"What are you going to do?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm.
"Write."
"Are you going to let strangers see your writing, and perhaps betray who
you are?"
"In a week the strokes from my hand will tell who I am," he replied,
with double meaning.
"Oh, you are terrible!" murmured Marie, turning her face away.
"I am so for your sake, Marie."
"For my sake?" echoed the young girl, sorrowfully. "For my sake? Do you
imagine that _I_ shall take pleasure in seeing you go into battle?
Suppose you should fall?"
"Have no fear on that score, Marie," returned the young man,
confidently. "I shall have a guiding star to watch over me; and if there
be a God in heaven--"
"Then may He take me to Himself!" interposed the young girl in a fervent
tone, lifting a transfigured glance toward heaven. "And may He grant
that there be not on earth one other Frenchwoman who is forced to pray
for the defeat of her own nation! May He grant that there be not
another woman in the world who is waiting until a pedestal is formed of
her countrymen's and kinsmen's skeletons, that she may be elevated to it
as an idol from which many, many of her brothers will turn with a curse!
May God take me to Himself now--now, while yet my two hands are white,
while yet I cherish toward my nation nothing but love and tenderness,
now when I forgive and forget everything, and desire none of this
world's splendor for myself!"
Ludwig Vavel was filled with admiration by this outburst from the
innocent girl heart.
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