He tapped, and on receiving no reply he went in. The room
was unharmed, and by the light of a candle he saw the girl, face down on
the bed. He spoke to her, but she only lay crouched deeper, her
shoulders shaking.
"It is war, mademoiselle," he said, and went closer. Then suddenly all
the hurt of the past days, all the bitterness of the last hour, were
lost in an overwhelming burst of tenderness.
He bent over her and put his arms round her.
"That I should have hurt you so!" he said softly. "I, who would die for
you, mademoiselle. I who worship you." He buried his face in the warm
hollow of her neck and held her close. He was trembling. "I love you,"
he whispered. "I love you."
She quieted under his touch. He was very strong, and there was refuge
in his arms. For a moment she lay still, happier than she had been for
weeks. It was Henri who was shaken now and the girl who was still.
But very soon came the thing that, after all, he expected. She drew
herself away from him, and Henri, sensitive to every gesture, stood back.
"Who are they?" was the first thing she said. It rather stabbed him.
He had just told her that he loved her, and never before in his careless
young life had he said that to any woman.
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