CHAPTER XVI
SUNRISE
André-Louis took the air next morning on the terrace at Meudon. The hour was very early, and the newly risen sun was transmuting into
diamonds the dewdrops that still lingered on the lawn. Down in the valley, five miles away, the morning mists were rising over Paris. Yet early as it was that house on the hill was astir already, in a
bustle of preparation for the departure that was imminent.
André-Louis had won safely out of Paris last night with his mother and Aline, and to-day they were to set out all of them for Coblenz.
To André-Louis, sauntering there with hands clasped behind him and head hunched between his shoulders—for life had never been richer in material for reflection—came presently Aline through one of the glass doors from the library.
"You're early astir," she greeted him.
"Faith, yes. I have n't been to bed. No," he assured her, in answer to her exclamation. "I spent the night, or what was left of it, sitting at the window thinking."
"My poor André!"
"You describe me perfectly. I am very poor—for I know nothing, understand nothing. It is not a calamitous condition until it is realized. Then ..." He threw out his arms, and let them fall again. His face she observed was very drawn and haggard.
She paced with him along the old granite balustrade over which the geraniums flung their mantle of green and scarlet.
"Have you decided what you are going to do?" she asked him.
"I have decided that I have no choice. I, too, must emigrate. I am lucky to be able to do so, lucky to have found no
