'Voban,' he say in a low voice,
'Bigot was a thief.' He point to the chest. 'He stole from the
King--my father. He stole your Mathilde from you! He should have
died. We have both been blunderers, Voban, blunderers,' he say;
'things have gone wrong with us. We have lost all.' There is little
time. 'Tell me one thing,' he go on: 'Is Mademoiselle Duvarney
safe--do you know?' I tell him yes, and he smile, and take from
his pocket something, and lay it against his lips, and then put
it back in his breast.
"'You are not afraid to die, Voban?' he ask. I answer no. 'Shake
hands with me, my friend,' he speak, and I do so that. 'Ah, pardon,
pardon, m'sieu',' I say. 'No, no, Voban; it was to be,' he answer.
'We shall meet again, comrade--eh, if we can?' he speak on, and he
turn away from me and look to the sky through the window. Then he
look at his watch, and get to his feet, and stand there still. I
kiss my crucifix. He reach out and touch it, and bring his fingers
to his lips. 'Who can tell--perhaps--perhaps!' he say. For a little
minute--ah, it seem like a year, and it is so still, so still he
stand there, and then he put his hand over the watch, lift it up,
and shut his eyes, as if time is all done. While you can count ten
it is so, and then the great crash come."
For a long time Voban lay silent again. I gave him more cordial,
and he revived and ended his tale.
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