Before he climbed the stairs to bed, he sought me. I was smoking and thinking, on a little bench beneath the trees. Louis sat beside me and laid his hand on my knee.
"Well, my friend, I leave before you. For a little while we part, is it not so?—then, God willing, we meet again."
I tried to tell him what my visit had meant to me. What a place France and her people would for ever more occupy in my heart. All those things I struggled to say, but when it comes to expressing that which lies close to our heart, I find we are a halting, tongue-tied nation!
Then I spoke of Angele. I wanted him to know before he left how much I cared for her. I was afraid he might be displeased, but, instead, he pumped my hand with joy.
"This is American fashion," he laughed, then he leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Since you love a French girl you will have to get used to her brother's greeting," he said.
I told him I had not spoken to Angele. I had not dared to. I could not hope she would care for me.
"But you must speak to-night, before I go," he shouted. "Let me prepare her first. Oh, but this is of a great happiness to me!"
And before I could stop him, he hurried away.
After a long silence, while my heart thumped against my ribs and I felt myself growing hot and cold by turns, his voice sounded through the darkness.