Gosse had come to Blaye, so he had said, feeling it his duty as the vicomte’s erstwhile secretary to deliver the fateful tidings, bringing with him one of the servant girls, Yolande, who had also escaped the fury of the mob. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. If I surprised her, if I saw her alone, I might make her understand. Her voice recalled him. But nobody drinks on my island unless I offer it, which is seldom. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. But his lips were honourlocked.
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