“And who are they, my friend?”
“Strange, inhuman women, monsieur, who wash in the moonlight by lonely tarns. And while they wash they wail.”
“Wash? But what?”
“Some say the winding-sheets of those who are to die during the year.”
La Marquise broke into shrill laughter.
“Poor, poor imbecile!” she cried. “Thy credulity would make but one gulp of a gravestone. You must know these things are not, my friend. I tell thee so—I, thy mistress. Miserable! have you nothing in your life that not mountains of eternity could crush out the memory of?”
Again she checked herself.
“It is the one virtue of the Revolution to have decreed annihilation.”
A deputation approached us. She jumped to her feet, her pale eyes flickering.
“But, yes!” she cried, “a game, a game! I acquit myself of these follies. It is present life I desire. Messieurs, what is it to be? To the front, François!”