"Ah, monsieur," he said, "it is good, indeed, to hear your voice! There is no one who comes here who enters more splendidly into the spirit of the place. When you are here I know that it will be a joyful evening for all. They catch it, too, those others," he explained. "Sometimes they come here stolid, British. They look around them, they eat, they drink, they sit like stuffed animals. Then comes monsieur—dear monsieur! He talks gayly, he laughs, he waves salutes, he drinks wine, he makes friends. The thing spreads. It is the spirit—the real spirit. Behold! Even the dull, once they catch it, they enjoy."
Falkenberg took the cushioned seat in the corner. Close to his side was mademoiselle, her hand already clasping his. Estermen, gaunt, red-eyed, still haggard with fear, sat a few feet away.
"Wine!" Falkenberg ordered. "Pommery—bottles of it! Never mind if we cannot drink it. Let us look at it. Let us imagine the joys that come, added to those we feel."
Already the wine was rushing into their glasses. Falkenberg raised his glass.
"To our last supper, dear Marguerite!" he whispered.
She shivered all over. She looked at him, her face was suddenly strained.
"You jest!"
"Jest? But is it not a night for jests!" he answered. "Why not? Ah, Marguerite, I take it back! To our first supper! Let us say to ourselves that to-night we stand upon the threshold of life. Let us say to ourselves that never before have I seen how blue your eyes shine, how sweet your mouth, how soft your fingers, how dear the thrill which passes from you to me. Close to me, Marguerite—close to me, little one! Our first evening!"
"Dearest," she whispered, "first or last, there could never be another. It is you who make my life. It is you who, when you go, leave it desolate."
He held her hand more tightly.