She stood rubbing her eyes with her small fists, as though just awakened.
“Oui,” she said, without emotion, “c’est comme ça, 331 m’sieu. Where the heart is, happiness lies. I left the others at the city gate; I said, ‘Voyons, let us be reasonable, gentlemen. I am happy in your circus; I am happy with Speed; I can be contented without your circus, but I cannot be contented without Speed. Voilà!’... and then I went.”
“You walked back all the way from Lorient?”
“Bien sûr! I have no carriage—I, Jacqueline.” She stretched her slim figure, raised her arms slowly, and yawned. “Pardon,” she murmured, “I have slept in the gorse—badly.”
“Come into the garden,” I said; “we can talk while you rest.”
She thanked me tranquilly, picked up her bundle, and followed me with a slight limp. The cat, tail up, came behind.
The young countess was standing at the window as we approached in solemn single file along the path, and when she caught sight of us she opened the door and stepped out on the tiny porch.
“Why, this is our little Jacqueline,” she said, quickly. “They have taken your father for the conscription, have they not, my child? And now you are homeless!”
“I think so, madame.”
“Then you will stay with me until he returns, won’t you, little one?”