Jeanne leant forward and grasped the protesting hand by the wrist; and there was a wonderful light behind her eyes and a curious vibration in her voice.
“It is only les petits héros tout faits—the little ready-made heroes—ready made by the bon Dieu—who have no need of a woman’s protection. But it is a different thing with the great heroes who have made themselves without the aid of a bon Dieu, from little dogs of no account (des petits chiens de rien du tout) to what Doggie is at the moment. The woman then takes her place. She fixes things for ever. She alone can understand.”
Peggy gasped as at a new Revelation. The terms in which this French girl expressed herself were far beyond the bounds of her philosophy. The varying aspects in which Doggie had presented himself to her, in the past few months, had been bewildering. Now she saw him, in a fresh light, though as in a glass darkly, as reflected by Jeanne. Still, she protested again, in order to see more clearly.
“But what would you protect him from?”
“From want of faith in himself; from want of faith in his destiny, madame. Once he told me he had come to France to fight for his soul. It is necessary that he should be victorious. It is necessary that the woman who loves him should make him victorious.”
Peggy put out her hand and touched Jeanne’s wrist.
“I’m glad I didn’t marry Doggie, mademoiselle,” she said simply. “I couldn’t have done that.” She paused. “Well?” she resumed. “Will you now come with me to London?”
A faint smile crept into Jeanne’s eyes.
“Mais oui, madame.”