At any rate, Coquenil was henceforth far beyond any need of following his profession; whatever use he might in the future make of his brilliant talents would be for the sheer joy of conquest and strictly in the spirit of art for its own sake.
On the other hand, if at any time he wished to undertake a case, it was certain that the city of Paris or the government of France would tender him their commissions on a silver salver, for now, of course, his justification was complete and, by special arrangement, he was given a sort of roving commission from headquarters with indefinite leave of absence. Best of all, he was made chevalier of the Legion of Honor "for conspicuous public service." What a day it was, to be sure, when Madam Coquenil first caught sight of that precious red badge on her son's coat!
So we leave Paul Coquenil resting and recuperating in the Vosges Mountains, taking long drives with his mother and planning the rebuilding of their mountain home.
"You did your work, Paul, and I'm proud of you," the old lady said when she heard the tragic tale, "but don't forget, my boy, it was the hand of God that saved you."
"Yes, mother," he said fondly, and added with a mischievous smile, "don't forget that you had a little to do with it, too."
As for the lovers, there is only this to be said: that they were ridiculously, indescribably happy. The mystery of Alice's strange dreams and clairvoyant glimpses (it should be Mary) was in great part accounted for, so Dr. Duprat declared, by certain psychological abnormalities connected with her loss of memory; these would quickly disappear, he thought, with a little care and a certain electrical treatment that he recommended. Lloyd was positive kisses would do the thing just as well; at any rate, he proposed to give this theory a complete test.
The young American had one grievance.
"It's playing it low on a fellow," he said, "when he's just squared himself to hustle for a poor candle seller to change her into a howling millionaire. I'd like to know how the devil I'm going to be a hero now?"
"Silly boy," she laughed, her radiant eyes burning on him, at which he threatened to begin the treatment forthwith.
"You darling!" he cried. "My little Alice! Hanged if I can ever call you anything but Alice!"
She looked up at him archly and nestled close.
"Lloyd, dear, I know a nicer name than Alice."
"Yes?"
"A nicer name than Mary."
"Yes?"
"A nicer name than any name."
"What is it, you little beauty?" he murmured, drawing her closer still and pressing his lips to hers.
"How can I—tell you—unless you—let me—speak?" she panted.
Then, with wonderful dancing lights in those deep, strange windows of her soul, she whispered: "The nicest name in the world for me is—Mrs. Lloyd Kittredge!"