The rosy face of Clémence with her devoted eyes sprang out of the blackness to confront Luc; he shivered and put his hands over his forehead.
“Why do you not speak?” came the weak voice from his feet. “Are you thinking of the future?”
“Yes,” said Luc, with an effort.
He felt that she shuddered.
“Are you—afraid?” she asked, in a tone of horror.
“Yes,” said Luc simply.
The terror of that admission filled the darkness.
Luc set his back against the tree. He could feel the fine rain on his hands and dripping from his hat; he coughed and shivered.
“In Bohemia we were on the heights,” came Carola’s voice; “but this is the lowlands, and there is not one star.”
Luc was thinking again of Paris, and the river, and the beggar on the quay, and of Clémence as she had stood in her father’s hall to say good-bye to him with soft lamplight over her face that seemed to express something never to be put into words, and her gown, lace, perfume, and pale colours.