She nodded.  “Tell me,” she said again.  “But first, what is your name, mon ami?  It is hard to talk if one does not know even the name.”

He hardly hesitated.  It seemed natural to say it.  “Peter,” he said.

She smiled, rolling the “r.”  “Peterr.  Well, Peterr, go on.”

“I’ll tell you about to-day first,” he said, and, once launched, did so easily.  He told the little story well, and presently forgot the strange surroundings.  It was all but a confession, and surely one was never more strangely made.  And from the story he spoke of Julie, but concealed her identity, and then he spoke of God.  Louise hardly said a word.  She poured out coffee in the middle, but that was all.  At last he finished.

“Louise,” he said, “it comes to this:  I’ve nothing left but Julie.  It was she restrained me this afternoon, I think.  I’m mad for her; I want her and nothing else.  But with her, somehow, I lose everything else I possess or ever thought I possessed.”  And he stopped abruptly, for she did not know his business in life, and he had almost given it away.

When he had finished she slipped a hand into his, and said no word.  Suddenly she looked up.  “Peterr, mon ami,” she said, “listen to me.  I will tell you the story of Louise, of me.  My father, he lived—­oh, it matters not; but he had some money, he was not poor.  I went to a good school, and I came home for the holidays.  I had one sister older than me.  Presently I grew up; I learnt much; I noticed.  I saw there were terrible things, chez nous.  My mother did not care, but I—­I cared.  I was mad.  I spoke to my sister:  it was no good.  I spoke to my father, and, truly, I thought he would kill me.  He beat me—­ah, terrible—­and I ran from the house.  I wept under the hedges:  I said I would no more go ’ome.  I come to a big city.  I found work in a big shop—­much work, little money—­ah, how little!  Then I met a friend:  he persuade me, at last he keep me—­two months, three, or more; then comes the war.  He is an officer, and he goes.  We kiss, we part—­oui, he love me, that officer.  I pray for him:  I think I nevair leave the church; but it is no good.  He is dead.  Then I curse le bon Dieu.  They know me in that place:  I can do nothing unless I will go to an ’otel—­to be for the officers, you understand?  I say, Non.  I sell my things and I come here.  Here I do well—­you understand?  I am careful; I have now my home.  But this is what I tell you, Peterr:  one does wrong to curse le bon Dieu.  He is wise—­ah, how wise!—­it is not for me to say.  And good—­ah, Jesu! how good!  You think I do not know; I, how should I know?  But I know.  I do not understand.  For me, I am caught; I am like the bird in the cage.  I cannot get out.  So I smile, I laugh—­and I wait.”

She ceased.  Peter was strangely moved, and he pressed the hand he held almost fiercely.  The tragedy of her life seemed so great that he hardly dare speak of his own.  But:  “What has it to do with me?” he demanded.