“Agreed,” said Genestas, and the two friends as they went upstairs bade each other good-night.  When they reached the landing that lay between their rooms, Genestas set down his candle on the window ledge and turned towards Benassis.

“Tonnerre de Dieu!” he said, with outspoken enthusiasm; “I cannot let you go without telling you that you are the third among christened men to make me understand that there is Something up there,” and he pointed to the sky.

The doctor’s answer was a smile full of sadness and a cordial grasp of the hand that Genestas held out to him.

Before daybreak next morning Commandant Genestas was on his way.  On his return, it was noon before he reached the spot on the highroad between Grenoble and the little town, where the pathway turned that led to La Fosseuse’s cottage.  He was seated in one of the light open cars with four wheels, drawn by one horse, that are in use everywhere on the roads in these hilly districts.  Genestas’ companion was a thin, delicate-looking lad, apparently about twelve years of age, though in reality he was in his sixteenth year.  Before alighting, the officer looked round about him in several directions in search of a peasant who would take the carriage back to Benassis’ house.  It was impossible to drive to La Fosseuse’s cottage, the pathway was too narrow.  The park-keeper happened to appear upon the scene, and helped Genestas out of his difficulty, so that the officer and his adopted son were at liberty to follow the mountain footpath that led to the trysting-place.

“Would you not enjoy spending a year in running about in this lovely country, Adrien?  Learning to hunt and to ride a horse, instead of growing pale over your books?  Stay! look there!”

Adrien obediently glanced over the valley with languid indifference; like all lads of his age, he cared nothing for the beauty of natural scenery; so he only said, “You are very kind, father,” without checking his walk.

The invalid listlessness of this answer went to Genestas’ heart; he said no more to his son, and they reached La Fosseuse’s house in silence.

“You are punctual, commandant!” cried Benassis, rising from the wooden bench where he was sitting.

But at the sight of Adrien he sat down again, and seemed for a while to be lost in thought.  In a leisurely fashion he scanned the lad’s sallow, weary face, not without admiring its delicate oval outlines, one of the most noticeable characteristics of a noble head.  The lad was the living image of his mother.  He had her olive complexion, beautiful black eyes with a sad and thoughtful expression in them, long hair, a head too energetic for the fragile body; all the peculiar beauty of the Polish Jewess had been transmitted to her son.

“Do you sleep soundly, my little man?” Benassis asked him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me see your knees; turn back your trousers.”