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Updated: June 8, 2025
And all was for the best in the best possible world! For Lory was a Frenchman, and into the French nature there has assuredly filtered some of the light of that sunny land. At more than one turn of the road he looked up towards Perucca. Once he saw a light in one of the windows of the old house.
The remark was made so significantly that Lory could not ignore it even if such a course had recommended itself to one of his quick and impulsive nature. "What do you mean, colonel?" Gilbert made a little gesture of the hand that held the half-burnt cigarette. He deprecated, it would appear, having been drawn to talk on so serious a topic.
"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 abbe 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."
A little fountain trickled sleepily near at hand, in the mossy basin of which a talkative family of frogs had their habitation. Half asleep in a long chair, de Vasselot was already coming under the influence of this most healing air in the world, when the rustle of a skirt made him turn. "It is only I, my poor Lory," said the baroness, looking down at him with an odd smile. "You turned so quickly.
For a time he could only think that this was a great and glorious moment in his life. He hurried in to tell his father, but the count failed to rise to the occasion. "War!" he said. "Yes; there have been many in my time. They have not affected me or my carnations." "And I go to it to-night," announced Lory, watching his father with eyes suddenly grave and anxious.
"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 abbe snapped both fingers and thumbs in a double-barrelled feu de joie.
In a few moments he would be back again at a higher level. Lory knew he could never overtake the fresher horse. There was but one chance the chance perhaps of two shots as his father passed along the road above him.
"There," he said, pointing with a steady hand; "to the left of that almond tree which is still in bloom. Watch those willows which have come there since the wall fell away, and the terrace slipped into the flooded river twenty-one years this spring. You will see the branches move. There there! You see. It is a man, and he comes too slowly to have an honest purpose." "I see," said Lory.
No one else comes near the Casa. We are in a state of siege. I dare not go into Olmeta; but I am holding on because you advised me not to sell." "I, mademoiselle?" "Yes; in Paris. Have you forgotten?" "No," answered Lory, slowly "no; I have not forgotten. But no one takes my advice indeed, no one asks it except about a horse. They think I know about a horse."
Lory was shot in two places again, and the doctors who attended him laughed when they saw the old wounds hardly yet healed. He would be lame for years, they said, perhaps for life. He had a bullet in his right shoulder and another had shattered his ankle. Neither was dangerous, but his fighting days were done, at all events for this campaign.
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