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When his father spoke of him to his wife some little time after their marriage, she replied: "You will, of course, do as you choose, but I should say that any change would be likely to injure his health." The Marquis was glad to seize any excuse for keeping Simonne's son away from that society which his mother had so strongly condemned.
She had seen Mme Bron giving the letter to Simonne's young man, and he had gone out to read it under the gas light in the lobby. "Impossible tonight, darling I'm booked." And with that he had peaceably departed, as one who was doubtless used to the formula. He, at any rate, knew how to conduct himself!
'Excuse the simplicity of the service, sir. The door opened, and, master, if it had been in Africa, or thousands of miles from France, I should have known Simonne's son. He had his great deep eyes, but, master " Pierre stopped short. "Go on; you frighten me!" cried the Marquis. "Oh! master, Monsieur Simon has lost a leg. I saw it at once, and the tears came to my eyes.
"It was Simonne's soul that spoke through his lips!" murmured the Marquis, when Pierre repeated the message sent by the young man. The father and son did not meet after 1790. We will now return to Fribourg, to that room where Pierre Labarre had just told the Marquis that Simon was living. Twenty-five years had elapsed twenty-five years of anguish and sorrow for the Marquis.
Simonne's son was fighting for his country, while his other son, the Vicomte de Talizac, was fighting against it. Suddenly the Marquis beheld the fall of the Imperial idol. The allied armies were in France. Vengeance was near at hand! Three times the Marquis sent Pierre to France, but the faithful servant could learn nothing of Simon, but this last time he discovered that Simon was living.
Farther off, on a sofa, an attache had slipped his arm round Simonne's waist and was trying to kiss her neck, but Simonne, sullen and thoroughly out of sorts, pushed him away at every fresh attempt with cries of "You're pestering me!" and sound slaps of the fan across his face. For the matter of that, not one of the ladies allowed herself to be touched. Did people take them for light women?
The parlour and even Simonne's room were also filled with people: men, most of whom Mole knew by sight; friends or enemies of the ranting demagogue who lay murdered in the very bath which his casual servant had prepared for him. Every one was discussing the details of the murder, the punishment of the youthful assassin.
Was it not in Caen that those old foes of his, the Girondins, were stirring up rebellion? "She says," Simonne continued, "that she wrote a letter to you this morning, and she brings you a second note herself. I have told her that you will not receive anyone, and..." "Give me the note," he snapped. Setting down his pen, he thrust out an unclean paw to snatch the folded sheet from Simonne's hand.
And he was so helpless... in his bath ... name of a name, the pitiable affair! No one paid much attention to Mole. He listened for a while to Simonne's impassioned voice, giving her version of the affair; then he worked his way stolidly into the bathroom. It was some time before he succeeded in reaching the side of that awful bath wherein lay the dead body of Jean Paul Marat.
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