"Tell me . . . why did you remain behind?" he began presently.
She made a gesture indicating the window behind which lay Madame Gigon. "You have seen the reason," she said. "It was impossible to go away."
The man whistled softly. "Aren't you in the least afraid?"
For a time there was no sound except a deep sigh. "There was nothing to be done," she answered presently in the same dead voice. "When there is nothing to be done, it is foolish to fret. It is best to make the most of it. What would you have me do?" For a moment a trace of life, almost of humor entered her voice. "Would you have me lie down and scream?" Again she sighed. "What good would it do? What would come of it? I do not believe in scenes."
The Uhlan laughed. "Unlike most women," he said. "But you are right. Afterwards, scenes are ridiculous. Nothing really matters much. . . . I've learned that in two days," he added with a sort of pride.
To this she made no reply but her very silence carried its own gesture of assent. She did not deny his statement.
"I suppose you hate me," he began, "like a good Frenchwoman."
For the first time she raised her head and looked squarely at the stranger. "What do you want?" she asked. "Why are you talking in this fashion? You understand I am helpless. I must talk with you if you choose." In the darkness she frowned. "I suppose that is war." And then, "Besides, I am not a Frenchwoman at all. I am an American."
At this the stranger gave a sudden start, in the darkness more audible than visible by the sudden click of metal on some part of his uniform.
"Then you must hate me even more. . . . I have lived in Paris. The Americans there are more French than the French."
This remark, it appeared, angered her for she answered quickly. "I know no Americans in Paris. I know nothing about them."
The Uhlan laughed. "Madame, I have no intention of injuring you . . . in any way."
