OSTEND
In July she had gone to Ostend with an American. A gentleman, but mad.
One of those men with a fixed idea that everything would always be
all right and that nothing really and permanently uncomfortable
could possibly happen. A very fair man, with red hair, and radiating
wrinkles all round his eyes--phenomenon due to his humorous outlook on
the world. He laughed at her because she travelled with all her bonds
of the City of Paris on her person. He had met her one night, and
the next morning suggested the Ostend excursion. Too sudden,
too capricious, of course; but she had always desired to see the
cosmopolitanism of Ostend. Trouville she did not like, as you had sand
with every meal if you lived near the front. Hotel Astoria at Ostend.
Complete flat in the hotel. Very chic. The red-haired one, the
_rouquin_, had broad ideas, very broad ideas, of what was due to a
woman. In fact, one might say that he carried generosity in details to
excess. But naturally with Americans it was necessary to be surprised
at nothing. The _rouquin_ said steadily that war would not break out.
He said so until the day on which it broke out. He then became a Turk.
Yes, a Turk. He assumed rights over her, the rights of protection, but
very strange rights. He would not let her try to return to Paris. He
said the Germans might get to Paris, but to Ostend, never--because
of the English! Difficult to believe, but he had locked her up in the
complete flat. The Ostend season had collapsed--pluff--like that. The
hotel staff vanished almost entirely. One or two old fat Belgian
women on the bedroom floors--that seemed to be all. The _rouquin_ was
exquisitely polite, but very firm. In fine, he was a master. It was
astonishing what he did. They were the sole remaining guests in the
Astoria. And they remained because he refused to permit the management
to turn him out. Weeks passed. Yes, weeks. English forces came to
Ostend. Marvellous. Among nations there was none like the English. She
did not see them herself. She was ill. The _rouquin_ had told her
that she was ill when she was not ill, but lo! the next day she was
ill--oh, a long time. The _rouquin_ told her the news--battle of the
Marne and all species of glorious deeds. An old fat Belgian told her
a different kind of news. The stories of the fall of Liége, Namur,
Brussels, Antwerp. The massacres at Aerschot, at Louvain. Terrible
stories that travelled from mouth to mouth among women. There was
always rape and blood and filth mingled. Stories of a frightful
fascination ... unrepeatable! Ah!
The _rouquin_ had informed her one day that the Belgian Government had
come to Ostend. Proof enough, according to him, that Ostend could not
be captured by the Germans! After that he had said nothing about the
Belgian Government for many days. And then one day he had informed
her casually that the Belgian Government was about to leave Ostend
by steamer. But days earlier the old fat woman had told her that the
German staff had ordered seventy-five rooms at the Hôtel des Postes at
Ghent. Seventy-five rooms. And that in the space of a few hours Ghent
had become a city of the dead.... Thousands of refugees in Ostend.
Thousands of escaped virgins. Thousands of wounded soldiers.
Often, the sound of guns all day and all night. And in the daytime
occasionally, a sharp sound, very loud; that meant that a German
aeroplane was over the town--killing ... Plenty to kill. Ostend was
always full, behind the Digue, and yet people were always leaving--by
steamer. Steamers taken by assault. At first there had been
formalities, permits, passports. But when one steamer had been taken
by assault--no more formalities! In trying to board the steamers
people were drowned. They fell into the water and nobody troubled--so
said the old woman. Christine was better; desired to rise. The
_rouquin_ said No, not yet. He would believe naught. And now he
believed one thing, and it filled his mind--that German submarines
sank all refugee ships in the North Sea. Proof of the folly of leaving
Ostend. Yet immediately afterwards he came and told her to get up.
That is to say, she had been up for several days, but not outside. He
told her to come away, come away. She had only summer clothes, and it
was mid-October. What a climate, Ostend in October! The old woman said
that thousands of parcels of clothes for refugees had been sent by
generous England. She got a parcel; she had means of getting it. She
opened it with pride in the bedroom of the flat. It contained eight
corsets and a ball-dress. A droll race, all the same, the English.
Had they no imagination? But, no doubt, society women were the same
everywhere. It was notorious that in France....
Christine went forth in her summer clothes. The _rouquin_ had got
an old horse-carriage. He gave her much American money--or, rather,
cheques--which, true enough, she had since cashed with no difficulty
in London. They had to leave the carriage. The station square was full
of guns and women and children and bundles. Yes, together with a
few men. She spent the whole night in the station square with the
_rouquin_, in her summer clothes and his overcoat. At six o'clock in
the evening it was already dark. A night interminable. Babies crying.
One heard that at the other end of the square a baby had been born.
She, Christine, sat next to a young mother with a baby. Both mother
and baby had the right arm bandaged. They had both been shot through
the arm with the same bullet. It was near Aerschot. The young woman
also told her.... No, she could not relate that to an Englishman.
Happily it did not rain. But the wind and the cold! In the morning
the _rouquin_ put her on to a fishing-vessel. She had nothing but her
bonds of the City of Paris and her American cheques. The crush was
frightful. The captain of the fishing-vessel, however, comprehended
what discipline was. He made much money. The _rouquin_ would not come.
He said he was an American citizen and had all his papers. For the
rest, the captain would not let him come, though doubtless the captain
could have been bribed. As they left the harbour, with other trawlers,
they could see the quays all covered with the disappointed,
waiting. Somebody in the boat said that the Germans had that morning
reached--She forgot the name of the place, but it was the next
village to Ostend on the Bruges road. Thus Christine parted from the
_rouquin_. Mad! Always wrong, even about the German submarines. But
_chic_. Truly _chic_.
What a voyage! What adventures with the charitable people in England!
People who resembled nothing else on earth! People who did not
understand what life was.... No understanding of that which it
is--life! In fine ...! However, she should stay in England. It was
the only country in which one could have confidence. She was trying
to sell the furniture of her flat in Paris. Complications! Under the
emergency law she was not obliged to pay her rent to the landlord; but
if she removed her furniture then she would have to pay the rent.
What did it matter, though? Besides, she might not be able to sell her
furniture after all. Remarkably few women in Paris at that moment were
in a financial state to buy furniture. Ah no!
"But I have not told you the tenth part!" said Christine.
"Terrible! Terrible!" murmured the man.
All the heavy sorrow of the world lay on her puckered brow, and
floated in her dark glistening eyes. Then she smiled, sadly but with
courage.
"I will come to see you again," said the man comfortingly. "Are you
here in the afternoons?"
"Every afternoon, naturally."
"Well, I will come--not to-morrow--the day after to-morrow."
Already, long before, interrupting the buttoning of his collar, she
had whispered softly, persuasively, clingingly, in the classic manner:
"Thou art content, _chéri_? Thou wilt return?"
And he had said: "That goes without saying."
But not with quite the same conviction as he now used in speaking
definitely of the afternoon of the day after to-morrow. The fact
was, he was moved; she too. She had been right not to tell the story
earlier, and equally right to tell it before he departed. Some men,
most men, hated to hear any tale of real misfortune, at any moment,
from a woman, because, of course, it diverted their thoughts.
In thus departing at once the man showed characteristic tact. Her
recital left nothing to be said. They kissed again, rather like
comrades. Christine was still the vessel of the heavy sorrow of the
world, but in the kiss and in their glances was an implication that
the effective, triumphant antidote to sorrow might be found in a
mutual trust. He opened the door. The Italian woman, yawning and with
her hand open, was tenaciously waiting.
Alone, carefully refolding the kimono in its original creases,
Christine wondered what the man's name was. She felt that the
mysterious future might soon disclose a germ of happiness.