"I'm fanciful!" she thought. "This is only some friend of his from
Paris." Paris sending forth obstacles already!
In Chantilly she crouched beneath the rug—her expectations closing, unwandering, against her breast. Beams might pierce the glass of the car and light nothing unusual; what burnt beneath was not a fire that man could see. Generals in the street walked indifferently to the Hotel of the Grand Condé. It was their dinner hour, and who cared that an empty car should move towards a little inn beyond? Now, she held armfuls of the rug about her, buried from the light, now held her breath, too, as the car stopped.
"Now mademoiselle!"
And there stood Julien, at the end of the passage, he whom she had left, sombre and distracted, a long twenty-four hours ago in Chantilly. She saw the change even while she flew to him. He was gay, he was excited, he was exciting. He was beautiful, admirable, he admired her.
"Fanny, is it true? You have come?" and "Que vous êtes en beauté!"
Within, a table was laid for three—three chairs, three plates, three covers. He saw her looking at this.
"We dine three to-night. You must condescend to dine with a sergeant.
My old friend—Where is Alfred?"
"I am here."
"My old friend—four years before the war. The oldest friend I have.
He has heard—"
("——Of Violette. He has heard of Violette! He is Violette's friend; he is against me!")