He had feared that she would cry, that she would cling to him with sobs and beg him not to go, that she might make some sort of regrettable scene, but she did not. But she was very still with the stillness of the stricken.
“C’est la guerre,” she said in a whisper.
It is the war—that phrase so often heard, which excuses everything, accounts for everything. But now it had a deeper meaning. This was the war! This parting was the war—this giving of a loved one to death, and this remaining behind in an agony of fear and of loneliness—this was indeed the war!... To men war is one thing—it is a grim fight, it is suffering and wounds, it is bravery and glory.... To man war, at its most, can mean only death. But to a woman who sends her man it means more, infinitely, terribly more. It means that she may be deprived of all that makes life desirable. It means that she must remain behind to fear and to suffer, and then, when the feared news arrives, to face a life that is not life, a life without love, without companionship.... A life with the smile snatched away and with the heart robbed of laughter! It means that from her the one, the great, the vital thing is to be forever missing, and that the future is to be nothing but day following day.... War means that men must die.... War means that women must continue to live!
“You mustn’t worry.... I—I sha’n’t be in the fighting. I’m just going to get certain information.” He had looked forward to boasting to her about how he would stand under fire. He would have done it in such a way that it would not have sounded like boasting, but in a mock-modest way. He had wanted to show her that he was actually going into it to take his chance with the rest.... Now he had no thought but to reassure her; he had no desire to take unto himself the heroic. “I promise you to come back,” he said. “I sha’n’t be hurt.... It is only a day or two, and you mustn’t be afraid.... Why”—here he lied—“I may not even be near to danger.”
She shook her head. “I know,” she said. And then: “I shall not let you be hurt.... I shall prevent it.” Like a little Spartan, she was herself again, speaking like her own self, almost gaily. “Do you theenk I should let you be hurt?... Oh no! Not in the least.” She was being brave and calm—for him!
“I will be back surely in four days—the fourth day from to-day.... Then I shall see you. We will make the engagement now.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I shall dine with Arlette,” she said, with a little laugh. “I will come there—it is easier—sept heures.”
“And—”