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It was a woman, between forty and fifty years of age, who rose slowly to her feet as the Avocat entered, and, without preliminary, put into his hands a document. "That is who I am," she said. "Mary Muddock that was, Mary Kilquhanity that is." The Avocat held in his hands the marriage lines of Matthew Kilquhanity of the parish of Malahide and Mary Muddock of the parish of St. Giles, London.
The ladies of the house, occupied in preparations for the meal, did not observe, or did not appear to observe, his preoccupation. In five minutes Marouin came back. He was ready to start. The avocat and his friend mounted their horses and rode quickly down to the sea.
His whim had suddenly taken on a new colour. The Avocat, who had been walking up and down the room, with the quick step of a young man, stopped before him, took the book from him, turned to the first page, and handed it back silently. Medallion read: Quebec, September 13th, 18-. It is one year since. I shall learn to laugh some day. Medallion looked up at him.
Medallion stooped over him, and caught him by both arms gently. "We shall see," he said. "It is the anniversary," he whispered. "Ah, pardon!" said the Avocat, with a reproving pride, and shrank back as if all his nerves had been laid bare. But Medallion turned, opened the door, went out, and let in a woman, who came forward and timidly raised her veil. "Victor!"
Not a glimmer of light shone in any of the windows. "It is midnight nearly," said Madame Perrier, as we came to a stand-still and waited for her husband, the avocat. Even when he came up with the luggage there seemed some difficulty in effecting an entrance. He passed through the garden-gate, and disappeared round the corner of the house, walking softly, as if careful not to disturb the household.
But a few people knew Prosper Alix thoroughly, and the Marquis was one of the number; he was keen enough to know in theory that, in the case of a man with only one weakness, that is likely to be a very weak weakness indeed, and to apply the theory to the avocat.
Then she became silent, and would, or could, speak no more; only, she said at last before he went: "You will not tell him, or any one?" She need not have asked Medallion. He knew many secrets and kept them; which is not the usual way of good-humoured people. But now, with the story told by the Avocat himself in his mind, he saw the end of the long romance.
The struggle of conscience and expediency, of principle and womanliness wore upon her, taking away the colour from her cheeks, but spiritualising her face, giving the large black eyes an expression of rare intensity, so that the Avocat in his admiration called her Madonna, and the Cure came oftener to the Manor House with a fear in his heart that all was not well.
On the fly-leaf was written: "From Victor to Lulie, September 13th, 18-." Presently she came back to him quite recovered and calm, inquired how the Avocat was cared for, and hoped he would have every comfort and care. Medallion grew on the instant bold. He was now certain that Victor was the Avocat, and Lulie was Madame Lecyr.
He hit on one of his friends, an avocat, a man famed for his integrity, and that very evening Bonafoux went to see him. After chatting on general subjects, he asked his friend if he had not a house at the seaside, and receiving an affirmative answer, he invited himself to breakfast there the next day; the proposal naturally enough was agreed to with pleasure.
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