“God keep you, Gervais,” she murmured.
“You will take the safe-conduct, and... and
you will let me know when you are safe?”
He held her face between his hands an instant; then
very gently kissed her and put her from him.
Standing erect, and outwardly calm again, he looked
across at Andre-Louis who was proffering him a sheet
of paper.
“It is the safe-conduct. Take it, monsieur.
It is my first and last gift to you, and certainly
the last gift I should ever have thought of making
you — the gift of life. In a sense it makes
us quits. The irony, sir, is not mine, but Fate’s.
Take it, monsieur, and go in peace.”
M. de La Tour d’Azyr took it. His eyes
looked hungrily into the lean face confronting him,
so sternly set. He thrust the paper into his
bosom, and then abruptly, convulsively, held out his
hand. His son’s eyes asked a question.
“Let there be peace between us, in God’s
name,” said the Marquis thickly.
Pity stirred at last in Andre-Louis. Some of
the sternness left his face. He sighed.
“Good-bye, monsieur,” he said.
“You are hard,” his father told him, speaking
wistfully. “But perhaps you are in the
right so to be. In other circumstances I should
have been proud to have owned you as my son.
As it is... " He broke off abruptly, and as abruptly
added, “Good-bye.”
He loosed his son’s hand and stepped back.
They bowed formally to each other. And then
M. de La Tour d’Azyr bowed to Mlle. de
Kercadiou in utter silence, a bow that contained something
of utter renunciation, of finality.
That done he turned and walked stiffly out of the
room, and so out of all their lives. Months
later they were to hear if him in the service of the
Emperor of Austria.
SUNRISE
Andre-Louis took the air next morning on the terrace
at Meudon. The hour was very early, and the
newly risen sun was transmuting into diamonds the
dewdrops that still lingered on the lawn. Down
in the valley, five miles away, the morning mists
were rising over Paris. Yet early as it was that
house on the hill was astir already, in a bustle of
preparation for the departure that was imminent.
Andre-Louis had won safely out of Paris last night
with his mother and Aline, and to-day they were to
set out all of them for Coblenz.
To Andre-Louis, sauntering there with hands clasped
behind him and head hunched between his shoulders
— for life had never been richer in material
for reflection — came presently Aline through
one of the glass doors from the library.
“You’re early astir,” she greeted
him.
“Faith, yes. I haven’t been to bed.
No,” he assured her, in answer to her exclamation.
“I spent the night, or what was left of it,
sitting at the window thinking.”
“My poor Andre!”
“You describe me perfectly. I am very
poor — for I know nothing, understand nothing.
It is not a calamitous condition until it is realized.
Then... " He threw out his arms, and let them fall
again. His face she observed was very drawn and
haggard.
