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René winced at the word piteously. With white lips and a bleeding heart, Madeleine struggled on.

“You see, I have not told Pierre.... And I do not want Pierre, my husband, to make the same mistake. I do not think that he would, but you never know. And if he did, it would be very awkward for me. I do not know how I should show him that he was wrong....

“And so, you see, my friend, that when I said that the hours we spend together are of sharp steel, I was perfectly right. They pierce your heart, I fear, and they—they—embarrass me.... Don’t look like that, René! I tell you, I hoped——”

“Hope?” cried René, with a wild laugh. “Hope? I do not know what you mean. What is hope?”

Here Lacaze appeared, smiling and nodding good will.

“Did you think I was dead?” he crowed. “I think that you must have. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been off the ground. Notre Dame was not ready for me. Instead, to tell you the truth, I have been talking business.” He jerked his head at the window directly behind them. “Sitting in there. I became so absorbed that I forgot our engagement. Then I heard your voices, you know, and that reminded me.” He took his seat between them and looked benignantly round. “And now about supper.... I think a nice little ragoût, with potatoes en robe de chambre.”