"No, madame, no! Not till you come back with me. They should not have let you come alone. But you were always wilful. You cannot mean to live here?"
"I wish this woman gone to-day. I wish to sleep here to-night."
"No, madame, no. Sleep in the house opposite to-night. Give her time to find a lodging—"
"A lodging! She will find a lodging soon enough. A town full of soldiers—" muttered the old woman.
"I think this is a question for the billeting lieutenant," said Fanny. "He will explain to you that I am billeted here exactly as a soldier, that I have a right to be here until your arrival. It will be kind of you to give me a day in which to find another room."
"Where are his things?" said the old woman unheedingly. "I must go up to the attics."
A vision of those broken toys came to Fanny, the dusty heap of horses, dolls and boxes—the poor disorder.
"You mustn't, yet!" she cried with feeling. "Rest first. Sit here longer first. Or go another day!"
"Have you touched them?" cried Philippe's mother, rising from the chair. "I must go at once, at once——" but even as she tried to cross the room she leant heavily upon the table and put her hand to her heart. "Get me water, Elsie," she said, and threw up her veil. Her ruined face was grey even at the lips; her eyes were caverns, worn by the dropping of water, her mouth was folded tightly that nothing kind or hopeful, or happy might come out of it again. Elsie ran to the washing-stand. Unfortunately she seized the glass with the golden scrolling, and when she held it to the lips of her mistress those lips refused it.
"That, too, that glass of mine! Elsie, I wish this woman gone. Why don't you get up? Where are your clothes? Why don't you dress and go—"