_The signet of the king._
Already a wan light was revealing the round tops of the plum-trees in M.
de Mirabeau's garden, the high gray wall, and the narrow alleyway
beneath it. And the two vague shapes by me were no longer vague shapes,
but were turning moment by moment, as if coming out of an enchantment,
into their true forms. It really was Monsieur in the flesh, with a wet
glint in his eyes as he kissed his boy.
Neither thought of me, and it was none of my concern what they said to
each other. I went a rod or two down the lane, round a curve in the
wall, and watched the bands of light streaking the eastern sky, in utter
content. Never before had the world seemed to me so good a place. Since
this misery had come right, I knew all the rest would; I should yet
dance at M. Étienne's wedding.
I leaned my head back against the wall, and had shut my eyes to consider
the matter more quietly, when I heard my name.
"Félix! Félix! Where is the boy got to?"
The sun was clean up over the horizon, and as I blinked and wondered
how he had contrived the feat so quickly, my two messieurs came hand in
hand round the corner to me, the level rays glittering on Monsieur's
burnished breastplate, on M. Étienne's bright head, and on both their
shining faces. Now that for the first time I saw them together, I found
them, despite the dark hair and the yellow, the brown eyes and the gray,
wonderfully alike. There was the same carriage, the same cock of the
head, the same smile. If I had not known before, I knew now, the instant
I looked at them, that the quarrel was over. Save as it gave them a
deeper love of each other, it might never have been.