You see, I
have been told this St. Pierre is an old, old man--so old that he
can't stand on his feet or go with his brigades, and if that is
the truth, it is hard for me to picture you as his wife. But that
isn't a reason why we should not be friends. Is it?"
He felt that he was himself again, except for the three days'
growth of beard on his face. He tried to laugh, but it was rather
a poor attempt. And St. Pierre's wife did not seem to hear him.
She was looking at him, looking into and through him with those
wide-open glowing eyes. Then she sat down, out of reach of the
hand which he had held toward her.
"You are a sergeant of the police," she said, the softness gone
suddenly out of her voice. "You are an honorable man, m'sieu. Your
hand is against all wrong. Is it not so?" It was the voice of an
inquisitor. She was demanding an answer of him.
He nodded. "Yes, it is so."
The fire in her eyes deepened. "And yet you say you want to be the
friend of a stranger who has tried to kill you. WHY, m'sieu?"
He was cornered. He sensed the humiliation of it, the
impossibility of confessing to her the wild impulse that had moved
him before he knew she was St.
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