In the centre of the room stood a tall, gaunt boy in ragged clothes, in the embrace of Madame Chéri, and with one hand clutched by Hélène, and the other by the little Madeleine, her sister. It was Edouard who had come back.
He had unloosed a pack from his shoulder, and it lay on the carpet beside him, with a little flag on a broken stick. He was haggard, with high cheek-bones prominent through his white, tightly-drawn skin, and his eyes were sunk in deep sockets. His hair was in a wild mop of black, disordered locks. He stood there, with tears streaming from his eyes, and the only words he said were:
“Maman! O maman! maman!”
I went quietly upstairs, and changed my clothes, which were all muddy. Presently there was a tap at my door, and Hélène stood there, transfigured with joy. She spoke in French.
“Edouard has come back! My brother! He travelled on an English lorry.”
“Thank God for that,” I said. “What gladness for you all!”
“He has grown tall,” said Hélène. She mopped her eyes and laughed and cried at the same time. “Tall as a giant, but oh, so thin! They starved him all the time. He fed only on cabbages. They put him to work digging trenches behind the line—under fire. The brutes! The devils!”
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.”