"Yes, you must tell them," said Florian. "And send them to their homes at once."
"Oh, what will Mireille do?" gasped Louise. "What if she were to cry? What if she were to fall ill with fear?"
"Little Mireille is braver than we are," he said, smiling and putting his arm around her drooping shoulders. "Courage, petite marraine" and he bent over her with fraternal tenderness and kissed her cheek.
He was left alone for a few moments; he heard the singing overhead stop suddenly. Light fluttering footsteps came running down the stairs; the door opened and Chérie stood on the threshold.
He caught his breath. Was this vision of beauty in the floating silken draperies his little friend Chérie? How had she been transformed without his noticing it from the awkward little school-girl he had known into this enchanting flower-like loveliness? She noticed his wonder and stood still, smiling and drawing a diaphanous scarf that floated mistily about her somewhat closer over her pearly shoulders. Her limpid eyes gazed up at him with blue and heavenly innocence.
A shudder passed through the man as he looked at her—a shudder of prescient horror. Were not the wolves on the way already? Were not the blood-drunken hordes already tearing and slashing their way towards this virginal flower? Must he leave her to the mercy of their foul and furious lust?
Again the fearful shudder passed through him. And still those limpid, childish eyes gazed up at him and smiled.
"Chérie!" he said. "Chérie!" and with his hand he raised the delicate face to his, and gazed into the azure wonder of her eyes.
She did not speak. Nor did her lashes flutter. She let him look deeply into the translucent profundity of her soul.
"Chérie!" he said again. And no other word was spoken or needed.