She replied with a gesture of strangeness and dismay.  To marry! . . .  Ten days ago she had had no other wish.  Now the possibility of marriage was recurring less and less in her thoughts.  Why think about such remote and uncertain events?  More immediate things were occupying her mind.

The farewell to her brother in the station was a scene which had fixed itself ineradicably in her memory.  Upon going to the studio she had planned not to speak about it, foreseeing that she might annoy her lover with this account; but alas, she had only to vow not to mention a thing, to feel an irresistible impulse to talk about it.

She had never suspected that she could love her brother so dearly.  Her former affection for him had been mingled with a silent sentiment of jealousy because her mother had preferred the older child.  Besides, he was the one who had introduced Laurier to his home; the two held diplomas as industrial engineers and had been close friends from their school days. . . .  But upon seeing the boy ready to depart, Marguerite suddenly discovered that this brother, who had always been of secondary interest to her, was now occupying a pre-eminent place in her affections.

“He was so handsome, so interesting in his lieutenant’s uniform! . . .  He looked like another person.  I will admit to you that I was very proud to walk beside him, leaning on his arm.  People thought that we were married.  Seeing me weep, some poor women tried to console me saying, ‘Courage, Madame. . . .  Your man will come back.’  He just laughed at hearing these mistakes.  The only thing that was really saddening him was thinking about our mother.”

They had separated at the door of the station.  The sentries would not let her go any further, so she had handed over his sword that she had wished to carry till the last moment.

“It is lovely to be a man!” she exclaimed enthusiastically.  “I would love to wear a uniform, to go to war, to be of some real use!”

She tried not to say more about it, as though she suddenly realized the inopportuneness of her last words.  Perhaps she noticed the scowl on Julio’s face.

She was, however, so wrought up by the memory of that farewell that, after a long pause, she was unable to resist the temptation of again putting her thought into words.

At the station entrance, while she was kissing her brother for the last time, she had an encounter, a great surprise.  “He” had approached, also clad as an artillery officer, but alone, having to entrust his valise to a good-natured man from the crowd.

Julio shot her a questioning look.  Who was “he”?  He suspected, but feigned ignorance, as though fearing to learn the truth.

“Laurier,” she replied laconically, “my former husband.”

The lover displayed a cruel irony.  It was a cowardly thing to ridicule this man who had responded to the call of duty.  He recognized his vileness, but a malign and irresistible instinct made him keep on with his sneers in order to discredit the man before Marguerite.  Laurier a soldier!—­He must cut a pretty figure dressed in uniform!