Part 56 (2/2)
”The inquiry was made how many rooms I had, and I answered truthfully.”
Madame had sunk down on a bench by the door. Monte stared up the road and down the road. There was no other house in sight.
”You could not find a bed for madame even for ten louis d'or?”
”Not for a thousand, monsieur. If there are no beds, there are no beds.”
Yet there was room enough thereabouts. Behind the inn an olive orchard extended up a gentle incline to a stone wall. Over this the sun was descending in a blaze of glory. A warm breeze stirred the dark leaves of the trees. A man could sleep out of doors on such a night as this.
Monte turned again to the man.
”The orchard behind the house is yours?” he asked.
”Yes, monsieur.”
”Then,” said Monte, ”if you will spare us a few blankets, madame and I will sleep there.”
”Upon the ground?”
”Upon the blankets,” smiled Monte.
”Ah, monsieur is from America!” exclaimed Soucin, as if that explained everything.
”Truly.”
”And it is so the Indians sleep, I have read.”
”You have read well. But we must have supper before the officers arrive. You can spare some bread and cheese?”
”I will do that.”
”Then make it ready at once. And some coffee?”
”Yes, monsieur.”
Monte returned to madame.
”I have engaged two rooms in the olive orchard,” he announced.
CHAPTER XXIX
BENEATH THE STARS
The situation was absurd, but what could be done about it? France was at war, and there would be many who would sleep upon the ground who had never slept there before. Many, too, in the ground. Still, the situation was absurd--that Marjory, with all her thousands of dollars, should be forced to sleep out of doors. It gave her a startling sense of helplessness. She had been before in crowded places, but the securing of accommodations was merely a matter of increasing the size of her check. But here, even if one had a thousand louis d'or, that would have made no difference. Officers of the Army of France were not to be disturbed by the tinkle of gold. With a single gold-piece, moreover, one could not even make a tinkle.
She went into the inn to tidy herself before supper; but she hurried back to Monte as quickly as possible. Out of sight of him she felt as lost as a child in a forest. She had nothing to lean upon now but him.
Without him here she would scarcely have had even ident.i.ty. Her name, except as signed to a check, meant nothing. To have announced herself as Miss Marjory Stockton, or even as Madame Covington, would have left the soldiers of France merely smiling. To her s.e.x they might have paid some deference, but to her s.e.x alone. She was not anything except as she was attached to Monte--as a woman under the protection of her man.
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