"Ah! voila! you are old, all of you, that's the reason."
A group of boys passed in the street, singing. Marguerite threw open the window, applauded and yelled at the top of her voice "Bravo!" And the gayer she grew the sadder the men looked. It made their situation ever so harder.
"Sure, you drink wine all alone—give me some, too—and who gives me a glass? Oh, I want to be happy—the war will soon end. The Boche gets his due. Why do you sit like undertakers?"
She had one look at all of them. It sobered her.
"It is about Bernard. What is it? Come, tell me, what it is."
None present dared say a word. They all stood up. Her thin voice had changed to a deep alto. Her frivolous little head suddenly became as stern as the image of vengeance.
Her father, old Bideaux, was the first to recover.
"Give her the letter, Clement."
In a glance she took in all the contents. Bernard was dead. The rest was not important.
Her eyes closed. Her muscles stiffened as she gripped the edge of the table. It looked as though she was going to faint. She remained so for a few minutes, then she threw her head back and with all her strength she yelled at the top of her voice: