I can't sense danger—I won't. No, I mean I can't. My reason assures me there isn't any danger that is going to catch me, no matter how it may threaten.
And then the hornet flies to the attack.
"It says, 'People who are haunted with premonitions nearly always disregard them until too late.'"
So occupied am I with these dreams and philosophings that I lie there in the darkness, forgetful of time and hunger, until I hear voices in the next room, and there is the old woman opening my door, and the two little yellow-haired children staring in at me curiously.
The old woman gives me some grapes out of a basket under her bed, and a glass of water.
"Pauvre enfant!" she says. "I am sorry I could bring you no food, but the Germans are up and down the stairs all day long, and I dare not risk them asking me, "Who is that for?"
"But why are you so afraid?" I ask. "Last night you were so nice to me. What has happened? Come, tell me the truth."
"Alors, Madame, I will tell you! You recollect that German who leaned over the counter for such a long time when you were washing glasses?"
"Yes." My lips felt suddenly dry as wood.
"Alors, Madame! He said to me, that fellow, 'She never speaks!'"