A little change came over the hard, stern face of the old noble.

He, too, had suffered; he, too, had been hungry and weak and weary; he, too, had eaten his heart out longing for what seemed impossible.

After all, they had been friends and more than friends, these ancient houses, the high born and the peasant born, for many generations.
"St.Laurent," he said sharply, "we have been remiss.

Monsieur is ill, a chair for him.

Laure, a glass of wine." Indeed, the constraint that Marteau had put upon himself had drawn heavily upon his scanty reserve of nervous force.