Then she heard him clear his throat and speak.
"The Captain asked me to get a bit of wood for his fire, sir. I have a
man in there gathering branches, while I do a bit of 'business' with
the car."
"Oh, right!... Go on!" said Vauclin to his own chauffeur. Again they were
left alone. Talk between them was almost impossible; Fanny was so
muffled, Foss so anxiously watched for Alfred. The reedy singing between
the boards where the wind attacked her occupied all her attention. The
very core of warmth seemed extinguished in her body, never to be lit
again. She remembered their last _fourier_, or special body-servant, who
had gone on leave upon an open truck, and who had grown colder and
colder--"and he never got warm again and he died, madame," the letter
from his wife had told them.
"I think he is coming! There is no one else on the road, mademoiselle.
Will you look? I don't see very well--"
She tried to throw off the rug and sit up, but her frozen elbow slipped
and she fell again on the floor of the car. Pulling herself up she
stared with him through the glass. Far up the white road a little figure
toiled towards them, carrying something, wavering as though the ice-ruts
were deep, picking its way from side to side. Neither of them was sure
whether it was Alfred; they watched in silence. Before she knew it was
upon her a car went by; she dived beneath the rug, striking her forehead
on the corner of the folding seat.
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