“They are not fortunate, certainly. But the greater the odds, the greater the glory.”
“Gaston, I . . . I do not think I can let you go!”
To this he said nothing, but very tenderly kissed her hair, as he held her. And now she began to see the price that every woman pays who stands where she did.
“You know,” she said, after a pause, “I think I must be, ordinarily, without imagination. I think of you and danger always, every moment that I breathe, but they never seem together, and only to-night, when danger was in the room with you and I sat there pretending to sew—thank God it was not your scarf that I had—thinking every moment that one of them would pick up that cushion and you would be dragged out—it was only then that I realised what danger is. . . .”
But all night she realised it, and all night, whether she woke, or slept in snatches, she saw the price that she must pay, although he was safe for the moment at her side. Gaston, too, lay long awake, and they talked; but he must rise and ride away before sunrise, and, campaigning having given him the gift of sleep at will, after a while he slept.
He could sleep, yes; for though reluctant to leave her he was going to what he desired, to what she—strange irony—had prayed, years ago, that he might desire—a man’s work, a man’s hazards, a man’s endurances. Long unanswered, that slow prayer of hers had found ample fulfilment now . . . and she was beginning to learn the cost of its realisation. His hand held at last the hilt of a blade that was worthy of him—but its point was in her heart.
Once in her torment she slipped out of bed and wandered distractedly round the dark room. She went, without conscious purpose, towards the deep recessed window, and, feeling her way to the curtains, met on the window-seat something long and hard and cold. Her fingers told her that it was Gaston’s sword, which he had laid there. And, hating it and loving it at once, she knelt down and laid her forehead against the scabbard. “Bring him back to me! bring him back!” But what could a sword do against a bullet?
Valentine looked out. The night had been dull and cloudy, but it was now getting towards dawn. She had a desire to see Gaston more clearly, and, leaving the curtain half drawn, she went back towards the bed. Then she wished she had left the window veiled. In that grey light how pale he looked, lying there motionless in the ancient bed, whose twisted posts recalled the great candlesticks she had set out at Mirabel for the requiem mass that was never said. Ah, what horrible presentiments seized one in this wan, uncourageous hour! She had a yearning to wake him, to hear him speak; she even pressed her hand over her mouth as she stood there by him lest she should do it, but all the time she knew that an impulse such as that had no chance against the deep, protective instinct which immediately overrode it. He must sleep, because he would have need of strength to-day whither he went.
Cold and heartsick, she crept back at last into bed and lay there, still wakeful, in agony. How often in the weeks of tension that were coming would she not lie and crave for the pain that she had now—the anticipated pain of parting. For a little time longer she could listen to his quiet breathing. To have done that to-morrow and the morrow after would be the whole of bliss, for she would have known that he was safe. But to-morrow night——
She did fall asleep in the end. A slight sound woke her. Gaston, fully dressed, was kneeling by her side.