Some one drew out of the shadows and came towards her. It was Madame
Degardy. She had seen the sobbing figure inside the tent, but, with the
occasional wisdom of the foolish of this world, she had not been less
considerate than the children of light.
With brusque, kindly taps of her stick, she drove the girl to her own
tent, and bade her sleep: but sleep was not for Elise that night; and in
the grey dawn, while yet no one was stirring in the camp, she passed
slowly down the valley to her home.
Madame Chalice was greatly troubled also. Valmond's life was saved. In
three days he was on his feet, eager and ardent again, and preparing to
go to the village; but what would the end of it all be? She knew of De la
Riviere's intentions, and she foresaw a crisis. If Valmond were in very
truth a Napoleon, all might be well, though this crusade must close here.
If he were an impostor, things would go cruelly hard with him. Impostor?
Strange how, in spite of all evidence against him, she still felt a vital
sureness in him somewhere; a radical reality, a convincing quality of
presence. At times he seemed like an actor playing his own character.
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