We must have been moving very swiftly, for the car rocked and trembled,
and it was probably that which awoke me. I looked across at Sweetheart.
She was lying on her side, one cheek resting on her gloved hand, her
travelling cap pushed back, her eyes shut. I smoothed away the curly
strands of hair which straggled across her cheeks, and tucked another
rug well about her feet. Her feet were small as a child's. I speak as
if she were not a child. She was eighteen then.
The next time I awoke we lay in a long gaslit station. Some soldiers
were disembarking from the forward carriages, and a gendarme stalked up
and down the platform.
I looked sleepily about for the name of the station. It was painted
in blue over the buffet--"Petit St. Yves." "Is it possible we are in
Brittany?" I thought. Then the voices of the station hands, who were
hoisting a small boat upon the forward carriage, settled my doubts.
"Allons! tire hardiment, Jean Louis! mets le cannotte deboutte."
"Arrête toi Yves! doucement! doucement! Sacrée garce!"
Somewhere in the darkness a mellow bell tolled. I settled back to
slumber, my eyes on Sweetheart.
She slept.