‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. In those revolutionary times one had to be prepared. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. And me, I know very much of soldiers.
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