“He was broken by the prison life,” said Pierre. “He died within a month of armistice, and Hélène wept her heart out. He confided a secret to me. Hélène and he had come to love each other, and would marry when they could get her mother’s consent—or, one day, if not.”
“What’s her objection?” I asked. “Why, it’s splendid to think that Hélène and you will be man and wife. The thought of it makes me feel good.”
He pressed my arm and said, “Merci, mille fois, mon cher.”
Madame Chéri objected to his political opinions. She regarded them as poisonous treachery.
“And Hélène?”
I remembered that outburst, months back, when Hélène had desired the death of many German babies.
“Hélène loves me,” said Pierre simply. “We do not talk politics.”
On our way to the Avenue Victor Hugo I ventured to ask him a question which had been a long time in my mind “Your sister, Marthe? She is well?”
Even in the pearly twilight of the Champs Elysées I was aware of Pierre’s sudden change of colour. I had touched a nerve that still jumped.
“She is well and happy,” he answered gravely. “She is now a religieuse, a nun, in the convent at Lille. They tell me she is a saint. Her name in religion is Sour Angélique.”