“he either fears his fate too much,

or his deserts are small,

that dares not put it to the touch

to gain or lose it all.”

“and mademoiselle's witnesses?” inquired the notary, when he had accommodated the ladies with chairs.

“will arrive at ten o'clock,” answered mademoiselle brun, with a glance at the notary's clock.

it was three minutes to ten. the notary was a young man, with smooth hair brushed straight back from a high forehead. he was one of those men who look clever, which, in some respects, is better than being clever. for a man who really has brains usually perceives his own limitations, while he who looks clever, and is not, has that boundless faith in himself which serves to carry men very far in a world which is too lazy to get up and kick impertinence as it passes.

the room had that atmosphere of mixed stuffiness and cigarette smoke which the traveller may sample in any french post-office. it is also the official air of a court of justice or a public bureau of any sort in france. there was a blank space on the wall, where a portrait of the emperor had lately hung. the notary would fill it by-and-by with a president or a king, or any face of any man who was for the moment in authority. behind him, on the wall, was suspended a photograph of an elderly lady—his mother. it established confidence in the hearts of female clients, and reminded persons with daughters that this rising lawyer had as yet no wife.

the notary's bow to mademoiselle brun when she was seated was condescending, which betrayed the small fact that he was not so clever as he looked. to denise he endeavoured to convey in one graceful inclination from the waist the deep regard of a legal adviser, struggling nobly to keep in bounds the overwhelming admiration of a man of heart and (out of office hours) of spirit. gilbert, who had already exchanged greetings with the ladies, was leaning against the window, playing idly with the blind-cord. the notary's office was on the third floor. the colonel could not, therefore, see the pavement without leaning out, and the window was shut. mademoiselle brun noted this as she sat with crossed hands. she also remembered that the hotel clément was on the same side of the boulevard du palais as the house in which she found herself.

the notary had intended to be affable, but he dimly perceived that denise was what he tersely called in his own mind grande dame, and was wise enough to busy himself with his papers in silence. he also suspected that colonel gilbert was a friend of these ladies, but he did not care to take advantage of his privilege in the presence of a fourth person, which left an unpleasant flavour on the palate of the smooth-haired lawyer. he glanced involuntarily at the blank space on the wall, and thought of the republic.

“i have prepared a deed of sale,” he said, in a formal voice, “which is as binding on both sides as if the full purchase-money had been exchanged for the title-deeds. all that will remain to be done after the present signature will be the usual legal formalities between notaries. mademoiselle has but to sign here.” and he indicated a blank space on the document.

mademoiselle brun was looking at the timepiece on the notary's wall. the town clocks were striking the hour. a knock at the door made the notary turn, with his quill pen still indicating the space for denise's signature. it was the dingy clerk who sat in a sort of cage in the outer office. after opening the door he stood aside, and susini came in with glittering eyes and a defiant chin. there was a pause, and lory de vasselot limped into the room after him. he was smiling and pleasant as he always was; even, his friends said, on the battlefield.

he looked at denise, met her eyes for a moment and turned to bow with grave politeness to gilbert. it was, oddly enough, the colonel who brought forward a chair for the wounded man.

“sit down,” he said curtly.

“these are my witnesses, monsieur le notaire,” said mademoiselle brun.

the abbé was rubbing his thin, brown hands together, and contemplating the notary's table as a greedy man might contemplate a laden board. the notary himself was looking from one to the other. there was something in the atmosphere which he did not understand. it was, perhaps, the presence in the room of a cleverer head than his own, and he did not know upon whose shoulders to locate it. denise, whose nature was frank and straightforward, was looking at lory—looking him reflectively up and down—as a mother might look at a son of whose health she refrains from asking. mademoiselle was gazing at the blank space on the wall, and the colonel was looking at mademoiselle with an odd smile.

he was standing in the embrasure of the window, and at this moment glanced at his watch. the notary looked at him inquiringly; for his attitude seemed to indicate that he expected some one else. and at this moment the music of a military band burst upon their ears. the colonel looked over his shoulder down into the street. he had his watch in his hand. de vasselot rose instantly and went to the window. he stood beside the colonel, and those in the notary's office could see that they were talking quickly and gravely together, though the music drowned their voices. behind them, on the notary's table, lay their differences; in front lay that which bound them together with the strongest ties between man and man—their honour and the honour of france. the music died away, followed by the diminishing sound of steady feet. all in the room were silent for a few moments, until the two soldiers turned from the window and came towards the table.

then the notary spoke:—

“mademoiselle has but to sign here,” he repeated.

he indicated the exact spot, dipped the pen in the ink, and handed it to denise. she took the pen and half turned towards lory, as if she knew that he would be the next to speak and wished him to understand once and for all that he would speak in vain.

“mademoiselle cannot sign there,” he said.

denise dipped the pen into the ink again, but she did not sign.

“why not?” she asked without looking round, her hand still resting on the paper.

“because,” answered lory, addressing her directly, “perucca is not yours to sell. it is mine.”

denise turned and looked straight at colonel gilbert. she had never been quite sure of him. he had never appeared to her to be quite in earnest. his face showed no surprise now. he had known this all along, and did not even take the trouble to feign astonishment. the notary gave a polite, incredulous, legal laugh.

“that is an old story, monsieur le comte.”

at which point susini so far forgot himself as to make use of a rude local method of showing contempt in pretending to spit upon the notary's floor.

“it is as old as you please,” answered lory, half turning towards gilbert, who in his turn made a gesture in the direction of the notary, as if to say that the lawyer had received his instructions and knew how to act.

“of course,” said the notary in a judicial voice, “we are aware that the conveyance of the perucca estate by the late count de vasselot to the late mattei perucca lacked formality; many conveyances in corsica lacked formality in the beginning of the century. in many cases possession is the only title-deed. we can point to a possession lasting over many years, which carries the more weight from the fact that the late count and his neighbour monsieur perucca were notoriously on bad terms. if the count had been able, he would no doubt have evicted from perucca a neighbour so unsympathetic.”

“you seem,” said de vasselot, quickly, “to be prepared for my objection.”

the notary spread out his hands in a gesture that conveyed assent.

“and if i had not come?”

“i regret to say, monsieur le comte, that your presence here bears little upon the transaction in hand. you are only a witness. mademoiselle will no doubt complete the document now.”

and the notary again handed denise a pen.

“hardly upon a title-deed which consists of possession only.”

“pardon me, but you have even less,” said the notary. “if i may remind you of it, you have probably no title-deeds to vasselot itself since the burning of the chateau.”

“there you are wrong,” answered lory, quietly. and the abbé snapped both fingers and thumbs in a double-barrelled feu de joie.

“the count may have possessed title-deeds before his death, thirty years ago,” said the notary, with that polite patience in argument which the certain winner alone can compass.

then the colonel's quiet voice broke into the conversation. his manner was politely indifferent, and seemed to plead for peace at any cost.

“i should much like to be done with these formalities,” he said—“if i may be allowed to suggest a little promptitude. the troops are moving, as you have heard. in an hour's time i sail for marseilles with these men. let us finish with the signatures.”

“let us, on the contrary, delay signing until the war is over,” suggested lory.

“you cannot bring your father to life again, monsieur, and you cannot manufacture title-deeds. your father, the notary tells us, has been dead thirty years, and the chateau de vasselot has been burnt with all the papers in it. you have no case at all.”

lory was unbuttoning his tunic, awkwardly with one hand.

“but the notary is wrong,” he said. “the chateau de vasselot was burnt, it is true, but here are the title-deeds. my father did not die thirty years ago, but yesterday morning, in my arms.”

gilbert smiled gently. his innate politeness obviously forbade him to laugh at this absurd story.

“then where has he been all these years?” he inquired with a good-humoured patience.

“in the chateau de vasselot.”

there was a dead silence for a moment, broken at length by a movement on the part of mademoiselle brun. in her abrupt way she struck herself on the forehead as a fool.

“yes,” testified susini, brusquely, “that is where he has been.”

denise remembered ever afterwards, that lory did not look at her at this moment of his complete justification. it was now, and only for a moment, that colonel gilbert lost his steady imperturbability. from the time that lory de vasselot entered the room he had known that he had inevitably failed. from that instant the only question in his mind had been that of how much his enemies knew. it could not be chance that brought de vasselot, and the abbé susini, and mademoiselle brun together to meet him at that time. he had been out-manoeuvred by some one of the three, and he shrewdly suspected by whom. there was nothing to do but face it—and he faced it with a calm audacity. he simply ignored mademoiselle's blinking glance. he met de vasselot's quick eyes without fear, and smiled coolly in the abbé's fiery face. but when denise turned and looked at him with direct and honest eyes, his own wavered, and for a brief instant he saw himself as denise saw him—the bitterest moment of his life. the esteem of the many is nothing compared to the esteem of one.

in a moment he recovered himself and turned towards lory with his lazy smile.

“even to a romance there must be some motive,” he said. “one naturally wonders why your father should allow his enemy to keep possession of a house and estate which were not his, and why he himself should remain concealed in the chateau de vasselot.”

“that is the affair of my father. there was that between him and mattei perucca, which neither you nor i, monsieur, have any business to investigate. there are the title-deeds. you have a certain right to look at them. you are therefore at liberty to satisfy yourself that you cannot buy the perucca estate from mademoiselle lange, because it does not belong to mademoiselle lange, and never has belonged to her! a fact of which you may have been aware.”

“you seem to know much.”

“i know more than you suspect,” answered de vasselot. “i know, for instance, your reason for desiring to buy land on the western slope of monte torre.”

“ah?”

by way of reply, de vasselot laid upon the table in front of colonel gilbert, the nugget no larger than a pigeon's egg, that mademoiselle brun had found in the débris of the landslip. the colonel looked at it, and gave a short laugh. he was too indolent a man to feel an acute curiosity. but there were many questions he would have liked to ask at that moment. he knew that de vasselot was only the spokesman of another who deliberately remained in the background. lory had not found the gold, he had not pieced together with the patience of a clocksmith the wheels within wheels that colonel gilbert had constructed through the careful years. the whole story had been handed to him whom it most concerned, complete in itself like a barrister's brief, and de vasselot was not setting it forth with much skill, but bluntly, simply and generously like a soldier.

“surely i have said enough,” were his next words, and it is possible that the colonel and mademoiselle brun alone understood the full meaning of the words.

“yes, monsieur,” said gilbert at length, “i think you have.”

and he moved towards the door in an odd, sidelong way. he had taken only three steps, when he swung round on his heel with a sharp exclamation. the abbé susini, with blazing eyes—half mad with rage—had flown at him like a terrier.

“ah!” said the colonel, catching him by the two wrists, and holding him at arm's length with steady northern nerve and muscle. “i know you corsicans too well to turn my back to one.”

he threw the abbé back, so that the little man fell heavily against the table; susini recovered himself with the litheness of a wild animal, but when he flew at the closed door again it was denise who stood in front of it.