He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. “I don’t know where to go to. 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. Listen. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness.
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