“It made you very sad then to lose your friend?” said he.

“It kills me to be forgotten, Monsieur,” I said. “All these weary days I have not heard from you one word, and I was crushed with the possibility, growing to certainty, that you would depart without saying farewell!”

“Must I tell you what I told Modeste Beck⁠—that you do not know me? Must I show and teach you my character? You will have proof that I can be a firm friend? Without clear proof this hand will not lie still in mine, it will not trust my shoulder as a safe stay? Good. The proof is ready. I come to justify myself.”

“Say anything, teach anything, prove anything, Monsieur; I can listen now.”

“Then, in the first place, you must go out with me a good distance into the town. I came on purpose to fetch you.”