said. "Chérie!" and with his hand he raised the delicate face to his, and gazed into the azure wonder of her eyes.
She did not speak. Nor did her lashes flutter. She let him look deeply into the translucent profundity of her soul.
"Chérie!" he said again. And no other word was spoken or needed.
The forty minutes had passed. There was a hurried leave-taking, a few eager words of warning and admonition; then Florian had run downstairs, spurs clinking, and swung himself into his saddle.
As he turned the prancing horse's head to the north he looked up at the windows. Yes; they were all there, waving their hands, clustered together, the blonde heads and the brown, the blue eyes and the dark eyes following him.
"Remember," he cried to Louise, "remember—at dawn tomorrow! You will leave tomorrow at dawn." And even as he spoke the unspeakable shudder thrilled him again. Was it a foreboding of what the morrow might bring? Was it a vision of what the tragic and sanguinary dawn had in store for those he was leaving, alone in their defenceless beauty and youth?…
At the end of the street he turned again and saw that Chérie had run out on to the terrace and stood white as a lily in the moonlight, gazing after him.
He raised his hand high in the air in token of salute. Then he rode away. He rode away into the night—away towards the thunderous guns of Liège, the blood-drenched fields of Visé. And he carried with him that vision of delicate loveliness. He had spoken no word of love to her nor had his lips dared to touch hers. Her ethereal purity had strangely awed and enthralled him. It seemed to him that the halo of her virginal youth was around her like an armour of snow.
Thus he left her, fragile and sweet—white as a lily in a moonlit garden.
He left her and rode away into the night.
CHAPTER V
The young girls in their muslin frocks and satin shoes sped homeward like a flight of startled butterflies. Did they dream it, or was there really, as they ran over the bridge, a booming, rumbling sound like distant thunder? They stopped and listened. Yes.... There it was again, the deep booming noise reverberating through the starlit night.
"Jésus, Marie, St. Joseph, ayez pitié de nous," whispered Jeannette, and the others repeated the invocation. Then they ran over the bridge and reached their homes.
Louise, Chérie, and Mireille were left alone in the deserted house.
Frieda's room, when they went upstairs to look for her, was empty. Her clothes were gone. There were only a few of her books—"Deutscher Dichterschatz," "Der Trompeter von Säkkingen," and Freiligrath's "Ausgewählte Lieder"—lying on the table; and the plaster bust of Mozart was still in its place on the mantelpiece.
"She must have slipped out while we were talking with Florian," said Chérie, turning a pale face to Loulou, who gazed in stupefaction round the vacant room.
"She was a snake," said Mireille, slipping her hand through her mother's arm and keeping very close to her. "And so was Fritz."
At the mention of Fritz, Louise shivered. "I do not suppose Fritz has come back," she said, dropping her voice and glancing through the open window at the darkened outbuilding across the courtyard. "He is surely not in his room."
There was a moment's silence, and they all looked at those lightless windows over the garage. The thought of Fritz lurking there, waiting perhaps in the dark to do some fiendish work, was very disquieting.
"We must go and look," said Chérie. So holding each other very close and carrying a lantern high above their heads they went across the quiet courtyard up the creaky wooden stairs to Fritz's room.
Fritz was not there. But his trunk was in its place and all his belongings were scattered about.
"It looks as if he intended to come back," said Chérie; and they trembled at the thought. Then they went downstairs across the yard and into the house again. They were careful to slam the heavy front door which thus locked itself; but when they tried to push the bolt they found it had been taken away. It was at this moment that the distant booming sound fell also on their ears.
"What was that?" asked Mireille.
Chérie put her arm round the child. "Nothing," she said. "Let us go up and pack our things." And as Louise still stood like a statue staring at the door with the lantern in her hand she cried, "Loulou, go up to your room and collect what you will take with you in the morning."
And Loulou slowly, walking like a somnambulist, obeyed.
How difficult to choose, from all the things we live among, just what we can take away in our two hands! How these inanimate things grow round the heart and become through the years an integral part of one's life!
What? Must one take only money and a few jewels, and not this picture? Not these letters? Not this precious gift from one who is dead? Not the massive silver that has been ours for generations? Not the veil one was married in? Not the little torn prayer-book of one's first communion? Not one's father's campaign-medals, or the packet of documents that prove who we are and what is ours?
What! And the bird-cage with the fluffy canaries asleep in it? Are they to be left to die? And the dog–
"Of course we must take Amour," said Chérie.
"Of course," said Loulou, going through the rooms like a wandering spirit, picking things up and putting them down in a bewildered manner.
A clock struck eleven. Mireille, still in her pink frock, had clambered upon her mother's bed and was nearly asleep.
Boom! Again that low, long sound, rumbling and grumbling and dying away.
"It is nearer," breathed Louise. And even while she said it the sound was repeated, and it was nearer indeed and deeper, and the windows shook. Mireille sat up with wide, shining eyes.
"Is that a thunderstorm?… Or the Germans?"
"It is our guns firing to keep the Germans away," said Louise, bending over her and kissing her. "Try to sleep for an hour, my darling."
Mireille lay back with her silken hair tossed on the pillow.
"Are the Germans trying to come here?" she asked.
There was silence. Then Chérie said, "I don't think so," and Louise added, "Of course not."
"But—might they want to come?" insisted Mireille, blinking to keep her eyes open.
"Why should they come here?" said her mother. "What would they want in this little out-of-the-way village?"
"What indeed?" said Chérie.
Mireille shut her eyes and thought about the Germans. She knew a great deal about them. Frieda had taught her—with the aid of a weekly paper from Munich called Fliegende Blätter—all the characteristics of the nation. The Germans, Mireille had gathered, were divided into two categories—Professors and Lieutenants. The Professors were old men, bald and funny; the Lieutenants were young men, aristocratic and beautiful. The Professors were so absent-minded that they never knew where they were, and the Lieutenants were so fascinating that girls fainted away and went into consumption for love of them. Frieda admitted that there were a few other Germans—poets, who were mostly dead; and housewives, who made jam; and waiters, who were sent to England. But obviously the Germans that had
