The vine was red on the white old soft wall. It was very beautiful.
There were masses of purple asters under the red vine, against the
wall. There was a bowl of purple asters on the table between the
carafes of red and white wine.
We had an omelet and bread and butter and raspberries, and water, very
beautiful in the thick greenish glasses.
Under the yellow boughs of the lime tree we could see the misty valley
and the mountains.
The table had a red-and-white cloth.
The little old thin brown woman who served us wanted to talk all the
time with us. She wanted to talk about the omelet; she had made it and
was very proud of it. She wanted to talk about the war and to talk
about her son.
She said that there had been some horrible, strange mistake and that
people thought that he was dead. She had had a paper from the Ministry
of War telling her he was dead. It was very strange. She had had a
letter also from the Aumonier, telling her he was dead. But, of course,
she knew.
She said he would come home, and be so sorry she had had such dreadful
news, and so glad that she had not believed it.
They would laugh together. He had beautiful white teeth, she said, and
his eyes screwed tight up when he laughed.
She told us how she and he would laugh together.