de l’Univers and now waiter at the hôtel, came shyly from the salle-à-manger, and the brightness of his eyes was only equalled by the lustre of the habiliments that formerly had belonged to Martin. Bigourdin despatched him in quest of Félise. Soon she came, from the fabrique, looking rather white. Joseph had shot his news at her. But she came up looking Martin straight in the eyes, her hand extended.
“Bonjour, Martin. I am glad to see you again.”
“So am I,” said he. “More than glad. It’s like coming back to one’s own people.”
She drew up her little head and asked with a certain bravura: “How is Lucilla?”
He winced; but he did not show it. He smiled. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard of her since March.”