"She has," and M. Deshoulieres turned round and saw Therese.
She trembled violently, fearing lest after all she had done wrong, and
then she looked in his face and saw a sudden agony in it, and recovered
herself at once.
He crossed the room and stood before her in the dim corner, at first
speechless. When he did at last speak, his voice was so changed, so
rough and broken, that she hardly recognised it.
"Child, child!" he said, "what madness have you done?"
"Do not send me away," she said, gently. "I could not help it, I could
not sleep at night for thinking of all this misery. And what was there
to keep me? I am free if any one in the world is free. You must let me
remain. I am not afraid." He answered her sharply, like a person in
keen pain.
"What you ask is impossible, ridiculous! I insist upon your returning
at once."
Therese shook her head.
"I cannot go back to the Roulleaus from this house. You see that, do
you not, monsieur? It would be simply wicked."
"Then I must find you a lodging. Heavens, mademoiselle, what has
possessed you?"
She did not answer. He looked at her there in the grey dusk, the little
window open behind her, the old blackened discoloured walls, the poor
meagre fittings, the wretchedness around, and she standing, so womanly,
so brave, so patient, as she was under his upbraidings. He longed to
take her hand and draw her away out of that hot foul atmosphere. He
could give himself without a murmur, but his heart cried out against her
making a choice like this. Is it not always easier to give ourselves
than to give our dearest?
"Come," he said, almost passionately.
But she made no movement. She only said,--"If you order it, I must go,
of course. But what would be the good? If any mischief is done it must
be done by this time. Pray, pray let me stay!"
She had the advantage of being perfectly self-possessed, while he was
deeply moved and very pale.
"I will find some one to come here. Indeed, you must not remain."
She saw he was wavering.
"Then let me go to the hospital. You know you want nurses."
"Yes, but they are trained, experienced nurses that we want."
"I can learn quickly," Therese said, eagerly. "_Allons_, M.
Deshoulieres, when those that you seek come, I can go away. Or leave me
here."
"No, no," he answered again. "This is far worse than the hospital. How
could you be so imprudent?"
"You are going to accept me," she said, joyfully.
He took her hand and looked into her face.
"Do you know what you are asking? Do you know what you must bear? Have
you courage enough, strength enough, devotion enough?" There was a
little silence, and then Therese looked up and answered, humbly,--
"No. But, monsieur, I will ask for all these; and I think that,
perhaps, He who has given me the will will send me what I want."
After that he could say no more. He may have put up a different prayer
for her in his own heart, but of it she knew nothing. He said no more
to her; he promised the poor, half-stupefied mother that some one should
be sent for the night, and then those two went away together. It was
evening now, the sun had set, a golden glimmer just lingered on the
plains. Far away, in other parts of bright France, the goats would be
trooping home from breezy uplands in tinkling herds, soft sweet breezes
tossing the hay, fresh mountain streams gurgling along their rocky beds,
dewy grass waving, leaves rustling: here, the hot thirsty air still
filled the narrow streets, the summer evening brought no relief from the
invisible pestilential cloud that hung and penetrated, and stifled.
Together those two went--under the quaint houses, so sadly stricken,
along the rough pavement, over which many little feet were never now any
more to patter--solemnly and silently, because their hearts were very
full, and a great shadow hung over them. They passed under an ancient
gateway, crossed a bridge; and, in another few minutes, the two--still
silent--went together up a flight of steps, and into the hospital of St
Jean.