"She is
the man and rejoices that I, the weak comrade, should be protected from
danger. . . . What a grotesque situation!" . . .
Fortunately, at times when Marguerite presented herself at the studio,
she was again her old self, making him temporarily forget his annoyance.
She would arrive with the same joy in a vacation that the college
student or the employee feels on a holiday. Responsibility was teaching
her to know the value of time.
"No classes to-day!" she would call out on entering; and tossing her
hat on a divan, she would begin a dance-step, retreating with infantile
coquetry from the arms of her lover.
But in a few minutes she would recover her customary gravity, the
serious look that had become habitual with her since the outbreak of
hostilities. She spoke often of her mother, always sad, but striving to
hide her grief and keeping herself up in the hope of a letter from her
son; she spoke, too, of the war, commenting on the latest events with
the rhetorical optimism of the official dispatches. She could describe
the first flag taken from the enemy as minutely as though it were
a garment of unparalleled elegance. From a window, she had seen the
Minister of War. She was very much affected when repeating the story of
some fugitive Belgians recently arrived at the hospital. They were the
only patients that she had been able to assist until now.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275