Afterward Carrigan wondered to what depths he had fallen in the first
moments of his disillusionment. Something like shock, perhaps even more
than that, must have betrayed itself in his face. He did not speak.
Slowly his outstretched arm dropped to the white counterpane. Later he
called himself a fool for allowing it to happen, for it was as if he
had measured his proffered friendship by what its future might hold for
him. In a low, quiet voice Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain was saying again
that she was St. Pierre's wife. She was not excited, yet he understood
now why it was he had thought her eyes were very dark. They had changed
swiftly. The violet freckles in them were like little flecks of gold.
They were almost liquid in their glow, neither brown nor black now, and
with that threat of gathering lightning in them. For the first time he
saw the slightest flush of color in her cheeks. It deepened even as he
held out his hand again. He knew that it was not embarrassment. It was
the heat of the fire back of her eyes. "It's--funny," he said, making
an effort to redeem himself with a lie and smiling. "You rather amaze
me. You see, I have been told this St. Pierre is an old, old man--so
old that he can't stand on his feet or go with his brigades, and if
that is the truth, it is hard for me to picture you as his wife. But
that isn't a reason why we should not be friends. Is it?"
He felt that he was himself again, except for the three days' growth of
beard on his face. He tried to laugh, but it was rather a poor attempt.
And St. Pierre's wife did not seem to hear him. She was looking at him,
looking into and through him with those wide-open glowing eyes. Then
she sat down, out of reach of the hand which he had held toward her.
"You are a sergeant of the police," she said, the softness gone
suddenly out of her voice. "You are an honorable man, m'sieu. Your hand
is against all wrong. Is it not so?" It was the voice of an inquisitor.
She was demanding an answer of him.