“I did not want you to go like this.  I couldn’t let you,” she explained herself.  “I know him better than you do, and I know that his great soft heart will presently melt.  He will be filled with regret.  He will want to send for you, and he will not know where to send.”

“You think that?”

“Oh, I know it!  You arrive in a bad moment.  He is peevish and cross-grained, poor man, since he came here.  These soft surroundings are all so strange to him.  He wearies himself away from his beloved Gavrillac, his hunting and tillage, and the truth is that in his mind he very largely blames you for what has happened — for the necessity, or at least, the wisdom, of this change.  Brittany, you must know, was becoming too unsafe.  The chateau of La Tour d’Azyr, amongst others, was burnt to the ground some months ago.  At any moment, given a fresh excitement, it may be the turn of Gavrillac.  And for this and his present discomfort he blames you and your friends.  But he will come round presently.  He will be sorry that he sent you away like this — for I know that he loves you, Andre, in spite of all.  I shall reason with him when the time comes.  And then we shall want to know where to find you.”

“At number 13, Rue du Hasard.  The number is unlucky, the name of the street appropriate.  Therefore both are easy to remember.”

She nodded.  “I will walk with you to the gates.”  And side by side now they proceeded at a leisurely pace down the long avenue in the June sunshine dappled by the shadows of the bordering trees.  “You are looking well, Andre; and do you know that you have changed a deal?  I am glad that you have prospered.”  And then, abruptly changing the subject before he had time to answer her, she came to the matter uppermost in her mind.

“I have so wanted to see you in all these months, Andre.  You were the only one who could help me; the only one who could tell me the truth, and I was angry with you for never having written to say where you were to be found.”

“Of course you encouraged me to do so when last we met in Nantes.”

“What?  Still resentful?”

“I am never resentful.  You should know that.”  He expressed one of his vanities.  He loved to think himself a Stoic.  “But I still bear the scar of a wound that would be the better for the balm of your retraction.”

“Why, then, I retract, Andre.  And now tell me.”

“Yes, a self-seeking retraction,” said he.  “You give me something that you may obtain something.”  He laughed quite pleasantly.  “Well, well; command me.”

“Tell me, Andre.”  She paused, as if in some difficulty, and then went on, her eyes upon the ground:  “Tell me — the truth of that event at the Feydau.”

The request fetched a frown to his brow.  He suspected at once the thought that prompted it.  Quite simply and briefly he gave her his version of the affair.