“Your government insults us all,” said Bazard, between his teeth. 40
Mademoiselle Elven leaned forward, her blue eyes shining angrily.
“Because I have learned that the boundaries of nations are not the frontiers of human hearts, am I a traitor? Because I know no country but the world, no speech but the universal speech that one reads in a brother’s eyes, because I know no barriers, no boundaries, no limits to human brotherhood, am I a traitor?”
She made an exquisite gesture with half-open arms; all the poetry of the Théâtre Français was in it.
“Look at me! I had all that life could give, save freedom, and that I have now—freedom in thought, in speech, in action, freedom to love as friends love, freedom to love as lovers love. Ah, more! freedom from caste, from hate and envy and all suspicion, freedom to give, freedom to receive, freedom in life and in death! Am I a traitor? What do I betray? Shame on your Emperor!”
The young Countess, too, had risen in her earnestness and had laid one slender, sun-tanned hand upon the table.
“War?” she said. “What is this war to us? The Emperor? What is he to us? We who have set a watch on the world’s outer ramparts, guarding the white banner of universal brotherhood! What is this war to us!”
“Are you not a native of France?” I asked, bluntly.
“I am a native of the world, monsieur.”
“Do you mean to say that you care nothing for your own birthland?” I demanded, sharply.