“Yes,” she said; “they are happy enough now.  But it must be terrible in war-time, to have to march straight to death.”

“Do you think so?” he replied.  “I doubt whether they perceive the terror of it.  It is part of their business to die.”

“Do you not fear death?” she asked him afterwards.

He was silent for a moment.  Then he said slowly:  “I can quite imagine circumstances in which death would be preferable to life.”

“It is because life has been so unjust to him that he disdains it,” she thought.

Another evening, as they sat together, looking on to the square where the women were selling flowers, he began, casually, to talk of himself.  He spoke impassively of the time, eight years before, when he had fallen by accident, in the winter.  For months he had lain in agony; and then slowly he had returned, almost from the grave.  In three years he had regained his strength, but deformed for the rest of his life.

Her lips quivered ominously as she listened.

“It makes my heart ache to think of it,” she said.  “I could not have borne it.”

“You would have got used to it as I did,” he replied.

“I would have prayed to die.”

“There was no need.  I could have died if I had chosen.”

He spoke simply and without the least emotion.  She shuddered.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Of course you do not understand,” he answered gently; “neither do the angels.”

She made no response, but pressed her lips tightly together and aimlessly watched the market-people.

When he had gone away, she sat for a long time quite still.

“If he had someone to love,” she said to herself at last, “he would not be so stern.”

VI.

A fortnight later Raoul went on business to Rouen, and Mademoiselle was left alone.

The first day of his absence she busied herself as usual, going down to rehearsal in the morning and playing in the evening.  But at night, for some indefinable reason, she felt unhappy and discontented.  The next morning she sat in her room and sewed, and the hours seemed long—­very long.  In the afternoon she went out and, almost irresponsibly, bought a little present and carried it down to the Rue Louise to Madame Martin.  She stayed there and chatted until evening.  Madame was delighted to find anyone who would listen with pleasure to praise of Monsieur Raoul.  The third morning Mademoiselle said to herself “It would be pleasant to go to Rouen and see the shops,” and she dressed ready to start.  Then her face flushed and she took off her cloak again and set it aside.  After midday Raoul returned and brought her a great bunch of roses.  Her face beamed with pleasure as she took them, but immediately she became self-conscious and disquieted and would not let her eyes meet his.  After he had gone she sat pensive, with a smile on her lips.  Suddenly the blood mounted to her face, her expression changed, she became agitated in every nerve.  “Of what folly do I dream!” she exclaimed.  She went to dress for the theatre and took the roses and placed them in water on the table by her bedside.  When she was ready to set out, she turned round, raised the flowers to her lips and kissed them.