The Happy Foreigner Part 42

("So long as n.o.body comes!" she whispered. "So long as I am left alone!") she feared the good-byes of the _concierge_, the threatened inventory of Philippe's mother, a call of state farewell from the billeting lieutenant.

When the toast was done and the tea made, some whim led her to change her tunic for a white jersey newly back from the wash, to put on the old dancing shoes of Metz--and not until her hair was carefully brushed to match this gaiety did she draw up the armchair with the broken leg, and prop it steadily beside the tea-table.

But--

Who was that knocking on the door in the street?

One of the Section coming on a message? The _brigadier_ to tell her that she had some last duty still?

"Shall I go to the window?" (creeping nearer to it). Then, with a glance back at the tea-table, "No, let them knock!"

But how they knocked! Persistent, gentle--could one sit peacefully at tea so called and so besought! She went up to the blue curtains, and standing half-concealed, saw the _concierge_ brooding in the sunlight of her window-sill.

"Is _n.o.body_ there?" said a light voice in the hidden street below, and at that she peered cautiously over the edge of the stonework, and saw a pale young man in grey before the door.

She watched him. She watched him gravely, for he had come too late. But tenderly, for she had been in love with him. The _concierge_ raised her two black brows in her expressive face and looked upwards. Her look said: "Why don't you let him in?"

Yet f.a.n.n.y stood inactive, her hands resting on the sun-warmed stone.

"Julien is here--is here! And does not know that I go to-morrow!"

But she put _to-morrow_ from her, and in the stillness she felt her spirit smiling for pleasure in him. She had mourned him once; she never would again.

In her pocket lay the key of the street door, and the curtain-cord, long rotted and useless, dangled at her cheek. With a quick wrench she brought its length tumbling beside her on the sill, then knotted it to the key and let it down into the street.

The young man saw it hang before his eyes.

"Are you coming in?" said a voice above him. "Tea is ready."

"f.a.n.n.y!"

"It has been ready for six weeks."

"Only wait--" He was trying the key in the door.

"What--still longer?" said the voice.

He was gone from the pavement, he had entered her house, he was on her stair--the grey ghost of the soldier!

She had a minute's grace. Slipping her hand into the cupboard she drew out another cup and saucer, and laid the table for two.

There was his face--his hands--at her door! But what a foreign grey body!

"Come in, Ghost!" she said, and held out her hands--for now she cared at least for "he who cared"--lest that, too, be lost! Does a ghost kiss?

Yes, sometimes. Sometimes they are ghosts who kiss.

"Oh, f.a.n.n.y!" Then, with a quick glance at the table, "You are expecting someone?"

"You. How late you come to tea with me!"

"But I--You didn't know."

"I waited tea for you," she said, and turning to a calendar upon a wooden wheel, she rolled it back a month.

She made him sit, she made him drink and eat. He filled the room with his gaiety. He had no reasons upon his tongue, and no excuses; she no reproaches, no farewell.

A glance round the room had shown her that there were no signs of her packing; her heavy kitbag was at the station, her suitcase packed and in the cupboard. She put her gravest news away till later.

"You came by the new train--that has arrived at last in Charleville?"

"Yes, and I go up to Revins to-night."

She paused at that. "But how?"

"I don't know," he answered, smiling at her.

Her eyes sparkled. "Could I?" (She had that morning delivered the car to its new driver.) "Of course. I could! I will, I will, I'll manage! You counted on me to drive you to Revins?"

"Will it be difficult to manage?"

"No--o--But I must get the car out before dark or there will be no excuse--" She pushed back her chair and went to the window. The sun was sinking over the mountains and the scenery in the western sky was reflected in the fiery pools between the cobbles in the street.

"I must go soon and get it. But how--"

She paused and thought. "How do you come down to-morrow?"

"I don't. I go on to Brussels. There is a car at Revins belonging to my agent. He will take me to Dinant for the Brussels train."

"You are bound for Brussels? Yet you could have gone straight from Paris to Brussels?"

"Yet I didn't because I wanted to see you!"

She took down her cap and coat from the nail on which they were hanging.

"Need you go yet?" he said, withdrawing the clothes from her arm, and laying them upon a chair. She sat down again.

"The sun is sinking. The town gets dark so quickly here, though it's light enough in the mountains. If I leave it later the men will be gone home, and the garage key with them."

"You're right," he said. "Put them on," and he held the coat for her.

"But once you have the car there's no hurry over our drive. Yes, fetch it quickly, and then we'll go up above Revins and I'll show you the things I have in mind."

"What things?"

He drew out a fat, red note-book and held it up.

"It's full of my thoughts," he said. "Quick with the car, and we'll get up there while it's light enough to show you!"

She slipped out under the apple-red sky, through the streets where the shadows of the houses lay black as lacquer.