‘Blasted!’
The sound of her whisper was terrible. In the moonlight, her face appeared to be blanched to a greenish-white hue. Involuntarily, Quality saw, in a lightning flash of clairvoyance, the white, dripping face of a peasant boy, with wolfish eyes glowing yellow, as he felt the edge of his axe with tremulous fingers.
‘Ah, m’sieur, our last night together!’ Inspired by unusual affection, madame pressed his arm. ‘To-morrow, you will be gone. But what of me? Hélas! what of me?’
‘You?’ Quality strove to speak naturally. ‘Oh, very soon I hope the Allies will make good, and your town be again cleared of the enemy.’
‘The enemy? Ah!’
Madame broke off abruptly. Following the direction of her gaze, Quality also looked at the fountain darkly carven against the luminous sky.
Obedient to the dictate of his mountebank nerves, it slightly altered its position. Or was it a shape that slipped farther into the depths of its shadow?
‘The enemy!’ Madame raised her voice shrilly, with startling lack of caution. ‘Who is the enemy? Have you ever given a thought to the lot of us who live in a province that to-day is French and to-morrow German? Can one say with certainty: “This one is French; that one German”? No, no, m’sieur! My name may be French as the wife of a French spouse, but I have German blood in my veins—German sympathies—love of the Fatherland—deep hatred for all his foes!’
Again the fountain moved, to give sign that it had heard.
In a last desperate effort to preserve his sanity, Quality slammed down the window, forcing a laugh the while.