I called on Madame Chéri and her daughter with Pierre Nesle. They seemed delighted to see me, and Hélène greeted me like an old and trusted friend, giving me the privilege of kissing her cheek. She had grown taller and beautiful, and there was a softness in her eyes when she looked at Pierre which made me sure of his splendid luck.
Madame Chéri had aged, and some of her fire had burnt out. I guessed that it was due to Edouard’s death. She spoke of that, and wept a little, and deplored the mildness of the Peace Treaty which had not punished the evil race who had killed her husband and her boy and the flower of France.
“There are many German dead,” said Pierre. “They have been punished.”
“Not enough!” cried Madame Chéri. “They should all be dead.”
Hélène kissed her hand and snuggled down to her as once I had seen in Lille.
“Petite maman,” she said, “let us talk of happy things to-night. Pierre has brought us a good friend.”
Later in the evening, when Pierre and Hélène had gone into another room to find some biscuits for our wine, Madame Chéri spoke to me about their betrothal.
“Pierre is full of strange and terrible ideas,” she said. “They are shared by other young men who fought bravely for France. To me they seem wicked, and the talk of cowards, except that their medals tell of courage. But the light in Hélène’s eyes weakens me. I’m too much of a Frenchwoman to be stern with love.”
By those words of hers I was able to give Pierre a message of good-cheer when he walked back with me that night, and he went away with gladness.
With gladness also did Elsa Brand set out next day for England where, as a girl, she had known happy days, and where now her dream lived with the man who stood beside her. Together we watched for the white cliffs, and when suddenly the sun glinted on them she gave a little cry, and putting her hand through Brand’s arm, said, “Our home!”