“Ah!” she said. “It’s you, M’sieu Tolliver.... Madame Shane is not here. She is in Nice.”
And again the sense of having returned from the dead swept over him. Augustine was as astonished as if she had opened the door upon a phantom. Yet there was nothing extraordinary in calling at ten o’clock in the evening, even on a night like this.
“It is my sister I’ve come to see ... Miss Tolliver.”
“She is here ... in the salon. She told me I might go to bed. There is a gentleman with her.”
Clearly it was impossible for Augustine, in her state of attire, to announce him. He took off his greatcoat while the Breton girl, her eyes shining in admiration for a young aviateur, stood by holding the mimosa. He was straight and tall in his blue uniform with the silver wings glittering on his breast. He had his effect upon Augustine ... the blue eyes, the blond curling hair, the spoiled mouth.
“I’ll go in myself,” he said, taking the flowers from her once more. “It’s all right, I know.”
And he started down the long stairs where the candles glowed dimly against the satinwood paneling. Half way down, where the gallery led off on both sides, the sound of music reached him once more. This time it was different; there were no passionate crescendos of sound, no tides of melody that swept high. The music was low and gentle and filled with pathos. And presently he heard a voice—Ellen’s voice—begin to sing in a clear contralto of unsuspected beauty. He went slowly, step by step, his shoulders brushing the satinwood beneath the dull flare of the candles. Out of the depths of the warm old room the sound came to him with the same amazing clarity which seemed to affect all his senses....
Nous n’avons plus de maisons,
Les ennemis ont tout pris, tout pris, tout pris
Jusqu’à notre petit lit.
Ils ont brulé l’école et notre maître aussi.
Ils ont brulé l’église et Monsieur Jésus Christ
Et le vieux pauvre qui n’a pas pu s’en aller!
She sang gently, with an infinite sadness.... Ellen who had damned the war, Ellen who had striven to ignore it, Ellen who had turned her back and taken no part in all the vast parade. What could she have known of it? What of Christmas and “les petits enfants qui n’ont plus de maisons.”
Les ennemis ont tout pris, tout pris, tout pris....
Noël! Écoutez-nous, nous n’avons plus de petits sabots.
Noël! Noël!... Surtout pas de joujoux.