There was a sad, a deadly charm still about the journey. There was a
bitter and a sweet comfort yet before her. There were two hours of
farewell to be said at dawn. There was the sight of his face once more
for her. That the man who slipped into the seat beside her at Chantilly
was Julien dissolved her courage and set her heart beating. She glanced
at him in that early light, and he at her. Two hours before them still.
She was to carry him with her only to lose him surely; he was to
accompany her on her journey only to turn back.
All the way to Amiens he reassured himself and her: "In a week I will
come to Charleville."
And she replied: "Yes, this is nothing. I lose you here, but in a week
you will come."
(Why then this dread?)
"In a week--in a week," ran the refrain.
"How will you find me at Charleville? Will you come to the garage?"
"No, I shall write to the 'Silver Lion.' You will find in the middle of
the main street an old inn with mouldering black wood upon the window
sashes. How well I know it! I will write there."
"We are so near the end," she said suddenly, "that to have said
'Good-bye' to you, to leave you at Amiens, is no worse than this."
And faster she hurried towards Amiens to find relief. He did not
contradict her, or bid her go slower, but as they neared Amiens, offered
once more his promise that they would meet again in a week.
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