For an instant she hesitated; but the thought of the lonely man up there in the darkness prevailed above the last argument of prudence.
“I am going up, Jeannette,” she said.
The girl took her hand, as though to lead her to the house. She pressed it in her own fingers, so thin and cold.
“Ah, Madame, you have a brave heart. Wait until I light the candle. And we will not mind those others to-night. Oh, how glad he will be, Madame!”
Together they climbed the tortuous dirty staircase and stood at the broken door. Some instants passed before their knock was answered, and when they entered, the prisoner started up as though from a fitful sleep. There was the pallor of death upon his face, but he smiled as he held out his hand to her.
“Well,” he said; “I thought that I told you not to come.”
“You knew that I must come,” she said quietly. “Hélène is dead, or I should have been here before. A shell struck our house; she died of fright and grief.”
He took her hand and pressed it.
“My poor child!” he said.
They sat in silence for a little while, until Jeannette had covered the windows with a heavy cloth, which shut out the memory of those who watched the house. Beatrix was the first to speak, and her words came quickly, as the words of one who had no time to lose.