“lov'd i not honour more.”

the servant retired to bring the new arrival to the verandah. denise followed him, and, after a few paces, returned to lory.

“if it is one of my people,” she said, “i should like to see him before he goes.”

the man who followed the servant to the verandah a minute later had a dark, clean-shaven face, all drawn into fine lines and innumerable minute wrinkles. such lines mean starvation; but in this case they told a tale of the past, for the dark eyes had no hungry look. they looked hunted—that was all. the glitter of starvation had left them. he glanced uneasily around, took off his hat and bowed curtly to lory. the hat and the clothes were new. then he turned and looked at the servant, who lingered, with a haughty stare which must have been particularly offensive to that respectable parisian menial. for the corsicans are bad servants, and despise good servitude in others. when the footman had gone, the new-comer turned to lory, and said, in a low voice—

“i saw you at toulon. i have not seen many faces in my life—for i have spent most of it in the macquis—so i remember those i have once met. i knew the count de vasselot when he was a young man, and he was what you are now. you are a de vasselot.”

“yes,” answered lory.

“i thought so. that is why i followed you from toulon—spending my last sou to do so.”

he stopped. his two hands were in the pockets of his dark corduroy trousers, and he jerked them out with a sudden movement, bringing the empty pockets to view.

“voilà!” he said, “and i want to go to the war. so i came to you.”

“good,” said lory, looking him up and down. “you look tough, mon ami.”

“i am,” answered the corsican. “ten years of macquis, winter and summer—for one thing or another—do not make a man soft. i was told—the abbé susini told me—that france wants every man she can get, so i thought i would try a little fighting.”

“good,” said lory again. “you will find it very good fun.”

the man gave a twisted grin. he had forgotten how to laugh. he drew forward the chair that denise had just quitted, and sat down close to lory in quite a friendly way, for there is a bond that draws fighting men and roaming men together despite accidental differences of station.

“one sees,” he said, “that you are a de vasselot. and i belong to the de vasselots—! whenever i have got into trouble it has been on that side.”

he looked round to make sure that none could overhear.

“it was i who shot that italian dog, pietro andrei,” he mentioned in confidence, “on the road below olmeta—but that was a personal matter.”

“ah!” said lory, who had heard the story of andrei's death on the market-place at olmeta, and the stern determination of his widow to avenge it.

“yes—i was starving, and andrei had money on him. in the old days it was easy enough to get food in the macquis. one could come down into the villages at night. but now it is different. it is a hard life there now, and one may easily die of starvation. there are many who, like pietro andrei, are friendly with the gendarmes.”

he finished with a gesture of supreme disgust, as if friendship with a gendarme were the basest of crimes.

“when did you see the abbé susini?” asked lory, “and where—if you can tell me that?”

“i saw him in the macquis. he often goes up into the mountains alone, dressed like one of us. he is a queer man, that abbé. he says that he sometimes thinks it well to care for the wanderers from his flock—a jest, you see.”

and the man gave his crooked grin again.

“it was above asco, in the high mountains near cinto,” he continued, “and about a week ago. it was he who gave me money, and told me to come and fight for france. he was arranging for others to do the same.”

“the abbé is a practical man,” said lory.

“yes—and he told me news of olmeta,” said the man, glancing sideways at his companion.

“what news?”

“you have no doubt heard it—of vasselot.”

“i have heard nothing, my friend, but cannon. i am from sedan to-day.”

the man seemed to hesitate. he turned uneasily in his chair, glanced this way and that among the trees—a habit acquired in the macquis, no doubt. he took off his hat and passed his hand pensively over his hair. then he turned to lory.

“there is no longer a chateau de vasselot—it is gone—burnt to the ground, mon brave monsieur.”

“who burnt it?” asked de vasselot.

“who knows?” replied the man. “the peruccas, no doubt. they have a woman to lead them now!”

the man finished with a short laugh, which was unpleasant to the ear.

lory thought of the woman who was leading the peruccas now, who had quitted the chair in which her accuser now sat, a few minutes earlier, and smiled.

“have you a cigarette?” asked the corsican, bluntly.

“yes—but i cannot offer it to you. it is in my right-hand pocket, and my right arm is disabled.”

“an arm and a leg, eh?” said the man, seeking in the pocket indicated by lory, for the neat silver cigarette-case, which he handled with a sort of grand air—this gentleman of the mountain side. “you will smoke also?”

and with his own brown fingers he was kind enough to place a cigarette between de vasselot's lips. the tobacco-smoke seemed to make him feel still more at home with the head of his clan. for he sat down again and began the conversation in quite a familiar way.

“who is this colonel gilbert of bastia, who mixes himself up in affairs?” he inquired.

“what affairs, my friend?”

“well, the affairs of others, it would appear. we hear strange stories in the macquis—and things that one would never expect to reach the mountains. they say that colonel gilbert busies himself in stirring up the peruccas and the de vasselots against each other—an affair that has slept these thirty years.”

“ah!”

“yes, and you should know it, you who are the chief of the de vasselots, and have this woman to deal with; the women are always the worst. the chateau, they say, was burnt down, and the women disappeared from the casa perucca in the same week. the casa perucca is empty now, and the chateau de vasselot is gone—at olmeta they are bored enough, i can tell you.”

“they have nothing to quarrel about,” suggested lory.

“nothing,” replied the corsican, quite gravely.

“and the chateau was empty when they burnt it?” inquired lory.

“yes; it has been empty since i was a boy. i remember it when i went to st. florent to school, and it was then that i used to see your father, the count. he was powerful in those days—before the peruccas began to get strong. but they overrun that country now, which is no doubt the reason why you have never been there.”

“pardon me—i was there when the war broke out two months ago.”

“ah! we never heard that in the macquis, though the abbé susini must have known it. he knows so much that he does not tell—that abbé.”

“which makes him the strong man he is, mon ami.”

“you are right—you are right,” said the corsican, rising energetically. “but i am wasting your time with my talk, and tiring you as well, no doubt.”

“wait a minute,” replied lory, touching the bell that stood on a table by his side. “i will give you a letter to a friend of mine, commanding a regiment in paris.”

the servant brought the necessary materials, and lory prepared awkwardly to write. his arm was still weak, but he could use his hand without pain. while he was writing, the man sat watching him, and at last muttered an exclamation of wonderment.

“it is a marvel how you resemble the count,” he said, “as i remember him thirty years ago, when i was a boy. and do you know, monsieur, i saw an old man the other day for a moment, in passing on the road, above asco, who brought my heart into my throat. if he had not been dead this score of years it might have been your father—not as i remember him, but as the years would have made him. i was hidden in the trees at the side of the road, and he passed by on foot. he had the air of going into the macquis. but i do not know who he was.”

“when was that?” asked de vasselot, pausing with his pen on the paper.

“that must have been a month ago.”

“and you never saw or heard of him again?”

“no,” answered the man.

lory continued to write, his arm moving laboriously on the paper.

“i must have a name—of some sort,” he said, “to give my friend, the commandant.”

“ah! i cannot give you my own. jean florent—since i came from st. florent—that will do.”

de vasselot wrote the name, folded and addressed the letter.

“there”, he said, “and i wish you good luck. good luck in war-time may mean gold lace on your sleeve in a few months. i shall join you as soon as i can throw my leg across a horse. will two hundred francs serve you to reach paris?”

“give me one hundred. i am no beggar.”

he took the letter and the bank note, shook hands, and went away as abruptly as he came. the man was a murderer, with probably more than one life to account for; and yet he carried his crimes with a certain dignity, and had, at all events, that grand manner which comes from the habit of facing life fearlessly with the odds against.

lory sat up and watched him. he rang the bell.

“see that man off the premises,” he said to the servant, “and then beg mademoiselle lange to be good enough to return here.”

denise kept him waiting a long time, and then came with reluctant steps. the mention of corsica seemed to have changed her humour. she sat down, nevertheless, in the chair, placed there by fate.

“you sent for me,” she said, rather curtly.

“because i could not come myself,” he answered. “i did not want you to see that man. or rather, i did not want him to see you. he is not one of your people—quite the contrary.”

and de vasselot laughed with significance.

“one of yours?” she suggested.

“so it appears, though i was not aware of the honour. he described you as 'that woman.'”

denise laughed lightly, and threw back her head.

“he may describe me as he likes. did he bring you news?”

and denise turned away as she spoke, with that air of indifference which so often covers a keen desire for information, if it is a woman who seeks it.

“yes,” answered lory, turning, as she turned, to look at her. he looked at her whenever opportunity offered. the cheek half turned from him was a little sunburnt, the colour of a peach that has ripened in the open under a southern sun, for denise loved the air. perhaps he had only spoken the truth when he said that her absence made him tired. there are many in the world who have to fight against that weariness all their lives. at last, as if with an effort, denise turned, and met his glance for a moment.

“bad news,” she said; “i can see that.”

“yes. it is bad enough.”

“of your estates?” inquired denise.

“no. i never cared for the estate; i do not care for it now.”

“then it is of ... some one?”

lory did not answer at once.

“i shall have to go back to corsica,” he said at length, “as soon as i can move—in a few days.”

denise glanced at him with angry eyes.

“i was told that story,” she said, “but did not believe it.”

de vasselot turned and looked at her, but could not see her averted face. his eyes were suddenly fierce. he was a fighter—of a fighting stock—and he instantly perceived that he was called upon at this moment to fight for the happiness of his whole life. he put out his hand and deliberately took hold of the skirt of her dress. she should not run away at all events. he twisted the soft material round his half-disabled fingers.

“what story?” he asked quietly.

denise's eyes flashed, and then suddenly grew gentle. she did not quite know whether she was furious or afraid.

“that there was some one in the chateau de vasselot to whom—whom you loved.”

“it is you that i love, mademoiselle,” he answered sharply, with a ring in his voice, which came as a surprise to both of them, and which she never forgot all her life. “no. do not go. you are pulling on my injured arm and i shall not let go.”

denise sat still, silent and at bay.

“then who was in the chateau?” she asked at last.

“i cannot tell you.”

“if it is as you say—about me—and—i ask you not to go to corsica?”

“i must go.”

“why?” asked denise, with a dangerous quiet in her voice.

“i cannot tell you.”

“then you expect a great deal.”

de vasselot slowly untwined his fingers and drew in his arm.

“true,” he said reflectively. “i must ask nothing or too much. i asked more than you can give, mademoiselle.”

a faint smile flickered across denise's eyes. who was he, to say how much a woman can give? she was free to go now, but did not move.

“with corsica and—” she paused and glanced at his helpless attitude in the long chair,—“and the war, your life is surely sufficiently occupied as it is,” she said coldly.

“but these evil times will pass. the war will cease, and then one may think of being happy. so long as there is war, i must of course fight—fight—fight, while there is a france to fight for.”

denise laughed.

“that is your scheme of life?” she asked bitterly.

“yes, mademoiselle.”

she rose and turned angrily away.

“then it is france you care for—if it is no one in corsica. france—nothing and nobody—but france.”

and she left him.