Valeria Petrovna ceased weeping as suddenly as she had begun. “Love?” she said, in her husky voice. “Which of these men is it that you love?”
Marie Lou smiled. “All of them, Madame. It may seem strange to you, but I am of the same world as they. For many years I have been isolated, shut off from life. Their coming was to me like being at home again after a long journey.”
“’ave you then known any of them before?” Valeria Petrovna frowned, puzzled.
“No — no. It is difficult to explain, but in the little time since they have come to Romanovsk we have all grown very close together. I know them better than any of the people who were my neighbours for many years. Those three have filled for me an empty world, they are all so kind, so brave, so splendid. Can you wonder that I love them? My freedom when I get out of Russia, instead of being a joy, will be a bitter thing if they are not also free.”
Valeria Petrovna drew away sharply. “You would ’ave joy to leave Russia? To live with our enemies in the capitalist countries — ’ow can you say such things?”
“Madame, my mother, to whom I owe all that I am, was French — therefore France is my natural country — if I wish to leave Russia, it is no more than if you wished to leave France, had you spent much of your life there against your will.”
“It is yourself you accuse,” said Valeria Petrovna bitterly. “Russia ’as fed and cloth’ you, yet you would stab ’er in the back. You are a bourgeoise — in sympathy with the capitalists — a saboteure!”
Marie Lou shook her head. “Please let us not talk of this. Can we not think of some way to help our friends?”
Valeria Petrovna’s maid entered at that moment. She addressed her mistress: “There is an Englishman outside, he wishes to see you.” As the woman spoke she looked askance at Marie Lou, an incongruous figure in that lovely room, travel-stained and dishevelled in her rough patched clothes.
“Some fool ’oo ’as seen me at the theatre,” exclaimed Valeria Petrovna. “Send ’im away.”