The spectacles were gone from his eyes, and between his lips
was a large Havana--his last, kept by him among the dunes as a possible
solace in the dreadful hour of death.
"Monsieur de Trevignac, I want you to dine with us in camp
to-night--only to dine. We won't keep you from your bed one moment after
the coffee and the cognac. You must seal the triple alliance--France,
Russia, England--in some champagne."
She had spoken gaily, cordially. She added more gravely:
"One doesn't escape from death among the dunes every day. Will you
come?"
She held out her hand frankly, as a man might to another man. He pressed
it as a man presses a woman's hand when he is feeling very soft and
tender.
"Madame, what can I say, but that you are too good to us poor fellows
and that you will find it very difficult to get rid of us, for we shall
be so happy in your camp that we shall forget all about our tower."
"That's settled then."
With the brand in her hand she walked to the edge of the hill. De
Trevignac followed her. He had taken the other brand from Marelle. They
stood side by side, overlooking the immense desolation that was now
almost hidden in the night.
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