"It was not Fabien's fault. It was his uncle who was angry. Fabien had done nothing wrong." Her whole attitude changed; her throat curved, her eyes kindled; evidently she was prepared to do battle for the absent if the opportunity came. M. Deshoulieres, however, had relapsed into silence, his elbows on his knees, his hands thrust into his hair. Looking up at last, he suddenly said,-- "And you mean to say that you do not know where he went?" "No," she answered, steadily. "Your aunt, Madame Moreau, has not been dead many months; do you suppose that she was as strangely ignorant?" "I do not know--I cannot tell," said Therese, with agitation. "But you have an idea," said M. Deshoulieres, fixing his keen eyes upon her, and frowning unconsciously. "From something she once let drop I fancied he was in America, but when I begged and prayed her to tell me she became so terrified at her own imprudence that I could not find out any thing more. She was in great awe of my uncle. He never mentioned poor Fabien, except once, when--" She stopped short, tears gathered in her eyes. "Well?" said Deshoulieres, impatiently. "--When he showed me a scrap of writing, evidently torn off a letter, and containing only two lines." M. Deshoulieres said, "Well?" once more. Therese turned and looked at him reproachfully. She thought him cruel, hard. He was trying to befriend her after his own fashion, but she found it difficult to believe. There are sore places in our hearts which others touch all unconsciously, and when the pain darts through us we feel as if they must know something of what they are doing. "They were bitter words," she said, her voice faltering. "`I renounce for ever my country, and the friends I left there.'" "Bah!" said M. Deshoulieres, irreverently. The girl flashed round upon him. "You do not know Fabien!" "Who were his friends?" he asked, without noticing her little outburst. And then Therese glanced shyly at him, and calmed down. Here was his best friend if this man would only understand. But he was terribly prosaic, he would not understand. His questions travelled relentlessly along the great dusty high road of facts, while her thoughts danced away from them into sweet little flowery meadows, river-banks, a sunny dream-land of what might, have been, what might be yet. In spite of her trouble, an irrepressible smile quivered on her lips, which would have puzzled the doctor, had he seen it. She answered demurely that the only two of whom she knew were a certain Leon Fauchet, whom she believed to have entered the army; and Claude Lamourette, who went out to China within a few weeks of Fabien's departure.