“Not very severely,” laughed Smithers. “Captain Willoughby will see to that. But reflect, mademoiselle. His military duty was to remain with his comrades, not to go and risk his life to get your property. Anyhow, it is clear that he was not out for loot…. Of course, they sent me here as Intelligence officer, to get corroboration of his story.” He paused for a moment. Then he added: “Mademoiselle, I must congratulate you on the restoration of your fortune and the possession of a very brave friend.”
For the first time the red spots burned on Jeanne’s pale face.
“Je vous remercie infiniment, monsieur.”
“Il sera all right,” said Willoughby.
The officers saluted and went their ways. Jeanne took up her packet and mounted to her little room in a dream. Then she sat down on her bed, the unopened packet by her side, and strove to realize it all. But the only articulate thought came to her in the words which she repeated over and over again:
“Il a fait cela pour moi! Il a fait cela pour moi!”
He had done that for her. It was incredible, fantastic, thrillingly true, like the fairy-tales of her childhood. The little sensitive English soldier, whom his comrades protected, whom she herself in a feminine way longed to protect, had done this for her. In a shy, almost reverent way, she opened out the waterproof covering, as though to reassure herself of the reality of things. For the first time since she left Cambrai a smile came into her eyes, together with grateful tears.
“Il a fait cela pour moi! Il a fait cela pour moi!”
A while later she relieved Toinette’s guard in the sick-room.