Just as abruptly as the night raiding had begun, it ceased for a time, and one evening the two fliers appeared at the inn and took rooms for the night. They had a ten-days’ leave, were going to Paris on the early morning train, and were very gay. Célestine watched them from her work with beating heart as they sat at their table in the court, lingering over their wine; and when finally she understood that they had taken rooms and were to be here for the night, a great excitement possessed her. She ran up to the rooms, although she had made them up early in the day, and made them up all over again; and when they had retired she stationed herself in the dark hallway, to await a possible call for service, hopeful at once and afraid.
After a while the door opened, light splashed out into the hall, and a voice called.
She rushed to answer it. The young Frenchman stood in the doorway. “Dis-donc, Madelon,” he said lightly, giving her the name of the song. “Dis-donc, Madelon, you know, we are freezing in this big tomb of yours!”
She ran swiftly down the three flights to the cellar, and came back with kindling and paper; she ran down once more and returned with a basket full of small logs. She squatted before the hearth and built up a fire.
She felt, rather than saw, the two armchairs behind her, spread side by side before the hearth as for a vigil of friendship. The young Frenchman was in one; the other was empty. Her heart gave a queer jump as she heard a step approach. It came from the other room, approached, stopped; there was the creak of crushed springs. He was there too, now, the other one, the American, in his big chair. She tried to strike a match, and failed.
The young Frenchman began to twit her amorously. Seen from behind, she was attractive enough, with firm white neck upon which strayed ringlets of her yellow hair. He rose, he stooped, he was near her. “Allons, Madelon, my lass—a little kiss. Just one small one, there where thy hair makes shadow!”
At another time probably she would not have been displeased: it was so seldom a man mistook and made love to her. But, somehow, the American’s being here made a difference. Somehow, this was not the way she wished to be seen by the American. She turned toward her gay persecutor the mask of her face—usually this was enough. But this time, perhaps because of the wine, or because of the frolic in his veins at the thought of his leave from Death’s incessant haunting, or merely because the flame of the fire left her in shadow, the boy did not quit, but rather increased his half-mocking demonstration of a half-assumed order, and finally, unconsciously, she turned to the other the eyes of one harassed. He sat there at ease, half smiling, but immediate communication leaped to him from her. “Come,” he cried, “Pierre! Quit this—you’re an utter nuisance!”
And smiling at her, he added, enunciating very slowly and carefully: “One must pardon him, mademoiselle: he is a little saoul, vous savez.”
The contrast between his scrupulous manner and his use of that word “saoul,” supposed to be uttered only by such low-class people as she, and not by gentlemen like him; the funny mewing drawl of his “voo-oo-ah saaav-ez”; and something so simple about him—these things suddenly created in her a tender delight, and she broke out laughing. He joined in, laughing at himself; the other joined in: all three were laughing. The young Frenchman, content with himself, and rather glad to have been stopped, let her be.
But then, after they had laughed, there was no more reason for staying. The fire was now drawing finely; everything about the room was in order; the two friends, in their chairs, were lighting their pipes. Célestine tiptoed out and closed the door.