Saint-Mihiel, the Croix-du-Soldat woods, and Motte-Noire—all these names fixed themselves on Renée's memory and haunted her.
"There, now I have what I wanted," said Henri, gaily, when he came back to her to take her away.
XXVII
Denoisel had left Renée at her piano, and had gone out into the garden. As he came back towards the house he was surprised to hear her playing something that was not the piece she was learning; then all at once the music broke off and all was silent. He went to the drawing-room, pushed the door open, and discovered Renée seated on the music-stool, her face buried in her hands, weeping bitterly.
"Renée, good heavens! What in the world is the matter?"
Two or three sobs prevented Renée's answering at first, and then, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, as children do, she said in a voice choked with tears:
"It's—it's—too stupid. It's this thing of Chopin's, for his funeral, you know—his funeral mass, that he composed. Papa always tells me not to play it. As there was no one in the house to-day—I thought you were at the bottom of the garden—oh, I knew very well what would happen, but I wanted to make myself cry with it, and you see it has answered to my heart's content. Isn't it silly of me—and for me, too, when I'm naturally so fond of fun!"
"Don't you feel well, Renée? Come, tell me; there's something the matter. You wouldn't cry like that."
"No, there's nothing the matter, I assure you. I'm as strong as a horse; there's nothing at all the matter, really and truly. If there were anything I should tell you, shouldn't I? It all came about through that dreadful, stupid music. And to-day, too—to-day, when papa has promised to take me to see The Straw Hat."