"At least, that is what he seems to expect," went on La Vireville, proceeding also with his meal. "And surely I could not do better than emulate the Psalmist King. I am sorry I have no wine to offer you, mon ami. Perhaps you have already supped, however. By the way, have you heard anything about the approaching arrival of a fresh division of émigré troops--Sombreuil's?" "Yes, I have heard something," answered the Marquis absently. "I see that you do not want to speak of this business, Fortuné; you must forgive me for having referred to it." La Vireville laid down his knife. "On the contrary, I am minded to tell you once for all why I do not find M. de St. Four's company congenial. Figure to yourself, my dear René, that ten years ago he ran off with my affianced wife." "Bon Dieu!" "It has occurred before in the history of the world," said La Vireville coolly and with a curling lip--sneering at himself, so de Flavigny thought. "Only he happened to be my best friend. That, as you may guess, made it much more . . . interesting. Also, it was but the day before my marriage. Now you know why I did not fall into his arms a short time ago when you wanted me to." Beyond the fact that he was unusually pale, one thing alone betrayed that he was on the rack--his voice. Not that it was unsteady. René was almost as much in torture as he, but it seemed best to follow his lead and avoid at least the expression of emotion. "You called him out?" he hazarded after a moment, thinking of the scar whose half-revealed history was now clear to him. La Vireville nodded. "He gave me this memento, as I told you the other day." He poured out some cider, and added, "As for me, I was fool enough to fire in the air." "You loved--_her_--as much as that!" cried the Marquis before he could stop himself. The little remaining colour ebbed slowly from La Vireville's face, and, like a palimpsest, all the suffering written below its sardonic gaiety was abruptly visible. He did not answer, and René, ashamed to have unveiled it, put his own hand over his eyes as if to shade them from the candle. "He loves her still," he said to himself. La Vireville suddenly laughed, and the sound made his companion jump. "I might as well have shot him after all," he said, with cold levity. "Why?" "She left him after a year for another man. Dramatic justice, was it not?--and a lesson to me always to follow my first impulses! But I have bored you with my affairs long enough. As I have no wine, will you drink a glass of cider? There is little variety of vintage on this damned peninsula." But René de Flavigny refused and, rising, flung his cloak about him. La Vireville surely was better alone. He longed to ask if the woman were still alive, but dared not. La Vireville's face, however, was an enigma once more. He took the Marquis's outstretched hand across the table.