And there I think we may leave them all--Henri and Sara Lee; and Jean
of the one eye and the faithful heart; and Marie, with her kettles; and
even Rene, who still in some strange way belonged to the little house,
as though it were something too precious to abandon.
The amazing interlude had become the play itself. Never again for Sara
Lee would the lights go up in front, and Henri with his adoring eyes
and open arms fade into the shadows.
The drama of the war plays on. The Great Playwright sees fit, now and
then, to take away some well-beloved players. New faces appear and
disappear. The music is the thunder of many guns. Henri still plays
his big part, Sara Lee her little one. Yet who shall say, in the end,
which one has done the better? There are new and ever new standards,
but love remains the chief. And love is Sara Lee's one quality--love
of her kind, of tired men and weary, the love that shall one day knit
this broken world together. And love of one man.
On weary nights, when Henri is again lost in the shadows, Sara Lee,
her work done, the men gone, sits in her little house of mercy and
waits. The stars on clear evenings shine down on the roofless buildings,
on the rubbish that was once the mill, on the ruined poplar trees, and
on the small acre of peace where tiny crosses mark the long sleep of
weary soldiers.
And sometimes, though she knows it now by heart, she reads aloud that
letter of Henri's to her. It comforts her. It is a promise.
"If that is to be, then think of me, somewhere, perhaps with Rene by my
side, since he, too, loved you. And I shall still be calling you, and
waiting. Perhaps, even beyond the stars, they have need of a little
house of mercy. And God knows, wherever I am, I shall have need of you."