"That’s where Halkett and I landed when we came to find you," he said.
Then she comprehended and the smile faded from her lips.
Around the bend lay the tree-shaded lawn of the Café Biribi. They gazed at it fixedly and in silence, as they shot swiftly past. There was no sign of life there; the beds of cannas and geraniums lay all ablaze in the sun; the windows of the building were closed, the blinds lowered; every gayly-painted rowboat had been pulled up on the landing and turned keel upward. A solitary swan sailed along close inshore, probing the shallows with his brilliant scarlet beak.
Then, as they left the deserted scene of their first meeting, and as the pretty stone bridge of the Place d’Ausone came into sight beyond, spanning the river in a single, silver-grey arch, Warner looked up along the steep and mossy quay wall, and saw, above him, a line sentinel, fully equipped, lounging on the parapet, watching them. Two others paced the bridge.
"Halte là! Au large!" called out the sentinel. "The Pont d’Ausone is mined."
Leaning on his pole and holding the punt against the current, Warner called out:
"It is not forbidden," replied the soldier. "But you must not approach the bridge any nearer. There are wires under water."
"I have business in Ausone at the Boule d’Argent!" explained Warner. "Is it all right for us to go there?"
"If you remain there with Madame over night you must inscribe yourself with the police and stay indoors after nine without lights," replied the sentinel. It was evident that he took the chaplet of river lilies for a bridal wreath, and that the young bride’s beauty dazzled him. He was very young, and he blushed when Philippa looked up laughingly and thanked him as she put off her white chaplet.
Warner tied the skiff to a rusty ring; Philippa sprang ashore; and they mounted the stone steps, arm in arm together. As they passed the sentinel she drew a lily from her bouquet.
"_Bonne chance_, soldier of France!" she murmured, dropping the white blossom into his sunburnt hand; and clasping Warner’s arm she passed lightly on into the square, hugging her bouquet to her breast.
The aspect of the town, from the quay wall above, seemed to have changed very little. Except on fête days the Place d’Ausone, or market square, was never animated. A few people moved about it now, as usual; a few men sat sipping their bitters on the terrace of the Café Biribi; children played under the trees by the river wall; old women knitted; a few aged anglers, forbidden the bridge, dozed on the quay parapets, while their brilliant scarlet quills trailed in the pools below.