"It's still too light, Otto. Go and see what you can find in the larder, will you? I'm hungry."
They sat down to table, but Vorski stood up again at once:
"Don't look at me, my girl. Your eyes worry me. What do you expect? My conscience doesn't worry me when I'm alone, but it gets worked up when a fine pair of eyes like yours go right through me. Lower your lids, my pretty one."
He bound Véronique's eyes with a handkerchief which he knotted behind her head. But this did not satisfy him; and he unhooked a muslin curtain from the window, wrapped her whole head in it and wound it round her neck. Then he sat down again to eat and drink.
The three of them hardly spoke and said not a word of their trip across the island, nor of the duel of the afternoon. In any case, these were details which did not interest Véronique and which, even if she had paid attention to them, would not have aroused her. Everything had become indifferent to her. The words reached her ears but assumed no definite meaning. She thought of nothing but dying.
When it was dark, Vorski gave the signal for departure.
"Then you're still determined?" asked Otto, in a voice betraying a certain hostility.
"More so than ever. What's your reason for asking?"
"Nothing . . . . But, all the same . . ."
"All the same what?"