WHEN Martin landed at Marseilles he found the world on the brink of war.
He had spent the early summer roaming about the East looking, as he had
looked at Hong-Kong, for work that might lead to fortune and finding
none. A touch of fever had caused a friendly doctor at Penang to pack
him off to Europe by the first boat. It had been a Will o’ the Wisp
chase mainly in the rains, when the Straits Settlements are not abodes
of delight. It is bad enough that your boots should be mildewed every
morning; but when the mildew begins to attack your bones it is best to
depart. Martin embarked philosophically. He had tried the East because
it was nearer to his original point of departure. Now he would try the
West—America or Canada. In a temperate climate he could undertake
physical labour. His muscles were solid, and save for the touch of fever
of which the sea-air had soon cured him, his health was robust. He could
hew wood, draw water, dig the earth. In a new country he could not
starve. At the last pinch he could fall back on the profession he had
learned at the Hôtel des Grottes. Furthermore, by eating the bread and
choosing the couch of hardship he had spent comparatively little of his
capital. His vagabondage had hardened him physically and morally. He
knew the world. He had mixed with all kinds and conditions of men. Egypt
seemed a sensuous dream of long ago. He deafened his heart to its
memories. It would take ten years to make anything of a fortune. If he
succeeded, then, in ten years’ time, he would seek Lucilla. In the
meanwhile he would not waste away in despair. He faced the future with
confidence. While standing with his humble fellow passengers in the bows
of the vessel, he felt his pulses thrill at the first sight of the blue
islands of Marseilles. It was France, country almost of his adoption. He
rejoiced that he had decided not to book his ticket to Southampton, but
to pass through the beloved land once again before he sailed to another
Hemisphere. Besides, his money and most of his personal effects
(despatched from Egypt) were lying at Cook’s office in Paris. The
practical therefore turned sentiment into an easy channel. He landed,
carrying his bag in his hand, bought a paper on the quay from a
screaming urchin, and to his stupefaction found the world on the brink
of war.
At Gibraltar he had not seen a newspaper. None had penetrated to the
steerage and he had not landed. He had taken it for granted that the
good, comfortable old earth was rolling its usual course. Now, at
Marseilles, he became aware of every one in the blazing sunshine of the
quays staring at newspapers held open before them. At the modest hotel
hard by, where he deposited his bag, he questioned the manager. Yes, did
not he know? Austria had declared war on Servia. Germany had rejected
all proposals from England for a conference. The President of the
Republic had hurried from Russia. Russia would not allow Servia to be
attacked by Austria. France must join Russia. It was a _coup_ prepared
by Germany. “_Ca y est, c’est la guerre_,” said he.
Martin went out into the streets and found a place on the crowded
terrace of one of the cafés on the Cannebière. All around him was the
talk of war. The rich-voiced Provençaux do not speak in whispers. There
was but one hope for peace, the successful intervention of England
between Russia and Austria. But Germany would not have it. War was
inevitable. Martin bribed a chasseur to find him some English papers, no
matter of what date. With fervent anxiety he scanned the history of the
momentous week. What he read confirmed the talk. Whatever action England
might take, France would be at war in a few days. He paid for his drink
and walked up the Cannebière. He saw no smiling faces. The shadow of war
already overspread the joyous town. A battalion of infantry passed by,
and people stood still involuntarily and watched the soldiers with looks
curiously stern. And Martin stood also, and remained standing long after
the clanging tram-cars temporarily held up had blocked them from his
sight. And he knew that he could not go to America.
In a little spot in the heart of France lived all the friends he had in
the world; all the brave souls he had learned to love. Brantôme appeared
before him as in a revelation, and a consciousness of ingratitude smote
him so that he drew a gasping breath. Not that he had forgotten them. He
had kept up a fitful correspondence with Bigourdin who had never hinted
a reproach. But until an hour or two ago he had been prepared to wipe
Brantôme out of his life, to pass through France without giving it an
hour of greeting—even an _ave atque vale_.
In the past seven months of mad folly and studied poverty, where had he
met characters so strong, ideals so lofty, hearts so loyal? What had he
learned among the careless superficial Anglo-American society in Egypt
comparable with that which he had learned in this world-forgotten little
bourgeoisie in France? Which of them had touched his nature below the
layer of his vanity? What ideals had he met with in the East? Could he
so term the complacent and pessimistic opportunism of the Tudsleys; the
querulous grumbling of officials; the honest dulness of sea-captains and
seamen? He judged superficially, it is true; for one has to strike deep
before one can get at the shy soul of a Briton. But a man is but the
creature of his impressions. From his own particular journeyings of
seven months he had returned almost bewilderingly alone. East of
Marseilles there dwelt not a human being whose call no matter how faint
sounded in his ears. England, in so far as intimate personal England was
concerned, had no call for him either. Nor had America, unknown, remote,
unfriendly as Greenland.
Jostled, he walked along the busy thoroughfare, a man far away, treading
the paths of the spirit. In this mighty convulsion that threatened the
earth, there was one spot which summoned him, with a call clear and
insistent. His place was there, in Périgord, to share in its hopes and
its fears, its mourning and its joy.
He returned to the hotel for his bag and took the first train in the
direction of Brantôme. What he would do when arrived, he had no definite
notion. It was something beyond reason that drove him thither. Something
irresistible; more irresistible than the force which had impelled him to
Egypt. Then he had hesitated, weighed things for and against. Now, one
moment had decided him. It never occurred to him to question. Through
the burning south of France he sped. As yet only the shadow of war hung
over the land; the awful Word had not yet gone forth. Swarthy men and
women worked in the baking vineyards and gathered in the yellow harvest.
But here and there on flashing glimpses of white road troops marched
dustily and military waggons lumbered along. And in the narrow,
wooden-seated third-class carriage on the slow and ever stopping train,
the talk even of the humblest was of war. At every station some of the
passengers left, some entered. There seemed to be a sudden concentration
homewards. At every station were soldiers recalled from leave to their
garrisons. These, during the journey, were questioned as authoritative
functionaries. Yes, for sure, there would be war. Why they did not know,
except that the _sales bêtes_ of Germans were, at last, going to invade
France.
Said one, “I saw an officer yesterday in our village—the son of
Monsieur le Comte de Boirelles who has the big _château là-bas_—we have
known each other from childhood—and he said, ‘_Hein, mon brave, ca y
est!_’ And I said: ‘What, _mon lieutenant_?’ And he said, ‘_V’là le son,
le son du canon_.’ Fight like a good son of Boirelles, or I’ll cut off
your ears.’ And I replied, _quasiment comme ça_: ‘You will not have the
opportunity, _mon lieutenant_, you being in the artillery and I in the
infantry.’ And he laughed with good heart. ‘Anyhow,’ said he, ‘if you
return to the village, when the war is over, without the military medal,
and I am alive, I’ll make my mother do it, in the courtyard of the
château, with her own scissors.’ I tell you this to prove to you that I
know there is going to be war.”
And the women, holding their blue bundles on their knees in the crowded
compartment—for in democratic France demos is not allowed the luxury of
luggage-racks—looked at the future with anxious eyes. What would become
of them? The government would take their men. Their men would be killed
or maimed. Even if the men returned safe and sound, in the meantime, how
would they live? _Ah, mon Dieu! Cette rosse de guerre!_ They cursed the
war as though it were a foul and conscious entity.
The interminable journey, by day, by night, with tedious waits at great
ghostly junctions, at last was over. Martin emerged from the station of
Brantôme and immediately before him stood the familiar ramshackle
omnibus of the Hôtel des Grottes. Old Grégoire, the driver, on beholding
him staggered back and almost fell over the step of the vehicle.
“_Monsieur Martin! C’est vous?_”
Recovering, he advanced with great, sun-glazed hand.
“Yes. It is indeed I,” laughed Martin.
“It is everybody that will be content,” cried Grégoire. “How one has
talked of you, and wished you were back. And now, that this _sacrée
guerre_ is coming——”
“That’s why I’ve come,” said Martin. “How are monsieur and
mademoiselle?”
Both were well. It was they who would be glad to see Monsieur Martin.
The old fellow, red-faced, white-haired, clean shaven, with a
comfortable gash of a mouth, clapped him on the shoulder.
“_Mais v’là un solide gaillard?_”
“_Tu trouves?_”
Why, of course Grégoire found him transformed into a stout fellow. When
he had arrived a year ago he was like a bit of wet string. What a thing
it was to travel. And yet he had been in China where people ate rats and
dogs, which could not be nourishing food. In a fortnight, on the good
meat and _foie gras_ of Périgord, he would develop into a veritable
giant. If Monsieur Martin would enter. . . . He held the door open. No
one else had arrived by the train.
The omnibus jolted and swayed along the familiar road, through the
familiar cobble-paved streets, along the familiar quays, past many a
familiar face. They all seemed to chant the welcome of which the old
driver had struck the key. Martin felt strangely happy and the tears
were very near his eyes. Monsieur Richard, the butcher, catching sight
of him, darted a pace or two down the pavement so as to make sure, and
threw up both hands in greeting. And as they turned the corner of the
hill surmounted by the dear grey tower of the old Abbey, Monsieur le
Curé saw him and smiled and swept a salute with his old dusty hat, which
Martin acknowledged through the end window of the omnibus.
They drew up before the familiar door of the old white inn. Baptiste was
there, elderly, battered, in his green baize apron.
“_Mais, mon Dieu, c’est vous?—mais—— _” He wrung Martin’s hand. And,
as once before, on the return of Félise, not being able to cope with his
emotions, he shouted on the threshold of the vestibule: “_Monsieur,
monsieur, c’est Monsieur Martin qui arrive!_”
“_Qu’est-ce que tu dis là?_” cried a familiar voice from the bureau.
“_C’est Monsieur Martin._”
Martin entered, and in the vestibule encountered Bigourdin.
“_Mais mon vieux_,” cried the vast man. “_C’est toi? C’est vraiment toi,
enfin?_”
It was the instinctive, surprised and joyous greeting of the two
servants. Martin stood unstrung. What had he done to deserve it? Before
he could utter a word, he felt two colossal arms swung round him and a
kiss implanted on each cheek. Then Bigourdin held him out and looked at
him, and, like Grégoire, told him how solid he looked.
“_Enfin!_ You’ve come back. Tell me how and when and why. Tell me all.”
Martin’s eyes were moist. “My God!” said he, with a catch in his voice,
“you are a good fellow.”
“Not a bit, _mon cher_. We are friends, and in friendship there is
something just a little bit sacred. But tell me, _nom d’une pipe!_ all
about yourself.”
“I was on my way,” said Martin, with his conscientious honesty, “from
Penang to New York. At Marseilles I heard for the first time of the war
in which France will be involved and of which we have so often talked.
And something, I don’t know what, called me here—_et me voici!_”
“_C’est beau. C’est bien beau de ta part_,” said Bigourdin seriously.
“Let us go and find Félise.”
Now, when a Frenchman characterises a deed as _beau_, it is in his
opinion very fine indeed.
But before they could move, Euphémie rushed from her kitchen and all but
embraced the wanderer and Joseph, late _plongeur_ at the Café de
l’Univers and now waiter at the hôtel, came shyly from the
_salle-à-manger_, and the brightness of his eyes was only equalled by
the lustre of the habiliments that formerly had belonged to Martin.
Bigourdin despatched him in quest of Félise. Soon she came, from the
_fabrique_, looking rather white. Joseph had shot his news at her. But
she came up looking Martin straight in the eyes, her hand extended.
“_Bonjour_, Martin. I am glad to see you again.”
“So am I,” said he. “More than glad. It’s like coming back to one’s own
people.”
She drew up her little head and asked with a certain bravura: “How is
Lucilla?”
He winced; but he did not show it. He smiled. “I don’t know. I haven’t
heard of her since March.”
“Neither have I,” she said. “Not since January. She seems to be a bird
of passage through other people’s lives.”
Bigourdin laughed, shaking a great forefinger. “I bet that is not
original. I bet you are quoting your old philosopher of a father!”
She coloured and said defiantly: “Yes. I confess it. It is none the less
true.”
“And how is the good Fortinbras?” asked Martin, to turn a distressful
conversation.
“_A merveille!_ We are expecting him by any train. It is I who am making
him come. To-morrow I may be called out. France will want more than the
Troupes Métropolitaines and the Réserves to fight the Germans. They will
want the Territorials, _et c’est moi, l’armée territoriale_.” He thumped
his chest. “It was written that I should strike a blow for France like
my fathers. But while I am striking the blow who is to look after my
little Félise and the Hôtel des Grottes? It is well to be prepared. When
the mobilisation is ordered, there will be no more trains for
civilians.”
“And what do you feel about the war, Félise?” asked Martin.
She clenched her hands: “I would give my immortal soul to be a man!” she
cried.
Bigourdin hugged her. “That is a daughter of France! I am proud of our
little girl. _On dirait une Jeanne d’Arc._ But where is the Frenchwoman
now who is not animated by the spirit of La Pucelle d’Orléans?”
“In the meanwhile, _mon oncle_,” said Félise, disengaging herself
demurely from his embrace, “Martin looks exceedingly dusty and hungry,
and no one has even suggested that he should wash or eat or have his bag
carried up to his room.”
Bigourdin regarded her with admiration. “She is wonderful. She thinks of
everything. Baptiste. Take up Monsieur Martin’s things to the _chambre
d’honneur_.”
“But, my dear fellow,” Martin protested, “I only want my old room in
which I have slept so soundly.”
But Bigourdin would have none of it. He was the Prodigal Son. “_Et
justement!_” he cried, slapping his thigh, “we have a good calf’s head
for _déjeuner_. Yes, it’s true,” he laughed delightedly. “The fatted
calf. It was fatted by our neighbour Richard. _C’est extraordinaire!_”
So Martin shaved and washed in the famous bath room, and changed, and
descended to the _salle-à-manger_. The only guests were a few
anxious-faced commercial travellers at the centre table. All but one
were old acquaintances. He went the round, shaking hands, amid cordial
greetings. It was the last time, they said. To-morrow they would be
mobilised. The day after they would exchange the sample box for the pack
of the soldier; in a week they would have the skin torn off the soles of
their feet; and in a month they would be blown to bits by shells. They
proclaimed a lack of the warrior spirit. They had a horror of blood,
even a cat’s. It stirred up one’s stomach. _Mais enfin_ one did not
think of such unimportant things when France was in peril. If your house
was in danger of being swept away by flood, there was no sense in being
afraid to catch cold through having your feet wet. Each in his way
expressed the same calm fatalistic patriotism. They had no yearning to
be killed. But if they were killed—they shrugged their shoulders. They
were France and France was they. No force could dismember them from
France without France or themselves bleeding to death. It was very
simple.
Martin left them and sat down with Bigourdin and Félise, at their table
in the corner by the door. It was the first time he had ever done so.
Félise ate little and spoke less. Now and again, as he told of his mild
adventures in the Far East, he caught her great dark eyes fixed on him,
and he smiled, unaccountably glad. But always she shifted her glance and
made a pretence of eating or drinking. Once, when Bigourdin, called by
innkeeper’s business to one of the commercial travellers, had left the
table, she said:
“You have changed. One would say it was not the same man.”
“What makes you think so?” he laughed.
“You talk differently. There is a different expression on your face.”
“I’m sorry,” said he.
“I don’t see why you should be sorry,” said Félise.
“If you no longer recognise me,” said he—they talked in French—“I must
come to you as a stranger.”
She bit her lip and flushed. “I did not know what I was saying. Perhaps
it was impertinent.”
“How could it be, Félise?” he asked, bending across the table. “But if I
have changed, is it for the better or the worse?”
“Would you be a waiter here again?”
Martin looked for a second into his soul.
“No,” said he.
“_Voilà!_” said Félise.
“But I couldn’t tell you why.”
“It’s not necessary,” said Félise.
Bigourdin joined them. The meal ended. Félise went off to her duties.
Bigourdin said:
“Let us go and drink our coffee at the Café de l’Univers. Everybody is
there, at this hour, the last day or two. We may learn some news.”
They descended the hill and walked along the blazing quays. Martin knew
every house, every stone, every old woman who pausing from beating her
linen on the side of the Dronne waved him a welcome. And men stopped him
and slapped his shoulder and shook him by the hand.
“You recognise the good heart of Périgord,” said Bigourdin.
Martin replied, with excusable Gallic hyperbole: “_C’est mon pays_. I
find it again, after having wandered over the earth.”
They turned into the narrow, cool Rue de Périgueux. On the opposite side
of the street, they saw Monsieur Foure, _adjoint du maire_, walking
furiously, mopping a red forehead, soft straw hat in hand. He sped
across to them, too excited to realise that Martin had gone and
returned.
“Have you heard the news? The Mayor has received a telegram from Paris.
The order of mobilisation goes out to-day.”
“_Bon_,” said Bigourdin.
The terrace of the Café de l’Univers was crowded with the notables of
the town, who, in their sober way, only frequented the café after
dinner. The special côterie had their section apart, as at night. They
were all assembled—Fénille of the Compagnie du Gaz; Beuzot, Professor
of the Ecole Normale; the Viriots, father and son; Thiébauld, managing
director of the quarries; Bénoît of the railway; Rutillard, the great
chandler of corn and hay; and they did not need the _adjoint du Maire_
to tell them the news. The fresh arrivals, provided speedily with chairs
by the waiters, were swallowed up in the group. And Martin was assailed.
“_Et maintenant, l’Angleterre. Qu’est-ce qu’elle va faire?_”
It was the question on all French lips that day until England declared
war.
And Martin proclaimed, as though inspired from Whitehall, that England
would fight. For the moment his declaration satisfied them. The talk
swayed from him excitedly. France at war, at last, after forty years,
held their souls. They talked in the air, as men will, of numbers, of
preparations, of chances, of the solidarity of the nation. When there
was a little pause, the square-headed, white-haired Monsieur Viriot rose
and with a gesture, imposed silence.
“This is a moment,” said he, “for every misunderstanding between loyal
French hearts to be cleared up. We are now brothers in the defence of
our beloved country. _Mon brave ami Bigourdin, donne-moi ta main._”
Bigourdin sprang up,—in the public street—but what did that
matter?—and cried: “_Mon vieux Viriot_,” and the two men embraced and
kissed each other, and every one, much affected, cried “Bravo! Bravo!”
And then Bigourdin, reaching over the marble tables, took young Lucien
Viriot’s hands and embraced him and shook him by the shoulders, and
cried: “Here is a cuirassier who is going to cut through the Germans
like bladders of lard!”
It was a memorable reconciliation.
Fortinbras arrived late at night, probably by the last regular
train-services; for on the next day and for many days afterwards there
were wild hurry and crowds and confusion on roads and railways all
through France.
Into the town poured all the men of the surrounding villages, and the
streets were filled with them and their wives and mothers and children,
and strange officers in motor-cars whirled through the Rue de Périgueux.
Bands of young men falling into the well-remembered step marched along
the quays to the station singing the Marseillaise, and women stood at
their doorsteps blowing them kisses as they passed. And at the station
the great military trains adorned with branches of trees and flowers,
steamed away, a massed line of white faces and waving arms; and old men
and women young and old waved handkerchiefs until the train disappeared,
and then turned away weeping bitterly. Martin, Fortinbras and Bigourdin
went to many a train to see off the flower of the youth of the little
town. Lucien Viriot went gallantly. “A good war horse suits me better
than an office-stool,” he laughed. And Joseph, sloughing for ever
Martin’s shiny black raiment, went off too; and the younger waiters of
the Café de l’Univers, and Beuzot, the young professor at the Ecole
Normale, and the son of the _adjoint_, and _le petit Maurin_, who helped
his mother at her _Débit de Tabac_. Many a familiar face was carried
away from Brantôme towards some unknown battle-line and the thunder and
the slaughter—a familiar face which Brantôme was never to see again.
And after a day or two the town seemed futile, like a ball-room from
which the last dancers had gone.
Grave was the evening côterie at the Café de l’Univers. The rumour had
gone through France that England more than hesitated. Fortinbras
magnificently defended England’s honour. He had been very quiet at home,
tenderly shy and wistful with Félise, unsuggestive of paths to happiness
with Martin; his attitude towards intimate life one of gentle
melancholy. He had told Martin that he had retired from business as
_Marchand de Bonheur_. He had lost the trick of it. At Bigourdin’s
urgency he had purchased an annuity which sufficed his modest and
philosophic needs. No longer having the fierce incentive to gain the
hard-earned five-franc piece, no longer involved in a scheme of things
harmonious with an irregular profession, he was like the singer deprived
of the gift of song, the telepathist stricken with inhibitory impotence.
For all his odd learning, for all his garnered knowledge of the human
heart, and for all his queer heroic struggle, he stood before his own
soul an irremediable failure. So an older and almost a broken Fortinbras
had taken up his quarters at the Hôtel des Grottes. But stimulated by
the talk of war, he became once more the orator and the seer. He held a
brief for England and his passionate sincerity imposed itself on his
hearers.
“Thank God!” said he afterwards, “I was right.”
But in the meanwhile, Martin, strung in every fibre to high pitch by
what he had heard, by what he had seen and by what he had felt, knew
that just as it was ordained that he should come to Brantôme, so it was
ordained that he should not stay.
“You talk eloquently and with conviction, Monsieur,” said the Mayor to
Fortinbras—there were a dozen in the familiar café corner, tense and
eager-eyed, and Monsieur Cazensac, the Gascon proprietor, stood by—“but
what proofs have you given us of England’s co-operation?”
Martin, with a thrill through his body, said in a loud voice:
“Monsieur le Maire, there is not a living Englishman with red blood in
his veins who has any doubt. I, the most obscure of Englishmen, speak
for my country. Get me accepted as a volunteer, the humblest
foot-soldier, and I will fight for France. Take up my pledge, Monsieur
le Maire. It is the pledge of the only Englishman in Brantôme on behalf
of the British Empire. There are millions better than I from all ends of
the earth who will be inspired by the same sentiments of loyalty. Get me
accepted!”
In English Martin could never have said it. Words would have come shyly.
But he was among Frenchmen, attuned to French modes of expression. A
murmur of approbation arose.
“Yes,” cried Martin. “I offer France my life as a pledge for my country.
Get me accepted, _Monsieur le Maire_.”
The Mayor, a lean, grey-eyed, bald-headed man, with a straggly,
iron-grey beard, looked at him intently for a few moments.
“_C’est bien_,” said he. “I take up your pledge. I have to go to-morrow
to Périgueux to see _Monsieur le Préfet_, who has a certain friendliness
for me. He has influence with the _Ministère de la Guerre_. Accompany me
to Périgueux. I undertake to see that it is arranged.”
“I thank you, Monsieur le Maire,” said Martin.
Then everybody talked at once, and lifted their glasses to Martin, and
Monsieur Viriot despatched Cazensac for the sweet champagne in which
nearly a year ago they had drunk Lucien’s health; and Bigourdin embraced
him; and when the wine was poured out, there were cries of “_Vive
l’Angleterre!_” “_Vive la France!_” “_Vive Martin!_” And the
square-headed old Monsieur Viriot set the climax of this ovation by
lifting his glass at arm’s length and proclaiming “_Vive notre bon
Périgordin!_”
Said Fortinbras, who sat next to him, “I would give the rest of my life
to be as young as you, just for the next few months. My God, you must
feel proud!”
Martin’s steady English blood asserted itself: “I don’t,” said he, “I
feel a damned premature hero.”
* * * * *
It is only in the Légion Etrangère, that fantastic, romantic regiment of
dare-devil desperadoes capable of all iniquities and of all heroisms,
that a foreigner can enlist straight away, no questions asked. To be
incorporated in the regular army of France is another matter. Wires have
to be pulled. They were pulled in Martin’s case. It was to his credit
that he had served two years—gaining the stripes of a corporal—in the
Rifle Corps of the University of Cambridge. At the psychological moment
of pulling, England declared war on Germany. The resources of the
British Empire, men and money and ships and blood were on the side of
France. England and France were one. A second’s consideration of the
request of the Préfet de la Dordogne and a hurriedly scrawled signature
constituted Martin a potential member of the French Army.
It happened that, when the notice of authorisation came, the first
person he ran across was Félise, by the door of the _fabrique_. He waved
the paper.
“I am accepted.”
She turned pale and put her hand to her heart, but she met his eyes
bravely.
“When do you go?”
“At once—straight to Périgueux to enlist.”
“And when will you come back?”
“God knows,” said he.
Then he became aware of her standing scared, with parted lips and
heaving bosom.
“Of course I hope to come back; some time or other, when the War’s over.
Naturally—but——”
She said quaveringly—“You may be killed.”
“So may millions. I take my chance.”
She turned aside, clapped both hands to her face and broke into a
passion of weeping. Instinctively he put an arm around her. She sobbed
on his shoulder. He whispered:
“Do you care so much about what happens to me?”
She tore herself away and faced him with eyes flashing through her
tears.
“Do you think I’m a stick or a stone? I am half English, half French.
You are going to fight for England and France. Don’t you think women
feel these things? You are a part of the Englishwoman and the
Frenchwoman that is going out to fight, and I would hate you if you
didn’t fight, but I don’t want you to be killed.”
She fled. And not till he left the Hôtel des Grottes did he see her
again alone. When with Bigourdin and Fortinbras he was about to enter
the old omnibus to take him to the station, she pinned a tricolour
ribbon on his coat, and then saying “Good-bye and God bless you,” looked
him squarely in the eyes. It was in his heart to say, “You’re worth all
the Lucillas in the universe.” But there were Bigourdin and Fortinbras
and Euphémie and Baptiste and Grégoire and the chambermaid and a few
straggling girls from the _fabrique_ all standing by. He said:
“God bless you, Félise. I shall never part with your ribbon as long as I
live.”
Grégoire climbed to his seat. Bigourdin closed the door. The omnibus
jolted and swayed down the road. The elfin figure of Félise was suddenly
cut off at the turn. And that was the last of the Hôtel des Grottes.
A week or so later, Martin drilling in the hot barrack square realised
that just a year had passed since he first set eyes on Brantôme. A year
ago he had been a spineless, aimless drudge at Margett’s Universal
College. Now, wearing a French uniform, he was about to fight for France
and England in the greatest of all wars that the world had seen. And
during those twelve months through what soul-shaking experiences had he
not passed! Truly a wonderful year.
“_Mais vous, num’ro sept! Sacré nom de Dieu! Qu’est-ce que vous
faites-là!_” screamed the drill sergeant.
Whereupon Martin abruptly realised the intense importance of the present
moment.