The Omelet
The vine was red on the white old soft wall.
It was very beautiful. There were masses of purple asters under the red vine, against the wall. There was a bowl of purple asters on the table between the carafes of red and white vine.
We had an omelet and bread and butter and raspberries, and water, very beautiful in the thick greenish glasses.
Under the yellow boughs of the lime tree we could see the misty valley and the mountains.
The table had a red-and-white cloth.
The little old thin brown woman who served us wanted to talk all the time with us. She wanted to talk about the omelet; she had made it and was very proud of it. She wanted to talk about the war and to talk about her son.
She said that there had been some horrible, strange mistake and that people thought that he was dead. She had had a paper from the Ministry of War telling her he was dead. It was very strange. She had had a letter also from the Aumonier, telling her he was dead. But, of course, she knew.
She said he would come home, and be so sorry she had had such dreadful news, and so glad that she had not believed it.
They would laugh together. He had beautiful white teeth, she said, and his eyes screwed tight up when he laughed.
She told us how she and he would laugh together.