Suddenly she understood. Louise was waiting, hoping that the miracle might be accomplished—that Mireille might speak. Then Chérie also stood motionless with clasped hands, and waited, waited for a sound, a word, a cry.
But the silence remained unbroken.
At last she heard the sound of Louise's weeping; and, soon after, their soft, retreating footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Then utter silence.
And Chérie still stood at the closed door, leaning her forehead against its panels.
They had gone. Louise was taking Mireille to bed. She had not called Chérie. She had not said good-night, nor asked her to come and see Mireille. No. Chérie was not needed. Louise, even in her great sorrow, did not think of coming to Chérie. She had gone with Mireille to her room, and she would stay there and weep all alone, and sleep at last, never knowing that Florian had been, never knowing that he had gone away for ever, never knowing that Chérie's heart was broken!... With a rush of passionate grief Chérie drew back from the door and fell on her knees beside the cradle.
And there the great May moon, rising like a golden disc over the hills of the Ardennes, found her and shone down through the round window, upon her and her sleeping babe.
Louise, lying awake in the dark, heard the church clock strike eleven. She lay quite still in the silent room, listening to Mireille's soft breathing. Then she thought of Claude, and prayed for his safety; but not for his return.
At last, exhausted, she slept.
But Mireille, though her soft breathing never varied, was not asleep. She lay motionless in the dark, with her eyes wide open. She was listening to something that had awakened within her—Memory!...