And, in such cases, there is no grand passion. There are tenderness,
and the joy of companionship, and sometimes a touching dependence. But
it is not a love that burns with a white fire.
Perhaps Sara Lee was one of those women who are always loved more than
they love. There are such women, not selfish, not seeking love, but
softly feminine, kind, appealing and genuine. Men need, after all, but
an altar on which to lay tribute. And the high, remote white altar that
was Sara Lee had already received the love of two strong men.
She was not troubling her head that night, however, about being an altar,
of a sort. She cried a little at first, because she was terrified for
Henri and because Jean's face was growing pinched and gray. Then she
cried very hard, prone on the ground and face down, because Henri was
young, and all of life should have been before him. And he was missing.
Henri was undeniably missing. Even the King knew it now, and set down
in his heart, among the other crosses there, Henri's full name, which
we may not know, and took to pacing his little study and looking out at
the spring sea.
That night Marie, having ladled to the bottom of her kettle, found Sara
Lee missing, and was told by Rene of the direction she had taken. Marie,
muttering to herself, set out to find her, and almost stumbled over her
in the wood by the road.
She sat down on the ground without a word and placed a clumsy hand on
the girl's shoulder. It was not until Sara Lee ceased sobbing that
she spoke: "It is far from hopeless, mademoiselle."
They had by now established a system of communication. Sara Lee spoke
her orders in halting French, but general conversation was beyond her.
And much hearing of English had taught the Belgian girl enough to follow.
Sara Lee replied, then, in smothered English: "He is gone, Marie. He will never come back."
"Who can tell? There are many missing who are not dead."
Sara Lee shuddered. For spies were not made prisoners. They had no
rights as prisoners of war. Their own governments did not protect them.
To Henri capture was death. But she could not say this to Marie.
Marie sat softly stroking Sara Lee's hair, her own eyes tragic and
tearless.
"Even if it were--the other," she said, "it is not so bad to die for
one's country. The thing that is terrible, that leaves behind it only
bitterness and grief and no hope, mademoiselle, even with many prayers,
is that one has died a traitor."