"This is my own house—my family's house—the château of Lysboisée. Since my husband's death three years ago I have always inhabited it for a great part of the year. I have always loved it. I was a child in this dark ravine, among the birches of the water-meadows. My own life—that I have never shared with anyone—is here. I am of the country. All the peasant people know me, love me. And when the war came I felt that I must be among them, that I could not leave my house, my own dear house, alone, unprotected against anything that might happen. So I hurried here at a time when everybody was hurrying the other way. But the servants had gone. Only old Marie remained, and she and I have lived here all these black weeks, only Roland," she patted the dog's head smilingly, "to watch over us. We have had many visits from the German cavalry, but no violence. They saw, perhaps, that I was not afraid. Now the people are beginning to creep back to their homes."
He nodded his head sympathetically, described how the peasants of the Aisne valley crept back to their farms, continued their field-tasks close behind the trenches, apparently indifferent to the shrapnel and the marmites.
"Yes," she murmured, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, "amidst so much death the flame of life burns ever higher, will not, must not be extinguished."
There was a little pause, during which the colonel sipped his coffee. Lightly, with the smile of a prima ballerina pirouetting away from a serious posture into which she would have you believe she fell unwittingly, the countess commenced to talk of Paris of the days before the war. With a young enthusiasm she spoke of her morning rides in the Bois, of restaurants and dinner-parties—mentioning a name here and there that might lead to the discovery of a mutual acquaintance, of concerts and the play. The colonel listened, speaking little, seeing her—though she did not so much as hint at them—circled by a crowd of admirers.
"And madame," she said innocently, "does she inhabit Paris?"
"Madame——?" He was obviously at a loss.
"You are not married, then?"
"No, madame."
"But," she persisted gently, "you have doubtless friends in Paris? A man such as you——" she stopped, smiling. "I am indiscreet."