“You mean to leave, of course?” I said.
“No; I mean to stay. I am pretty sure of my nerves; besides, as a Frenchwoman, I have a duty to perform; I must bear my share of the common danger; it would be cowardly to fly; but with you it is different. I don’t think you would be justified in remaining for the interest of the thing. Only if you mean to go, you must set about it at once. Have you got your passport?”
“No; I had not gone that far in believing in the siege.”
“It was very foolish,” said Berthe; “all the foreigners we know have got theirs.”
“I will go for it now,” I said. “Come on with me, and let us talk it all over. Are you on foot?”
“No; but I shall be glad of the walk home; I will send away the carriage.”
She did so, and we went on together.
“It is like death,” I said; “no matter how long one is expecting it, it comes like a blow at the last; I can hardly realize even now that the siege is so near. Why, it was only the other day we were listening to those people joking about it all!”
“It was a sorry joke,” said Berthe; “but that is always the way with us; we go on joking to the end. I believe a Frenchman would joke in his coffin if he could speak.”
“And you really mean to stay, Berthe?”