Behind Henri a strange guard of honor—muddy, tired, torn, even wounded—they marched and sang:
Trou là là, ça ne va guère;
Trou là là, çe ne va pas.
Sara Lee, listening for that first shuffle of many feet that sounded so like the wind in the trees or water over the pebbles of a brook, paused in her work and lifted her head. The rhythm of marching feet came through the wooden shutters. The very building seemed to vibrate with it. And there was a growling sound with it that soon she knew to be the deep voices of singing men.
She went to the door and stood there, looking down the street. Behind her was the warm glow of the lamp, all the snug invitation of the little house.
A group of soldiers had paused in front of the doorway, and from them one emerged—tall, white, infinitely weary—and looked up at her with unbelieving eyes.
After all, there are no words for such meetings. Henri took her hand, still with that sense of unreality, and bent over it. And Sara Lee touched his head as he stooped, because she had called for so long, and only now he had come.
"So you have come back!" she said in what she hoped was a composed tone—because a great many people were listening. He raised his head and looked at her.
"It is you who have come back, mademoiselle."