"I don't want to die just yet, and I don't expect to, but life doesn't mean a whole lot to me. It's too complex, you understand?—difficile——" He gave a sigh and sank back in his chair, relinquishing her fingers. "I guess I was meant for the simple life," he said, with his slow smile.
She was silent for a moment, regarding him soberly.
"What 'as happen', mon ami? She 'as let you go?"
He paused, frowning at the ash of his cigarette.
"What else could she do?" he asked quietly. "I asked nothing—expected nothing of her."
"Then you cannot be disappoint'!" said Piquette dryly. "She is not worth de trouble. You run a risk of being kill', to save 'er from 'er 'usban' who is a vaut rien, you offer 'er de bes' you 'ave an' she send you away alone into de darkness. You t'ink she loves you. Saperlotte! What she knows of love! If I love a man I would go wit' 'im to de end of de worl', no matter what 'e is."
He sat watching her as she spoke—listening to the clear tones of her voice, watching the changes in her expressive features.
"I believe you would, Piquette," he muttered.
"An' you," she went on shrilly, "you who 'ave save' 'er 'usban' from disgrace, you who win 'im de Croix de Guerre an' den go into de darkness an outcas'—she let you go—she let you go——!"
"Sh——," he broke in. "She had to—I understand—she is a Catholic——"