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McClane's car stood in front of her, waiting for John. He was up there on the battlefield, with Sutton and McClane. McClane had kept him off it all day; he had come to her when they started and told her not to worry. Conway would be all right. He would see that he didn't get into places where he well, unsuitable places. He would keep him driving.
He glanced at the Flamand lying heaped on his stretcher. "He's been too much for you, has he?" "Too much ? Yes." Instantly she saw that John had lied, and instantly she backed his lie. She hated McClane thinking she had failed; but anything was better than his knowing the truth. John and McClane picked up the stretcher and went on quickly.
The Belgian shrugged his shoulders and picked up his rifle with an air of exaggerated unconcern. Sutton and McClane carried out the stretcher. Charlotte was following them when the soldier stopped her. "Mademoiselle " He had propped his rifle against the trestles and stood there, groping in his pocket. A dirty handkerchief, dragged up by his fumbling, hung out by its corner.
I'm not even sorry he's dead." "You've forgiven him?" "I'm not always sure about that. But I'm trying to forget him." McClane looked away. "Do you ever dream about him, Charlotte?" "Never. Not now. I used to. I dreamed about him once three nights running." He looked at her sharply. "Could you tell me what you dreamed?" She told him her three dreams.
At the end of it Charlotte and Sutton found themselves alone, smiling into each other's faces. "Do you like him?" she said. "I'm not sure. All the same that isn't a bad idea of Mrs. Rankin's." It was Sutton who tried to work it the next morning, sounding McClane. Charlotte was in the space between the glass doors, arranging their stores in their own cupboard.
And there they had been told that they must not go on. And they had gone on. And in the village they were told that they must go back and they had not gone back. They had been given five minutes to get in their wounded and they had been there three-quarters of an hour, she and John working together, and Trixie Rankin with McClane and two of his men.
And that was worse than not knowing. "If only I could understand. Then, I believe, I could bear it. I wouldn't care how bad it was as long as I understood." "Ask McClane, then. He could explain it to you. It's beyond me." "McClane?" "He's a psychotherapist. He knows more about people's souls than I know about their bodies. He probably knows all about Conway's soul."
As if he could really keep him out. When it came to action they were one corps; they couldn't very well be divided, since McClane had more men than stretchers and John had more stretchers than men. They would all be infinitely happier, working together like that, instead of standing stupidly apart, glaring and hating. Yet she knew what McClane and Mrs. Rankin had been playing for.
McClane's stores had overflowed into it on the lower shelves. She could hear the two men talking in the room, Sutton's low, persuasive voice; she couldn't hear what he was saying. Suddenly McClane brought his fist down on the table. "I'll take you. And I'll take your women. And I'll take your ambulances. I could do with two more ambulances. But I won't take Conway." "You can't tell him that."
"It ain't mine, it ain't mine, it's Jane's. The lady made a mistake." "What lady?" "The lady in the shop." "What shop?" And then Polly had to tell the whole story. "And that's where you were after breakfast, you little monkey, breaking a bank, and running away with it, to buy Jane McClane a valentine. Well, if this isn't the funniest thing I ever heard of. Jane!
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