There was no answer—save only in Jean's eyes, as he turned and looked at her.
"Tell him, Marie-Louise," Jean's eyes seemed to say. "Tell him, Marie-Louise, for it is you who must answer now—for always."
"You, then," the interpreter asked, addressing her. "Are you any relation to this man?"
She felt her face grow very white.
"You must tell the truth," the interpreter cautioned sharply. "It is evident on the face of it, from what happened out there in the hall, that there is something between you. Tell the truth for your own sake. This man is to be deported, and he will not be allowed to come back. Do you understand that? If he is any relation to you, say so—unless you want to be separated. Well?"
Separated! Marie-Louise raised her head a little—and looked at Jean—and at the interpreter—and at the officers.
"I"—oh, it was true; true as life was true; true as love was true; true in God's sight, as Jean had said it was true; true because all through the years to come, through the sunshine and the storm and until death it would be true!—"I—I am his wife," she said.
"Marie-Louise!"
She heard Jean breathe her name, she heard the half sob upon his lips, she felt the cold steel of the handcuffs touch her wrist as his hand found and closed on hers—but she was looking only at the officers, hanging, her heart stilled in suspense, upon their every act, trying to read their faces where she could not understand their words. And then, involuntarily, because they told her nothing, because the seconds as they passed were as eternities, she flung out her hands to the interpreter.
"What are they saying? What are they saying?" she cried imploringly.