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He got up gently, for fear of disturbing his poor parents, and went to the window: the air from the opposite hill blew sweet and fresh in at the casement; it reminded Henri of the air which he used to breathe in Claude's cottage.
So misery was imminent; outlets were closing instead of new ones opening; disquieting rumours were beginning to circulate concerning the young painter's works, so constantly rejected at the Salon; and besides, Claude's style of art, so revolutionary and imperfect, in which the startled eye found nought of admitted conventionality, would of itself have sufficed to drive away wealthy buyers.
In a moment Danton came back, looking suspiciously at each of them as he stooped to gather another armful of wood. Menard was thoughtful during the evening meal. Afterward he slipped his arm through Father Claude's, and led him for a short walk, giving him an account of the incident.
One of the brothers had been to a party the night before, and on coming home had put his dress-tie about the neck of a little plaster bust of Byron that stood on the mantel. This head, with the tie at a rakish angle, drew Claude's attention more than anything else in the room, and for some reason instantly made him wish he lived there.
She tripped away, and he drew a breath of momentary relief, leaned back in his chair, and warily passed his eyes around to see if there was anybody who was not looking at him and waiting for him to begin to eat. Ages afterward to speak with Claude's feelings he rose, took up his check, and went to the desk. The cashier leaned forward and said with soft blitheness: "They're here.
At last he went below, and Gaillon crept out of the dark corner where he had lain crouched, afraid to stir for fear of attracting Claude's attention.
"Was it one of you two who lowered the portcullis?" Blandano gasped, as he leaned an instant on his sword. "He did," Marcadel answered, laying his hand on Claude's shoulder. "And I helped him." "Then he has saved Geneva, and you have helped him!" Blandano rejoined bluntly. "Your name, young man." Claude told him. "Good!" Blandano answered.
When she can see nothing that has come of it all but evil, she reads Claude's letters over again and reassures herself; for him the call was clear, the cause was glorious. Never a doubt stained his bright faith. She divines so much that he did not write.
The image of Marguerite de Roberval haunted his brain, and he could not get rid of an uneasy impression that Claude's eagerness to defend her honour had something more behind it than mere chivalrous gallantry. Then, too, how came she so suddenly upon the scene of the conflict? and whither had she disappeared?
After watching from the window for a few moments, she turned to the telephone and called up Claude's house, asking Enid whether she would mind if he came there for dinner. "Mahailey and I get lonesome with Mr. Wheeler away so much," she added. "Why, no, Mother Wheeler, of course not." Enid spoke cheerfully, as she always did. "Have you any one there you can send over to tell him?"
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