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I turned to look at de Savignac he was drunk and there was a strange glitter in his eyes, his cheeks flushed to a dull crimson, but not from wine. Boldi's violin talked now and then it wept under the vibrant grip of the master, who dominated it until it dominated those to whom it played.
Le Gros was climbing into his cart. He was drunk and swearing over the poor result of the sale. De Savignac was still in his debt and I continued on my way home, feeling as if I had attended an execution. Half an hour later the sharp bark of my yellow puppy greeted me from beyond my wall. As I entered my courtyard, he came to me wriggling with joy.
Go and present my deep regrets to Monsieur de Savignac and tell him tell him what you please. Say that my rich uncle has just sent me a pair of pointers that I sincerely appreciate his generous offer, that " Pierre's small black eyes opened as wide as possible. He shrugged his shoulders twice and began twisting thoughtfully the waxed ends of his moustache to a finer point.
Without a word of explanation as to what had happened, Madame de Savignac kissed my dog good-bye on the top of his silky head, while de Savignac stroked him tenderly. He was perfectly willing to come with me, and cocked his head on one side. We were all in the courtyard now. "Au revoir," they waved to me. "Au revoir," I called back.
De Savignac now sat with his chin sunk heavily in his hands, drinking in the melody with its spirited accompaniment as the cymballist's flexible hammers flew over the resonant strings, the violins following the master in the red coat, with that keen alertness with which all real gipsies play. I realized now, what the playing of a gipsy meant to him.
As I walked over to the château with Pierre the next morning, I recalled to my mind the career of this extraordinary man, whose only vice was his great generosity. He was tall, strong and good-natured, this lucky Jacques de Savignac, with a weakness for the fair sex which was appalling, and a charm of manner as irresistible as his generosity.
I said good-bye to her this morning. "Jacques de Savignac." It was all clear to me now pitifully clear the garçonnière had gone with the rest. On one of my flying trips to Paris I looked them up in their refuge, in a slit of a street. Here they had managed to live by the strictest economy, in a plain little nest under the roof, composed of two rooms and a closet for a kitchen.
"Monsieur has never met Monsieur de Savignac?" ventured Pierre as we turned our steps out of the brilliant sunlight, and into a wooded path skirting the extensive forest of the estate. "Not yet, Pierre." "He is a fine old gentleman," declared Pierre, discreetly lowering his voice. "Poor man!" "Why poor, Pierre?" I laughed, "with an estate like this nonsense!" "Ah! Monsieur does not know?"
Before I could reply, Madame de Savignac entered the room. I felt the charm of her personality, as I looked into her eyes, and as she welcomed me I forgot that her faded silk gown was once in fashion before I was born, or that madame was short and no longer graceful. As the talk went on, I began to study her more at my ease, when some one rapped at the outer door of the vestibule.
Pierre's voice sunk to a whisper "the château is mortgaged, monsieur. There is not a tree or a field left Monsieur de Savignac can call his own. Do you know, monsieur, he has no longer even the right to shoot over the ground? Monsieur sees that low roof beyond with the single chimney smoking just to the left of the château towers?" I nodded. "That is where Monsieur de Savignac now lives.
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