"Not yet--not yet. Listen, the bullets are not coming here, but are
going past to the right of us. When you go, keep to the left.
Slowly at first--keep a little breath till the end. Now, up!
Mademoiselle, run; name of thunder, let us run!"
Desiree did not understand which were the French lines and which the
line of Russian attack. But there was a clear way to the three
trees which stood above the rest, and she went towards them. She
knew she could not run so far, so she walked. Then the bullets,
instead of passing to the right, seemed to play round her--like bees
in a garden on a summer day--and she ran until she was tired.
The trees were quite close now, and the sky was light behind them.
Then she saw Louis coming towards her, and she ran into his arms.
The sound of the humming bullets was still in her dazed brain, and
she touched him all over with her gloved hand as she clung to him,
as a mother touches her child when it has fallen, to see whether it
be hurt.
"How was I to know?" she whispered breathlessly. "How was I to know
that you were to come into my life?"
The bullets did not matter, it seemed, nor the roar of the firing to
the right of them. Nothing mattered--except that Louis must know
that she had never loved Charles.
He held her and said nothing. And she wanted him to say nothing.
Then she remembered Barlasch, and looked back over her shoulder.
"Where is Barlasch?" she asked, with a sudden sinking at her heart.
Pages:
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294