Near him, in the diaphanous white of a
guardian angel, was a nurse. Poor blind man! . . . Desnoyers was passing
on when a quick movement on the part of the white-clad woman, an evident
desire to escape notice, to hide her face by looking at the plants,
attracted his attention. He was slow in recognizing her. Two little
ringlets escaping from the band of her cap made him guess the hidden
head of hair; the feet shod in white were the signs which enabled him
to reconstruct the person somewhat disfigured by the severe uniform.
Her face was pale and sad. There wasn't a trace left in it of the old
vanities that used to give it its childish, doll-like beauty. In the
depths of those great, dark-circled eyes life seemed to be reflected in
new forms. . . . Marguerite!
They stared at one another for a long while, as though hypnotized with
surprise. She looked alarmed when Desnoyers advanced a step toward her.
No . . . No! Her eyes, her hands, her entire body seemed to protest, to
repel his approach, to hold him motionless. Fear that he might come near
her, made her go toward him. She said a few words to the soldier who
remained on the bench, receiving across the bandage on his face a ray of
sunlight which he did not appear to feel. Then she rose, going to meet
Julio, and continued forward, indicating by a gesture that they must
find some place further on where the wounded man could not hear them.
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