The girl shook her head.
“Yes, he will,” she said dully. “Pierre will never slip.” She started violently. “Mon Dieu, what have I said? Ah, René, believe me, I have been dreaming. The heat, perhaps. . . .” She laughed hysterically. “ ‘The past is dead,’ you were saying. ‘The past is dead.’ ”
The man had no ears to hear. His eyes were burning with hope.
“I love you,” he said uncertainly. “I love your beautiful hands. I love your soft dark hair. I cannot play with it now, because of the bars. But one day the bars will be broken, and then I shall come and fill these arms with its glory. Be sure, my heart, I shall wait and wait always . . . until the bars fall. Ah, see how the good God has given light to our darkness. He has shown us the way to go. Now, when we are together, we shall never be sad. We will remember always that we are waiting . . . just waiting . . . until the bars fall. . . .”
Head up, rigid, white-faced, Madeleine sat staring and seeing nothing. Her ears, however, were hearing perfectly. After a moment she braced herself, drawing a deep breath. Holy, fair and wise, her resolve was taken.
“I do not see,” she said slowly, “that we have anything to share—you and I. A year ago, perhaps, there might have been something. But, as you said just now, the past is dead. And since we have nothing to share, René, it would be so much better if . . . if . . .”
She hesitated and passed a hand across her eyes.
René Dudoy stared.
“But what are you saying?” he cried. “You go back to where we began. We have thrashed all this out. You said our hours were not golden. I have shown you——”
“You have shown me that it is better, René, that we two should not meet any more.”