Her eyes were lit up by passion at the thought of this cruelty and her brother’s suffering. Then her expression changed to a look of pride.
“He says he is glad to have been under fire—like father. He hated it, though, at the time, and said he was frightened! I can’t believe that. Edouard was always brave.”
“There’s no courage that takes away the fear of shellfire—as far as I’m concerned,” I told her, but she only laughed and said, “You men make a pose of being afraid.”
She spoke of Edouard again, hugging the “thought of his return.
“If only he were not so thin and so tired! I find him changed. The poor boy cries at the sight of maman—like a baby.”
“I don’t wonder,” I said. “I should feel like that if I had been a prisoner of war and was now home again.”
Madame Chéri’s voice called from downstairs: “Hélène! Où es-tu? Edouard veut te voir!”
“Edouard wants me,” said Hélène.
She seemed rejoiced at the thought that Edouard had missed her, even for this minute. She took my hand and kissed it, as though wishing me to share her joy and to be part of it, and then ran downstairs.