“Only us two,” said Gerard, consoling her.
“That’s what I mean,” she returned with a little smile, and Gerard de Montignac leaned forward.
“Marguerite, I don’t go for a couple of days,” he said, lowering his voice to an eager whisper. “Let us make the best of them! Let me have the memory of two good days and nights to carry away with me, will you? Why not? My work is done. I could start off with my troops at six o’clock to-morrow instead of at six o’clock on the third morning. Give me the next two days.”
Marguerite shook her head.
“No, my friend.”
Gerard de Montignac knew nothing of that conversation which Henriette had held with Paul Ravenel on this spot a few nights before. He could but believe that Marguerite Lambert somehow found that dreadful gang of nondescripts with whom she foregathered more to her taste than he or his friend. She shone like a flower in this squalid haunt, a tired and drooping flower. It was extraordinary that she could endure this company for a moment, to say nothing of their embraces. But women, even the most delicate amongst them, would blindfold their eyes and stop their ears, and cease to appreciate both the look of their friends and the esteem in which they are held, if their interest prompted them. Gerard de Montignac rose angrily from his chair.
“Of course poor devils of officers like myself can’t hope to compete with these rich Dagoes,” he said brutally. “We must console ourselves with reflecting that our efforts and dangers have made them rich.”
Marguerite Lambert flushed scarlet at the insult, and then lowered her head.
“I do not wish to speak to you again,” she said in a distinct low voice, and Gerard de Montignac stalked out of the Villa Iris.
He was troubled by his recollection of the little scene during the next two days; sometimes falling into a remorse, and sometimes repeating his own words with bravado, and arguing that this was the proper way to speak; and always ending with a flood of heart-felt curses.