At last she drew to a conclusion. “You understand now,” she said, “why to me the war is inexpressibly tragic. You understand what Madame Gigon has been to me.”
She picked up the fallen cloak and, shivering, wrapped it about her and sank back in the stiff little chair with a weary air of finality and resignation. “You see, it is not only the war.... Madame Gigon is dying. The war has taken everything. You understand I shall be alone ... completely alone.”
M. Dupont made no reply. He kept his head bowed. He was repeating a prayer as Irene had done in the old days. They prayed for Lily, who had not been inside a church in more than seven years.
“I came to fetch you to her,” continued Lily, “She is dying now.... I am certain she cannot live much longer.”
When the priest at last raised his head, it was to say, “Come. If she is dying we must waste no time,” in so gentle a voice that the tears welled in Lily’s eyes. She took out her handkerchief, already wet.
“I thought,” she said, “that I was through with weeping. I must have a great many tears.” (Lily who never wept.)
LXXV
M DUPONT, after collecting those things which are necessary in the administration of the last rites, put on his shovel hat and took up a lantern.
“Come,” he said, “we must hurry.” And together they set out along the white road, between the whispering alders and over the iron bridge. The lantern swung feebly in his grasp. They walked in complete silence until they reached the terrace when Lily, looking up suddenly, saw that the sky behind the lodge was filled with a cloudy whiteness as if gray smoke were drifting across the sky.
“There is a fire somewhere,” she said placing a hand on the arm of her companion.