The wooden shutters had been closed; a candle flared on the table. Maryette sat beside it, her arms extended across the cloth, her head bowed.
He thought she was asleep, but she looked up as his footfall sounded on the bare floor.
She was so pale that he asked her if she felt ill.[pg 227]
"No. I have been thinking of my friend," she replied in a low but steady voice.
"He may live," said the airman. "He was alive when we lifted him."
The girl nodded as though preoccupied—an odd, mysterious little nod, as though assenting to some intimate, inward suggestion of her own mind.
Then she raised her dark blue eyes to the airman, who was still standing beside the table, the sack of bombs hanging from his left shoulder, the bundle under his arm.
"Here is supper," she said, looking around absently at the few dishes. Then she folded her hands on the table's edge and sat silent, as though lost in thought.
He placed the sack carefully on a cane chair beside him, the bundle on the floor, and seated himself opposite her. There was bread, meat, and a bottle of red wine. The girl declined to eat, saying that she had supped.
"Your friend Jack," he said again, after a long silence, "—I have seen worse cases. He may live, mademoiselle."