“I am, belle-mère.”
“Ah—but how curious!”
“But dear—it is not as if any one very near or dear were in danger. Philibert is safe, Blaise too, driving his ambulances.”
“But the horror, the pain, the suffering all round one—look—already in our family five young men killed—your Aunt Marianne bereft of her sons—your Uncle Jacques crippled—”
“I know—I know—I do feel for them, and I do feel for France. When I say that I am happy, I only mean, that for me the equation of life is so simple, that I am content as never before.”
“I see—you are happy because of the sacrifice you have made—because of all you have given up in the cause for our country. Cela est très beau.”
“No, dear.” I felt bound to try and explain. “It is not that. It is not fine at all. I haven’t given up anything that I cared about. I have only got what I wanted. I have found my place, my right place—the place of a worker.”
She looked puzzled, then turned it off with a smile.
Jinny was growing up and the war was slipping by over her little blond head like a monstrous shadow. She seemed in that greyness, to become unreal. I did not know what was going on in her mind.
One night in March 1918 I staggered in on her. I must have been more tired than I realized. My head was burning. The little soft still room, your mother with her hair in stiff regular waves, a lace shawl round her shoulders, and Jinny, smiling over a story book; it was like a dream.