“A message came through by the new aerial telegraph to Avignon. More troops have left for Spain. All leaves are cancelled. I have to rejoin my regiment at once.”
“But,” she exclaimed, “you are not going to the war?”
“I am afraid not,” he replied with a touch of bitterness. “If the King’s bodyguard was to be sent to the front it would mean that France was once more at her last gasp.”
“There is no fear of that?”
“None whatever.”
“Then why should you say that you are afraid that you are not going to the war?” Micheline asked, and her eyes, the great pathetic eyes of a hopeless cripple, fastened on the brother’s face a look of yearning anxiety. The ghostly light of the moon came shyly peeping in through the tall, open window: it fell full upon his handsome young face, which wore a perturbed, spiritless look.
“Well, little sister,” he said dejectedly, “life does not hold such allurements for me, does it, that I should cling desperately to it?”
“How can you say that, Bertrand?” the girl retorted. “You love Rixende, do you not?”
“With all my soul,” he replied fervently.
“And she loves you?”