"Mademoiselle," he said, "I am going on to the next village to get a tin
of oil. There is a garage. Cars will be passing soon; I must ask you to
lie covered with the rug in the bottom of the car; your uniform is very
visible. Foss will remain with you."
Fanny lay down in the bottom of the car, fitting her legs among a couple
of empty petrol tins; Foss covered her with the rug. A quarter of an
hour went by, and above her she began to hear the voices of birds; below
her the cold crept up. She had no idea how far the village might be, and
it is possible that Alfred had had no idea either. A bicycle bell rang
at her side; later she heard the noise of a car, which passed her with
a rush. Lying with her ear so close to the poor body of the motor she
felt it to be but cold bones in a cemetery, dead, dead.
Outside in the road, Foss shaded his eyes and looked up the now sparkling
road a hundred times. The motors increased; the morning traffic between
Precy and Chantilly awoke; the cars were going in to the offices of the
G.Q.G. Now and then Foss would come to the window of the car. "Don't
move," he would say. The floor-boards were rattled by an icy wind that
blew over the face of the snow and up under the car; the brown, silk legs
lay prone and stiff between the petrol cans, lifeless now to the knee.
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