“Yes,—I lie there,” he said; “queer, isn’t it?”
“Was he a good man—your comrade?”
“He was a better man as a soldier than I was. That’s all I care to remember.”
She turned back into the garden, and her heart failed her as she looked at the roofless house. There had been an arbour in the garden at the end of the little avenue of pollarded limes, and Manon’s memories led her there. The iron frame was unbroken, rambled over by a hardy vine and some climbing roses,—a round iron table standing in the centre, with a semi-circular green bench at the back of it. People had forgotten to break up the wooden bench for firewood.
Manon sat down, and looked up at Brent, who was knocking the bowl of his pipe against the edge of the iron table. His face was serious—overshadowed.
“Mon ami,” she said suddenly, “I think that I am ruined.”
Brent glanced at her, and her eyes hurt him. He sat down on an end of the bench.
“I can understand,” he said; “it’s—it’s damnable.”
She began to talk with an air of pathetic candour.
“You see—my life lies here; the place is part of my heart. I have the blood of peasants in me, and all the time I think of the past. This morning I did not know what I should find here; I had such hopes, such an excitement of tenderness. And look at the poor place!”