“Yes,” said Fortinbras, in a deep voice. “Just like your mother.”
“I try to resemble her. Tu sais, every time I feel I am lazy or missing my duties, I think of mamman, and I say, ‘No, I will not be unworthy of her.’ And so that gives me courage.”
“I’ve heard so much of Mrs. Fortinbras,” said Martin, “that I seem to know her intimately.”
A smile of great tenderness and sadness crept into Fortinbras’s eyes as he turned them on his daughter.
“It is good that you still think and speak so much of her. Ideals keep the soul winged for flight. If it flies away into the empyrean and comes to grief like Icarus and his later fellow pioneers in aviation, at least it has done something.”
He released her and she sped away on her duties. Presently she returned with a scared face.
“Monsieur Martin, what has happened? Here is Corinna going to leave us this morning.”
“Corinna going? Does she know I’m here?” asked Fortinbras in wonderment.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. I did not dream that she was up—she generally rises so late. But she has told Baptiste to take down her boxes for the omnibus to catch the early train for Paris. Mon Dieu, what has happened to drive her away?”
“Perhaps the visit yesterday of Monsieur Camille Fargot,” said Martin.