I smiled with satisfaction when Fanshawe told me this.
"Stay with him," I said; "it makes no difference whether or not he knows that you are always close behind him. In fact, I want him to know it; I want to break that man, and I will."
The other incident referred to was a meeting I succeeded in securing between Maillot and Miss Belle--memorable for me as being the first occasion upon which I was favored with a glimpse of Mrs. Fluette.
Sunday afternoon mother and daughter drove up to headquarters in the family carriage. Although the girl had been tactful enough to eschew a heavy veil and sombre apparel, it was plain to be seen that the event was almost too great an ordeal for even her proud and dauntless spirit.
Belle descended from the carriage hesitantly, and then stood looking about with an air of such helpless terror that I approached--I had previously resolved to keep myself effaced during the visit--and conducted her into the Captain's private office, where Maillot was waiting. She gave me an embarrassed, beseeching glance, and murmured a barely audible "Thank you." No more was said. She faltered an instant on the threshold, then, sobbing, rushed in. I made haste to close the door and rejoin Mrs. Fluette.
This lady was slight and frail, with hair as white as snow, and about her there hung an intangible something which gave me the impression that she was a woman who had suffered much. Although I strove to speak cheerfully of the prospects of Maillot's early release, her manner was quite discouraging to all my overtures. When she spoke at all it was only in the faintest of monosyllables--usually with her eyes avoiding mine. She looked at me, when at all, shyly, started at every unusual sound, and trembled during the whole time she sat in the Captain's big easy-chair.
At the end of the allotted half-hour--I was n't very particular over the number of minutes--Mrs. Fluette's increasing nervousness and impatience moved me to rap upon the private-room door. Belle emerged, her cheeks white and her eyes swollen with weeping. The poor girl pressed my hand when I helped her into the carriage--clung to it despairingly, to be exact--and the tears again gushed to her eyes.
"This is killing me!" she moaned. "Oh, it is! it is! I can't stand it much longer."