Edmond had exhorted her to leave the châlet instantly and ride westward to Saverne. It had been his last word to her as he lifted her to his saddle for a lover’s farewell. She gave him half a promise; and when he turned at the bend of the road to repeat his wish, her laughing face answered it. He did not see that other look, the tears lingering in the pretty eyes, the girl’s true self written there in lines of grief untold. The road hid the aftermath of farewell from his sight. “We shall drive the Prussians to the Rhine, and you will see me to-night,” he had said with a new courage of the morning. She knew not that many days of grief must pass before she heard his voice again, and that when he came back to her it would be to turn from her caress and to tell her that love was no more.
All her thought was of the moment; of the awakening in the woods, of the news that the trooper had brought. The Germans were at Gunstett. Then there would be a battle beyond the river! Men would die. A nation would hear of victory to-morrow. That mighty host of armed men, whose voice was the thunder of the hills, stood sentinel of the homes of France. She had a great pride in the thought that Edmond was one of those to whom the children looked so confidently. And he would return victorious at sunset. The sword of France was drawn. It would never be sheathed until the honour of France was saved.
Day had not broken when the trooper waked them from their sleep, nor was the sun lifted above the hills when Edmond rode down to his regiment. She watched the spreading light while it showed her the rain-drops glistening upon the leaves, and the little pools which the showers of the night had filled again. After the first mad awakening a hush fell upon the forest; the flowers lifted their heads anew, the trembling leaves made their voices heard—it was the Niederwald of the old home, the Niederwald of solitude remote and the haven of rest. She lingered at the gate, hoping she knew not what. When Guillaumette came to tell her that the coffee was ready, she did not hear her. Her thoughts were away in Strasburg, at the altar of the Minster where her love-vow had been spoken.
“You called me, Guillaumette?”
“If I called you, Madame—when the coffee spoils and the bread is hot and the clock strikes six!—”
“Six o’clock—is it six o’clock? Then I have been here an hour, Guillaumette.”
A strange voice chimed in with the answer:
“To the tick, Madame. I have watched you from my windows—it is impossible to look another way when Madame Lefort stands at her garden gate. And pardon me—I have said, ‘She is waiting for her pony; she is going to Saverne when that rascal Jacob is ready.’”
She turned to see old Jules Picard, snuff-box in hand, astride his great weedy horse. He had ridden up from the château at her husband’s request, and he began already to take fatherly possession of her.