"Oh, I understand well enough that my house has been a den! The house where I was born--All my things, all my things--You must give that lamp back!"

"Dear madame, I will give everything back, I have hurt nothing--"

"Not ruined my carpet, my mother's carpet! Not soiled my walls, written your name upon them, cracked my windows, filled my room downstairs with rubbish, broken my furniture--But I am told this is what I must expect!"

f.a.n.n.y looked at her, petrified. "But I--" she began.

"You don't understand," said the young _concierge_ fiercely. "Don't you know who has lived here? In this room, in this bed, Turks, Bulgars, Germans. Four years of soldiers, coming in one week and gone the next. I could not stop it! When other houses were burnt I would say to myself, 'Madame is lucky.' When all your china was broken and your chairs used for firewood, could I help it? Can _she_ help it? She is your last soldier, and she has taken nothing. So much has gone from this house it is not worth while to worry about what remains. When you wrote to me last month to send you the barometer, it made me smile. Your barometer!"

"Begone, Elsie."

"No, madame, no! Not till you come back with me. They should not have let you come alone. But you were always wilful. You cannot mean to live here?"

"I wish this woman gone to-day. I wish to sleep here to-night."

"No, madame, no. Sleep in the house opposite to-night. Give her time to find a lodging--"

"A lodging! She will find a lodging soon enough. A town full of soldiers--" muttered the old woman.

"I think this is a question for the billeting lieutenant," said f.a.n.n.y.

"He will explain to you that I am billeted here exactly as a soldier, that I have a right to be here until your arrival. It will be kind of you to give me a day in which to find another room."

"Where are _his_ things?" said the old woman unheedingly. "I must go up to the attics."

A vision of those broken toys came to f.a.n.n.y, the dusty heap of horses, dolls and boxes--the poor disorder.

"You mustn't, yet!" she cried with feeling. "Rest first. Sit here longer first. Or go another day!"

"Have you touched _them_?" cried Philippe's mother, rising from the chair. "I must go at once, at once----" but even as she tried to cross the room she leant heavily upon the table and put her hand to her heart.

"Get me water, Elsie," she said, and threw up her veil. Her ruined face was grey even at the lips; her eyes were caverns, worn by the dropping of water, her mouth was folded tightly that nothing kind or hopeful, or happy might come out of it again. Elsie ran to the washing-stand.

Unfortunately she seized the gla.s.s with the golden scrolling, and when she held it to the lips of her mistress those lips refused it.

"_That_, too, that gla.s.s of mine! Elsie, I wish this woman gone. Why don't you get up? Where are your clothes? Why don't you dress and go--"

"Madame, hush, hush, you are ill."

"Ah!" dragging herself weakly to the door, "I must take an inventory.

That is what I should have done before! If I don't make a list at once I shall lose something!"

"Take an inventory!" exclaimed the _concierge_ mockingly, as she followed her. "The house won't change! After four years--it isn't now that it will change!" She paused at the door and looked back at f.a.n.n.y.

"Don't worry about the room, mademoiselle. She is like that--_elle a des crises._ She cannot possibly sleep here. Keep the room for a day or two till you find another."

"In a very few days I shall be going to England."

"Keep it a week if necessary. She will be persuaded when she is calmer.

Why did they let her come when they wrote me that she was a dying woman!

But no--_elle est comme toujours--mechante pour tout le monde._"

"You told me she thought only of Philippe."

"Ah, mademoiselle, she is like many of us! She has still her sense of property."

CHAPTER XX

THE LAST DAY

Around the Spanish Square the first sun-awnings had been put up in the night, awnings red and yellow, flapping in the mountain wind.

In the shops under the arches, in the market in the centre of the Square, they were selling anemones.

"But have you any eggs?"

"No eggs this morning."

"Any b.u.t.ter?"

"None. There has been none these three days."

"A pot of condensed milk?"

"Mademoiselle, the train did not bring any."

"Must I eat anemones? Give me two bunches."

And round the Spanish Square the orange awnings protecting the empty shop-fronts shuddered and flapped, like a gay hat worn unsteadily when the stomach is empty.

What was there to do on a last day but look and note, and watch, and take one's leave? The buds against the twig-laced sky were larger than ever. To-morrow--the day after to-morrow ... it would be spring in England, too!

"_Tenez_, mademoiselle," said the market woman, "there is a little ounce of b.u.t.ter here that you may have!"

The morning pa.s.sed and on drifted the day, and all was finished, all was done, and love gone, too. And with love gone the less divine but wider world lay open.

In the "Silver Lion" the patient girl behind the counter shook her head.

"There is no letter for you."

"And to-morrow I leave for England."

"If a letter comes where shall I send it on?"

"Thank you, but there will come no letter now. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

It was the afternoon. Now such a tea, a happy, lonely tea--the last, the best, in Charleville! Crossing the road from the "Silver Lion" f.a.n.n.y bought a round, flat, sandwich cake, and carried it to the house which was her own for one more night, placed it in state upon the biggest of the green and gold porcelain plates, and the anemones in a sugar-bowl beside it. She lit the fire, made tea, and knelt upon the floor to toast her bread. There was a half-conscious hurry in her actions.