'I see.
You wanted to wait a bit.' She said: 'Not longer than could be helped.
But I wanted very much that everything should be correct, that we should start off right.
Because, to be married, it is for all one's hie, and one marries not only to the man but to the relations also.
And in a mixed marriage things are certain to be difficult, in any case.
And so, I said that I would come to England for his next leave, in September or October, and we would meet in London, and he could then take me to see you in your country home.
And then you would write to my father, and everything would be quite in order and correct.'
'And then the war came,' he said quietly.
She repeated: 'Yes, monsieur, then the war came.
It was not then possible for me to visit England.
It would almost have been easier for John to visit Paris again, but he could get no leave.
And so I went on struggling to get my permis and the visa month after month. 'And then,' she said, 'they wrote to tell me what had happened.'
They sat there for a long time, practically in silence.
The air grew colder as the night went on.
Presently the old man heard the girl's breathing grow more regular and knew she was asleep, still sitting up on the bare wooden floor.
After a time she stirred and fell half over.
He got up stiffly and led her, still practically asleep, to the palliasse, made her lie down, and put a blanket over her.
In a short time she was asleep again.
For a long time he stood by the window, looking out over the harbour mouth.
The moon had risen; the white plumes of surf on the rocks showed clearly on the blackness of the sea.
He wondered what was going to happen to them all.
It might very well be that he would be taken from the children and sent to a concentration camp; that for him would be the end, before so very long.
The thought of what might happen to the children distressed him terribly.
At all costs, he must do his best to stay at liberty.
If he could manage that it might be possible for him to make a home for them, to look after them till the war was over.
A home in Chartres, perhaps, not far from Nicole and her mother.
It would take little money to live simply with them, in one room or in two rooms at the most.
The thought of penury did not distress hun very much.
His old life seemed very, very far away.
Presently, the blackness of the night began to pale towards the east, and it grew colder still.
He moved back to the wall and, wrapped in a blanket, sat down in a corner.
Presently he fell into an uneasy sleep.
At six o'oclock the clumping of the soldiers' boots in the corridor outside woke him from a doze.
He stirred and sat upright; Nicole was awake and sitting up, running her fingers through her hah- in an endeavour to put it into order without a comb.
A German Oberschutze came in and made signs to them to get up, indicating the way to the toilet.
Presently, a private brought them china bowls, some hunks of bread and a large jug of bitter coffee.
They breakfasted, and waited for something to happen.
They were silent and depressed; even the children caught the atmosphere and sat about in gloomy inactivity.
Presently the door was flung open, and the Feldwebel was there with a couple of privates.
'Marchez,' he said.
'Allez, vite.'
They were herded out and into a grey, camouflaged motor-lorry with a closed, van-like body.
The two German privates got into this with them and the doors were shut and locked on them.
The Feldwebel got into the seat beside the driver, turned and inspected them through a little hatchway to the driver's compartment.
The lorry started.
They were taken to Lannilis, and unloaded at the big house opposite the church, from the window of which floated the Swastika flag.
Here they were herded into a corridor between their guards.
The Feldwebel went into a door and closed it behind him.
They waited thus for over half an hour.
The children, apprehensive and docile at the first, became bored and restless.