Suddenly he felt a thrill down his back—­the same indefinable sensation which used to warn him of her presence when they were meeting in the gardens of Paris.  Marguerite was going to present herself unexpectedly as in the old days without his knowing from exactly what spot—­as though she came up out of the earth or descended from the clouds.

After a second’s thought he smiled bitterly.  Mere tricks of his desire!  Illusions! . . .  Upon turning his head he recognized the falsity of his hope.  Nobody was following his footsteps; he was the only being going down the center of the avenue.  Near him, in the diaphanous white of a guardian angel, was a nurse.  Poor blind man! . . .  Desnoyers was passing on when a quick movement on the part of the white-clad woman, an evident desire to escape notice, to hide her face by looking at the plants, attracted his attention.  He was slow in recognizing her.  Two little ringlets escaping from the band of her cap made him guess the hidden head of hair; the feet shod in white were the signs which enabled him to reconstruct the person somewhat disfigured by the severe uniform.  Her face was pale and sad.  There wasn’t a trace left in it of the old vanities that used to give it its childish, doll-like beauty.  In the depths of those great, dark-circled eyes life seemed to be reflected in new forms. . . .  Marguerite!

They stared at one another for a long while, as though hypnotized with surprise.  She looked alarmed when Desnoyers advanced a step toward her.  No . . .  No!  Her eyes, her hands, her entire body seemed to protest, to repel his approach, to hold him motionless.  Fear that he might come near her, made her go toward him.  She said a few words to the soldier who remained on the bench, receiving across the bandage on his face a ray of sunlight which he did not appear to feel.  Then she rose, going to meet Julio, and continued forward, indicating by a gesture that they must find some place further on where the wounded man could not hear them.

She led the way to a side path from which she could see the blind man confided to her care.  They stood motionless, face to face.  Desnoyers wished to say many things; many . . . but he hesitated, not knowing how to frame his complaints, his pleadings, his endearments.  Far above all these thoughts towered one, fatal, dominant and wrathful.

“Who is that man?”

The spiteful accent, the harsh voice with which he said these words surprised him as though they came from someone else’s mouth.

The nurse looked at him with her great limpid eyes, eyes that seemed forever freed from contractions of surprise or fear.  Her response slipped from her with equal directness.

“It is Laurier. . . .  It is my husband.”