A long-skirted coat,
a la francaise, covered loosely his thin, bowed back. A small
three-cornered hat rested on a lot of powdered hair, tied in a queue.
"Monsieur le Chevalier," called General D'Hubert, softly.
"What? You here again, mon ami? Have you forgotten something?"
"By heavens! that's just it. I have forgotten something. I am come to
tell you of it. No--outside. Behind this wall. It's too ghastly a thing
to be let in at all where she lives."
The Chevalier came out at once with that benevolent resignation some
old people display towards the fugue of youth. Older by a quarter of a
century than General D'Hubert, he looked upon him in the secret of
his heart as a rather troublesome youngster in love. He had heard his
enigmatical words very well, but attached no undue importance to what a
mere man of forty so hard hit was likely to do or say. The turn of mind
of the generation of Frenchmen grown up during the years of his exile
was almost unintelligible to him. Their sentiments appeared to him
unduly violent, lacking fineness and measure, their language needlessly
exaggerated.
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