“We shall sleep in the woods, Madame—to-morrow Monsieur will come! Ah, if he should come to-morrow, and the news should be good, and we should go to Strasburg with him! Who could harm us in Strasburg, where the great guns roar, and the great forts rise up, and the soldiers are everywhere? Sainte Vierge—what a dream to dream! No Germans, no cannon, no hunger—are you not very hungry, dear Madame?”
Beatrix answered as one who speaks in sleep.
“I am not hungry, Guillaumette,” she said. “Monsieur will not come to-night. He is in Wörth. We are going to meet him. You will get a lantern and come with me. None will harm us. Are you afraid, Guillaumette?”
“Afraid? I—Madame? Afraid of the vilains Prusses. As if one could be afraid! But we shall not go to-night. We are hungry, and we will beg our supper somewhere. Ah, Madame, the pity of it—our beautiful house—our home!”
Beatrix did not heed her. Her eyes were dry. Her lips burned as the lips of one in a fever. A fixed idea was in her mind. She would find Edmond. She would seek him down there where the dead slept in the heart of the vineyards. He might be lying wounded and waiting for her, she thought. She could imagine his upturned face, his vigil of suffering, the kisses with which she would nurse him back to life again. A woman’s deepest sympathy, the sympathy of love, quickened her resolution. She was angry in her impatience.
“Why do we wait, Guillaumette? Why do we stand here when Monsieur is expecting us? We cannot save the house now. There are lanterns in the stable—oh, my God, if we should be too late!”
She drew her cloak close about her head and went quickly towards the ruins of the house. Guillaumette, watching her for a moment, dried up her tears. After all, there were men down there at Wörth, and someone would give them supper.
“I will find the lantern, Madame—do not dirty your beautiful shoes. There are Prussians down yonder—the animals. And you are brave, Madame—oh, so brave. If those others had been like you!”