Fussing and pottering about until the mass of lovely blossoms suited
him, he finally presented himself to Neeland for further orders, and,
learning that there were none, started to retire with a
self-respecting dignity that was not at all impaired by the tears
which kept welling up in his aged eyes, and which he always winked
away with a demi-tour and a discreet cough correctly stifled by his
dry and wrinkled hand.
As he passed out the door Neeland said: "Are you in trouble, Marotte?"
The old man straightened up, and a fierce pride blazed for a moment
from his faded eyes: "Not trouble, monsieur; but--when one has three sons departing for the
front--dame!--that makes one reflect a little----"
He bowed with the unconscious dignity of a wider liberty, a subtler
equality which, for a moment, left such as he indifferent to
circumstances of station.
Neeland stepped forward extending his hand: "Bonne chance! God be with France--and with us all who love our
liberty. Luck to your three sons!"
"I thank monsieur----" He steadied his voice, bowed in the faultless
garments which were his badge of service, and went his way through the
silence in the house.
Neeland had walked to the long windows giving on the pretty balcony
with its delicate, wrought-iron rails and its brilliant masses of
geraniums.
Outside, along the Avenue, in absolute silence, a regiment of
cuirassiers was passing, the level sun blazing like sheets of crimson
fire across their helmets and breastplates. And now, listening, the
far clatter of their horses came to his ears in an immense, unbroken,
rattling resonance.
Their gold-fringed standard passed, and the sunlight on the naked
sabres ran from point to hilt like liquid blood. Sons of the
Cuirassiers of Morsbronn, grandsons of the Cuirassiers of
Waterloo--what was their magnificent fate to be?--For splendid it
could not fail to be, whether tragic or fortunate.
The American's heart began to hammer in his breast and throb in his
throat, closing it with a sudden spasm that seemed to confuse his
vision for a moment and turn the distant passing regiment to a
glittering stream of steel and flame.
Then it had passed; the darkly speeding torrent of motor cars alone
possessed the Avenue; and Neeland turned away into the room again.
And there, before him, stood Rue Carew.
A confused sense of unreasoning, immeasurable happiness rushed over
him, and, in that sudden, astounding instant of self-revelation,
self-amazement left him dumb.
She had given him both her slim white hands, and he held to them as
though to find his bearings. Both were a trifle irrelevant and
fragmentary.