In the first flush of the August dawn, Stewart opened his eyes and gazed vacantly about the room of the little inn to which he had been assigned. Then memory returned, and he groaned and closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. But only for a moment. Perhaps there was some news—something he could do——
He started to spring out of bed, only to sink wearily back again. What was there he could possibly do? And news—news was to be dreaded rather than desired. So long as he did not know—well, he could still hope, and that was something! However faintly, however unreasonably, he could still hope!
So he lay back against his pillows and closed his eyes, and lived over again those shining days, those radiant hours. How happy he had been! And that, too, was something. Whatever the future might bring, it could not rob him of the past. It could not rob him of those last delirious moments—her lips on his—her arms about him....
A tap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. News....
"Come in!" he shouted.
But it was only the landlady. She entered with smiling face, a can of steaming water in her hand.
"Good-morning, monsieur," she said. "I hope monsieur has slept well. Will monsieur have his coffee before rising?"
"No, no," said Stewart. "I will come down."
"Very well, monsieur," and she placed the can upon the wash-stand and closed the door.
If it were not that the movements of the toilet are largely automatic, Stewart would never have finished his, but he was washed and dressed at last, and descended to the café which served also as the dining-room. It was crowded to the doors with vociferous French soldiers, very weary and very dirty, and all clamoring to be served at once. Their claims were greater than his, Stewart thought, and after all it wouldn't harm him to go breakfastless; but just then the landlady appeared again, and drew him through a door opening behind the bar.