All eyes were now turned on the notary, who was hurriedly looking through the papers thrown down before him by Lory.

“They have passed through my hands before, when I was a youth, in connection with a boundary dispute,” he said, as if to explain his apparent hastiness. “They are all here—they are correct, monsieur.”

He was a very quick man, and folding the papers as he spoke, he tied them together with the faded pink tape which had been fingered by three generations of Vasselots. He laid the packet on the table close to Lory's hand. Then he glanced at Denise and fell into thought, arranging in his mind that which he had to say to her.

“It is one of those cases, mademoiselle,” he said at length, “common enough in Corsica, where a verbal agreement has never been confirmed in writing. Men who have been friends, become enemies so easily in this country. I cannot tell you upon what terms Mattei Perucca lived in the Casa. No one can tell you that. All that we know is that we have no title-deeds—and that monsieur has them. The Casa may be yours, but you cannot prove it. Such a case tried in a law court in Corsica would go in favour of the litigant who possessed the greater number of friends in the locality. It would go in your favour if it could be tried here. But it would need to go to France. And there we could only look for justice, and justice is on the side of monsieur.”

He apologized, as it were, for justice, of which he made himself the representative in that room. Then he turned towards de Vasselot.

“Monsieur is well within his rights—” he said, significantly, “—if he insist on them.”

“I insist on them,” replied Lory, who was proud of Denise's pride.

And Denise laughed.

The notary turned and looked curiously at her.

“Mademoiselle is able to be amused.”

“I was thinking of the Rue du Cherche-Midi in Paris,” she said, and the explanation left the lawyer more puzzled than before. She took up her gloves and drew them on.

“Then I am rendered penniless, monsieur?” she asked the notary.

“By me,” answered Lory. And even the notary was silent. It is hard to silence a man who lives by his tongue. But there were here, it seemed, understandings and misunderstandings which the lawyer failed to comprehend.

The AbbÉ Susini had crossed the room and was whispering something hurriedly to Mademoiselle Brun, who acquiesced curtly and rather angrily. She had the air of the man at the wheel, to whom one must not speak. For she was endeavouring rather nervously to steer two high-sailed vessels through those shoals and quicksands that must be passed by all who set out in quest of love.

Then the abbÉ turned impulsively to Lory.

“Mademoiselle must be told about the gold—she must be told,” he said.

“I had forgotten the gold,” answered Lory, quite truthfully.

“You have forgotten everything, except the eyes of mademoiselle,” the abbÉ muttered to himself as he went back to his place near the window. De Vasselot took up the packet of papers and began to untie the tape awkwardly with his one able hand. He was so slow that Mademoiselle Brun leant forward and assisted him. Denise bit her lip and pushed a chair towards him with her foot. He sat down and unfolded a map coloured and drawn in queer angles. This he laid upon the table, and, by a gesture, called Mademoiselle Brun and Denise to look at it. The abbÉ took a pencil from the notary's table, and after studying the map for a moment he drew a careful circle in the centre of it, embracing portions of the various colours and of the two estates described respectively as Perucca and Vasselot.

“That,” he said to Lory, “is the probable radius of it so far as the expert could tell me on his examination of the ground yesterday.”

Lory turned to Denise.

“You must think us all mad—at our games of cross-purposes,” he said. “It appears that there is gold in the two estates—and gold has accounted for most human madnesses. Where the abbÉ has drawn this line there lies the gold—beyond the dreams of avarice, mademoiselle. And Colonel Gilbert was the only man who knew it. So you understand Gilbert, at all events.”

“You did not know it when I asked your advice in Paris?”

“I learnt it two hours ago from the AbbÉ Susini; so I hastened here to claim the whole of it,” answered Lory, with a laugh.

But Denise was grave.

“But you knew that Perucca was never mine,” she persisted.

“Yes, I knew that, but then Perucca was valueless. So soon as I knew its value, I reclaimed it.”

“I warn Monsieur de Vasselot that such frankness is imprudent; he may regret it,” put in the notary with a solemn face. And Denise gave him a glance of withering pity. The poor man, it seemed, was quite at sea.

“Thank you,” laughed de Vasselot. “I only judge myself as the world will judge me. You were very rich, mademoiselle, and I have made you very poor.”

Denise glanced at him, and said nothing. And de Vasselot's breath came rather quickly.

“But the Casa Perucca is at your disposal so long as you may choose to live there,” he continued. “My father is to be buried at Olmeta to-morrow, but I cannot even remain to attend the funeral. So I need not assure you that I do not want the Casa Perucca for myself.”

“Where are you going?” asked Denise, bluntly.

“Back to France. I have heard news that makes it necessary for me to return. Gambetta has escaped from Paris in a balloon, and is organizing affairs at Tours. We may yet make a defence.”

“You?” said Mademoiselle Brun. Into the one word she threw, or attempted to throw, a world of contempt, as she looked him up and down, with his arm in a sling, and his wounded leg bent awkwardly to one side; but her eyes glittered. This was a man after her own heart.

“One has one's head left, mademoiselle,” answered Lory. Then he turned to the window, and held up one hand. “Listen!” he added.

It was the music of a second regiment marching down the Boulevard du Palais, towards the port, and, as it approached, it was rendered almost inaudible by the shouts of the men themselves, and of the crowd that cheered them. De Vasselot went to the window and opened it, his face twitching, and his eyes shining with excitement.

“Listen to them,” he said. “Listen to them. Ah! but it is good to hear them.”

Instinctively the others followed him, and stood grouped in the open window, looking down into the street. The band was now passing, clanging out the Marseillaise, and the fickle people cheered the new tricolour, as it fluttered in the wind. Some one looked up, and perceived de Vasselot's uniform.

“Come, mon capitaine,” he cried; “you are coming with us?”

Lory laughed, and shouted back—“Yes—I am coming.”

“See,” cried a sergeant, who was gathering recruits as he went—“see! there is one who has fought, and is going to fight again! Vive la France, mes enfants! Who comes? Who comes?”

And the soldiers, looking up, gave a cheer for the wounded man who was to lead them. They passed on, followed by a troup of young men and boys, half of whom ultimately stepped on board the steamer at the last moment, and went across the sea to fight for France.

De Vasselot turned away from the window, and went towards the table, where the papers lay in confusion. The abbÉ took them up, and began to arrange them in order.

“And the estate and the gold?” he said; “who manages that, since you are going to fight?”

“You,” replied de Vasselot, “since you cannot fight. There is no one but you in Corsica who can manage it. There is none but you to understand these people.”

“All the world knows who manages half of Corsica,” put in Mademoiselle Brun, looking fiercely at the abbÉ. But the abbÉ only stamped his foot impatiently.

“Woman's gossip,” he muttered, as he shook the papers together. “Yes; I will manage your estate if you like. And if there is gold in the land, I will tear it out. And there is gold. The amiable colonel is not the man to have made a mistake on that point. I shall like the work. It will be an occupation. It will serve to fill one's life.”

“Your life is not empty,” said mademoiselle.

The abbÉ turned and looked at her, his glittering eyes meeting her twinkling glance.

“It is a priest's life,” he said. “Come,” he added, turning to the lawyer—“come, Mr. the Notary, into your other room, and write me out a form of authority for the Count de Vasselot to sign. We have had enough of verbal agreements on this estate.”

And, taking the notary by the arm, he went to the door. On the threshold he turned, and looked at Mademoiselle Brun.

“A priest's life,” he said, “or an old woman's. It is the same thing.”

And Lory was left alone with mademoiselle and Denise. The window was still open, and from the port the sound of the military music reached their ears faintly. Mademoiselle rose, and went to the window, where she stood looking out. Her eyes were dim as she looked across the sordid street, but her lips were firm, and the hands that rested on the window-sill quite steady. She had played consistently a strong and careful game. Was she going to win or lose? She held that, next to being a soldier, it is good to be a soldier's wife and the mother of fighting men. And when she thought of the Rue du Cherche-Midi, she was not able to be amused, as the notary had said of Denise.

There was a short silence in the notary's office. De Vasselot was fingering the hilt of his long cavalry sword reflectively. After a moment he glanced across at Denise. He was placed as it were between her and the sword. And it was to the sword that he gave his allegiance.

“You see,” he said, in a low voice, “I must go.”

“Yes, you must go,” she answered. She held her lip for a moment between her teeth. Then she looked steadily at him. “Go!” she said.

He rose from his chair and looked towards Mademoiselle Bran's back. At the rattle of his scabbard against the chair, mademoiselle turned.

“There is a horse waiting in the street below,” she said—“the great horse that Colonel Gilbert rides. It is waiting for you, I suppose.”

“I suppose so,” said Lory, who went to the window and looked curiously down. Gilbert was certainly an odd man. He had left in anger, and had left his horse for Lory to ride. He waited a moment, and then held out his hand to Mademoiselle Brun. All three seemed to move and speak under a sort of oppression. It was one of those moments that impress themselves indelibly on the memory—a moment when words are suddenly useless—when the memory of an attitude and of a silence remains all through life.

“Good-bye, mademoiselle,” said Lory, with a sudden cheerfulness; “we shall meet in France next time.”

Mademoiselle Brun held out her shrinking little hand.

“Yes, in France,” she answered.

To Denise, Lory said nothing. He merely shook hands with her. Then he walked towards the door, haltingly. He used his sword like a walking stick, with his one able hand. Denise had to open the door for him. He was on the threshold, when Mademoiselle Brun stopped him.

“Monsieur de Vasselot,” she said, “when the soldiers went past, you and Colonel Gilbert spoke together hurriedly; I saw you. You are not going to fight—you two?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, we are going to fight—the Prussians. We are friends while we have a common enemy. When there is no enemy—who knows? He has received a great appointment in France, and has offered me a post under him. And I have accepted it.”