"Ah then, look at that," said Manon Moignard, with a sneer, "when one
pleases you and God it is a ticket to heaven, diantre!"

But in truth what Detricand and the Chevalier had done was but of human
pity. The day after the duel, Detricand had arrived in Paris to proceed
thence to Bercy. There he heard of Philip's death and of Damour's
desertion. Sending officers to Bercy to frustrate any possible designs
of Damour, he, with the Chevalier, took Philip's body back to Jersey,
delivering it to those who would do it honour.

Detricand did not see Guida. For all that might be said to her now the
Chevalier should be his mouthpiece. In truth there could be no better
mouthpiece for him. It was Detricand--Detricand--Detricand, like a
child, in admiration and in affection. If Guida did not understand all
now, there should come a time when she would understand. Detricand would
wait. She should find that he was just, that her honour and the honour
of her child were safe with him.

As for Guida, it was not grief she felt in the presence of this tragedy.
No spark of love sprang up, even when remembrance was now brought to its
last vital moment. But a fathomless pity stirred her heart, that
Philip's life had been so futile and that all he had done was come to
naught. His letter, blotched and blotted by his own dead cheek, she read
quietly. Yet her heart ached bitterly--so bitterly that her face became
pinched with pain; for here in this letter was despair, here was the
final agony of a broken life, here were the last words of the father of
her child to herself. She saw with a sudden pang that in writing of
Guilbert he only said your child, not ours. What a measureless distance
there was between them in the hour of his death, and how clearly the