“It so happened that M. Benest had pretermitted his angling, that afternoon, for a stroll along the cliff:  but he heard the news on his return, from his landlady, while he sat at tea—­that is to say, he heard a part of it, for before the story was out he had set down his teacup, caught up hat and stick, and stumped out of the house.  The most of the townspeople were indoors at tea, discussing the sensation; the few he encountered had no greeting from him.  He looked neither to the right nor to the left; had no ears for his friends, the trout, as they rose at the evening flies.  He reached the signpost and—­walked past it!  He stumped straight up to the garden gate, which stood ajar, and pushed it wide with his stick.

“There were signs of trampling on the flower-beds; but—­for it was July—­the whole garden blazed with hollyhocks, oeillets, sweet Williams, sweet peas, above all with that yellow flower—­mimulus, monkey flower, is it not?—­which grows so profusely in gardens beside streams.  The air was weighted with scent of the reseda and of the jasmine which climbed the wall and almost choked the roses.

“The cottage door stood ajar also.  He thrust this open too, and for the first time stood face to face with Mademoiselle Henriette.

“She sat by the kitchen table, with one arm flung across it, and her body bowed with grief.  At her feet lay a trodden bunch of the monkey flowers:  and at the tap-tap of his wooden leg on the threshold she sprang up and faced him, across the yellow blossoms.

“‘Mademoiselle,’ he began, ’I have just learnt—­but it is an infamy! Permettez—­I am French, I also, though you do not know me perhaps.’

“And with that M. Benest stammered and came to a halt, for her eyes were worse than woeful.  They were accusing—­yes, accusing him.  Of what? Nom de tonnerre, what had he done?

“‘You, Monsieur! You—­an officer of France!’

“’Mais quel rapport y a-t-il?’

“‘Your parole, Monsieur!’

“’Peste! I forgot,’ said M. Benest, half to himself.

“’Forgot?  Forgot your parole?  Mais ecoutez donc!  Nous savons souffrir, nous autres franfaises . . .  Et la petite qui meurt—­et—­et moi qui mourrai Presqu’ a l’heure—­mais nous nous en tenons a’ ne pas dishonorer la Patrie a la fin.  Ca finira bien, sous-officier—­allez-vous—­allez-vous en.  Mais allez!’

“She stamped her foot upon the flowers, and M. Benest turned and fled from her.  Nay, in his haste, taking a short-cut towards the signpost, he plunged his wooden leg deep in the marsh, and tumbled helpless, overwhelmed with shame.

“He never passed the signpost again, nor caught another glimpse of Mademoiselle Henriette’s cap.  Three days later the Rector broke into the cottage and discovered her seated, dead and stiff, her hands stained with digging her sister’s grave.

“And the cottage had no new tenant.  Only M. Benest continued to eye it wistfully, as he cast his flies and pondered on his offence, which she had died without forgiving.