And Artois--he began to feel almost clairvoyant. The new softness that
had come to him with the pain of the body, that had been developed by the
blessed rest from pain that was convalescence, had not stricken his
faculty of seeing clear in others, but it had changed, at any rate for a
time, the sentiments that followed upon the exercise of that faculty.
Scorn and contempt were less near to him than they had been. Pity was
nearer. He felt now almost sure that Delarey had fallen into some
trouble while Hermione was in Africa, that he was oppressed at this
moment by some great uneasiness or even fear, that he was secretly
cursing some imprudence, and that his last words were a sort of
surreptitious plea for forgiveness, thrown out to the Powers of the air,
to the Spirits of the void, to whatever shadowy presences are about the
guilty man ready to condemn his sin. He felt, too, that he owed much to
Delarey. In a sense it might be said that he owed to him his life. For
Delarey had allowed Hermione to come to Africa, and if Hermione had not
come the end for him, Artois, might well have been death.
"I should like to say something to you, monsieur," he said. "It is rather
difficult to say, because I do not wish it to seem formal, when the
feeling that prompts it is not formal."
Maurice was again looking over the wall, watching with intensity the
black speck that was slowly approaching on the little path.
"What is it, monsieur?" he asked, quickly.
"I owe you a debt--indeed I do. You must not deny it. Through your
magnanimous action in permitting your wife to leave you, you, perhaps
indirectly, saved my life. For, without her aid, I do not think I could
have recovered. Of her nobility and devotion I will not, because I cannot
adequately, speak. But I wish to say to you that if ever I can do you a
service of any kind I will do it."
As he finished Maurice, who was looking at him now, saw a veil over his
big eyes. Could it--could it possibly be a veil of tears!
"Thank you," he answered.
He tried to speak warmly, cordially. But his heart said to him: "You can
do nothing for me now. It is all too late!"
Yet the words and the emotion of Artois were some slight relief to him.
He was able to feel that in this man he had no secret enemy, but, if
need be, a friend.