"I will take you back to the inn," he said. "They will have a room
there."
"Julien will have left and gone to his lodging."
"Yes, at the other end of the town," answered Alfred, she fancied with
grim satisfaction. ("Though it is as well," she thought; "there will be
less scandal in the eyes of the innkeeper.")
"To-morrow morning, mademoiselle, I will fetch you at six with another
car and its driver, Foss, a man whom I can trust. We will take you to
the river, and on the return journey drag the car from the ditch. It
should be easy; she has not heeled over on her side."
"That will be marvellous. I cannot tell you how I apologise."
This, she began to see, was serious; her debt to the enemy Alfred was
growing hourly.
"No, no," he said, as though he saw the thing in the light of common
justice. "You have come over to dine with Julien; we must get you back
to the river."
"Nevertheless it's monstrous," she thought, "what he has to do for me."
But Alfred regarded it less as a friendly office towards Julien than as
a duty, an order given by an officer. He was a sergeant, and four years
of war had changed him from an irritable and independent friend to a
dogged and careful subordinate. He did not like Fanny any the more for
the trouble she was giving him; but he did not hold her responsible for
his discomforts.
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