“_Mon Dieu!_” said René hoarsely. “_Mon Dieu_, it is not to be borne! I
am a man, am I not? With blood in my veins? I am not a stock or a stone.
I have a heart, Madeleine, a broken heart—that cries and cries and
cries. All the time we are making our small talk my heart is crying. All
the time——”
“René, René,” wailed Madeleine, “why do you come? Why did you come
to-day? Why yesterday? Why the day before that?”
“He makes me!” cried René. “You know it. I have no choice. Besides, the
hours he offers me are of pure gold. I cannot throw them away. That
evening I did not come, I nearly died. I sat and drank absinthe and wept
till they asked me to go. The proprietor was very kind. He understood
perfectly. But it was bad for the house.”
“It was very bad for you,” said Madeleine gravely. “But listen, René.
You are wrong. The hours my husband offers you are not of gold at all.
They are of cold, sharp steel, that——”
“Gold or steel,” breathed René, “I do not care. They are spent in your
company. There is a fence between us, I know—a hell of a fence—but we
can peer through the bars. It is permitted to touch you . . . watch your
mouth move . . . hear the music of your voice—and, when you are gone to
embrace a memory.”
“Hush, René, hush! _Mon Dieu_, will you have me faint?”
“Madeleine, Madeleine, why did you marry Pierre? A-a-ah, I do not blame
you! Do not think that. It was your own affair. Only . . . we could have
been happy, I think, and . . . and I can draw quite good castles, such
as that little one desired. . . .” His voice broke, and a bright tear
rolled down Madeleine’s cheek. She swept it away swiftly. Dudoy pulled
himself together. “Bah! The milk is spilled. I watched you spill it at
Ruffec that autumn day. Now, alas, you go thirsty! I feared you would.
And I am thirsty too, sweet; for I would have drunk of that milk.
Consider, then. Since we both thirst, it is better to share our
misfortune. Besides, if the past is dead, there is always the future.
The good God, perhaps, will give us another pitcher.” He paused and
looked down at his feet. “A steeple-jack’s work,” he muttered, “is very
dangerous.” Madeleine shivered. “One day, perhaps—perhaps this very
evening—he will not come back.”
The girl shook her head.
“Yes, he will,” she said dully. “Pierre will never slip.” She started
violently. “_Mon Dieu_, what have I said? Ah, René, believe me, I have
been dreaming. The heat, perhaps. . . .” She laughed hysterically. “‘The
past is dead,’ you were saying. ‘The past is dead.’”
The man had no ears to hear. His eyes were burning with hope.
“I love you,” he said uncertainly. “I love your beautiful hands. I love
your soft dark hair. I cannot play with it now, because of the bars. But
one day the bars will be broken, and then I shall come and fill these
arms with its glory. Be sure, my heart, I shall wait and wait always
. . . until the bars fall. Ah, see how the good God has given light to
our darkness. He has shown us the way to go. Now, when we are together,
we shall never be sad. We will remember always that we are waiting . . .
just waiting . . . until the bars fall. . . .”
Head up, rigid, white-faced, Madeleine sat staring and seeing nothing.
Her ears, however, were hearing perfectly. After a moment she braced
herself, drawing a deep breath. Holy, fair and wise, her resolve was
taken.
“I do not see,” she said slowly, “that we have anything to share—you
and I. A year ago, perhaps, there might have been something. But, as you
said just now, the past is dead. And since we have nothing to share,
René, it would be so much better if . . . if . . .”
She hesitated and passed a hand across her eyes.
René Dudoy stared.
“But what are you saying?” he cried. “You go back to where we began. We
have thrashed all this out. You said our hours were not golden. I have
shown you——”
“You have shown me that it is better, René, that we two should not meet
any more.”
“Not alone, perhaps. I think you are right, sweetheart. I will arrange
that somehow. Now that we have our understanding——”
“I wish,” said Madeleine steadily, “that you would leave Paris.”
The other recoiled.
“What!” he screamed. “What! Leave Paris? _Mon Dieu!_ This is more than I
can stand.” He leaned back in his chair and wiped the sweat from his
face. “I think you are ill,” he said. “To hear you, anyone would think
that you did not care,” he added desperately.
“I do not care,” said Madeleine.
The young man started as though she had stabbed him with a knife. Then
he went very white.
“I do not care,” she repeated. “I do not want to hurt you, but you have
made a mistake. Jean wrote to me, you know, and said you were very sad.
He said you would not come to see me because—because you could not
forget. I showed the letter to Pierre, and we agreed that we must be
kind to you. We thought, perhaps, when you saw how—how happy we were,
you would join in our happiness, and so become cured. Instead, you have
grown worse. More—you have involved me terribly. I have tried to be
kind, and you have mistaken my kindness for something else. It is really
very difficult, René, but, you see, we are not at all in the same boat.
I ought, of course, I see now, to have told you at once. But I didn’t, I
didn’t want to hurt you, and—it was doing no harm. It is an awkward
thing, you know, to tell any man—let alone an old friend. But now it is
getting beyond . . . beyond a joke. . . .”
René winced at the word piteously. With white lips and a bleeding heart,
Madeleine struggled on.
“You see, I have not told Pierre. . . . And I do not want Pierre, my
husband, to make the same mistake. I do not think that he would, but you
never know. And if he did, it would be very awkward for me. I do not
know how I should show him that he was wrong. . . .
“And so, you see, my friend, that when I said that the hours we spend
together are of sharp steel, I was perfectly right. They pierce your
heart, I fear, and they—they—embarrass me. . . . Don’t look like that,
René! I tell you, I hoped——”
“Hope?” cried René, with a wild laugh. “Hope? I do not know what you
mean. What is hope?”
Here Lacaze appeared, smiling and nodding good will.
“Did you think I was dead?” he crowed. “I think that you must have. As a
matter of fact, I’ve never been off the ground. Notre Dame was not ready
for me. Instead, to tell you the truth, I have been talking business.”
He jerked his head at the window directly behind them. “Sitting in
there. I became so absorbed that I forgot our engagement. Then I heard
your voices, you know, and that reminded me.” He took his seat between
them and looked benignantly round. “And now about supper. . . . I think
a nice little _ragoût_, with potatoes _en robe de chambre_.”
The party was not a success.
René Dudoy pleaded night-work and left at once.
As for Madeleine, she fainted before the _ragoût_ was served.
* * * * *
All things considered, I am inclined to think that when Madame Lacaze
deceived the man she loved, because he was not her husband, she made
another mistake. But then I am of the earth, earthy. What cannot
possibly be denied is that it was a most splendid action. ‘So shines a
good deed in a naughty world.’ Probably the trouble was that she did not
trust herself. René’s desire to make the word ‘wait’ their watchword was
dangerous, because it was sweet. It would have been the thin edge of the
wedge. Madeleine was determined to play the game. It was not Lacaze she
stood by, but the office he filled. It was not Dudoy she sent packing,
but the devil himself. That her lover did not stand in her husband’s
shoes was her misfortune. As such, however, it did not affect the case.
She was a good girl.
* * * * *
Ten days after that dreadful evening at the Café de la Forêt Noire, the
War came with a crash.
The electrical atmosphere of the next three months saved Madeleine’s
life. No spirit, however sick, could have failed to respond to such
exciting treatment.
Lacaze, the steeple-jack, the lion, welcomed the War with flashing eyes.
From the moment the storm broke, his one idea was to kill. When the time
came, he fought with twice the ardour with which he had reduced high
places. He soon became sergeant; he was worth ten ordinary men. In all
his pride, however, he never forgot how once his heels had ached.
Besides, his wife’s dismissal of Dudoy had made him frown. . . .
Before he left for the battle he had arranged everything.
In reply to the questions which every soldier is asked, he stated that
he was unmarried, and gave the name of Madame José Beer (_née_ Tuyte) as
that of his next-of-kin.
Then he visited the trull and told her her new estate.
José was flattered, but curious. Lacaze enlightened her.
“Now, if I should be killed, the news will come to you.”
“I shall mourn,” said José.
“As you please,” said Lacaze. “But burn the paper at once and keep your
mouth shut. Tell no one. You know, I fear, that Madeleine is very stuck
up.” He sighed. “It is no good mincing matters. Her pride has caused me
much grief. You and I are not good enough. She would, I think, like to
be free. If she were free. . . .” He broke off and shrugged his
shoulders. “There is a young officer somewhere. They correspond. . . .”
“The jade!” raged José. “The jade! The graceless minx! Trust me.” Her
voice vibrated. “She shall never be free. Never!” Here she became
maudlin. “But, Pierre dear, I shall not receive the news. It is not to
be thought of . . .”
“Perhaps not,” said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. “But remember my
words. I trust you to see justice done.”
“Never fear,” cried José, her pig eyes gleaming. . . .
Finally, the steeple-jack spoke with his wife.
He chose their last night together.
It was a stifling evening: such air as found its way into their
apartment seemed to be stale: odours of neighbouring kitchens rose up
stagnant. Out of the roar of the traffic continual cries of newsvendors
stood as syrens out of a gale.
Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged upon a settee,
smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots.
My lady finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her
work and turned it about. After a moment she rose and crossed to her
husband.
“Is that what you want, Pierre? It does not look very well, but I think
it will wear. If it is right, I will do the other shoulder.”
Lacaze examined the shirt.
This was a cotton affair of green and grey stripes. Over one shoulder
strips of fine linen had been laid, by way of a pad. These had been
quilted beautifully.
“But this is charming,” he said, putting his head on one side. “Ah, me,
what it is to be loved! If René could only see this he would jump into
the Seine. You know I shall be chaffed—devilishly. No one will ever
believe that this was the work of a wife. Never mind. I am content. Now
I shall be cool these hot days, yet my shoulders will not be sore.” He
peered at the linen. “Where did you find this stuff?”
“I cut up a chemise.”
“Sweeter and sweeter,” he crowed. “The soldier goes off to the war with
his girl on his shoulder. My dear, you are getting quite gay. How did
you think of such a charming conceit?”
“I did not,” said Madeleine coldly. “I had nothing else.”
“Use nothing else,” said Lacaze. “But always have a new shirt—I have
six—with just the same delicate straps awaiting the day I return. For I
shall return, sweeting. Never fear that I shan’t.” His voice rang out
boldly. “Never fear, madame. Nothing will happen to me. I shall always
come back.” He caught her arm in his hand and smiled up into her eyes.
“Do you hear, my beautiful wife? Do you realize that? Poor Pierre will
always return. Jean may lie out in the mud. What can be collected of
Jacques may be dumped in a grave. René may writhe out his life with a
bullet inside. But poor old Pierre, your husband, will always return.”
He let go her arm and sank back in his seat. “Now, is that not good
news? That widowhood is not for you? Believe me, my dear, you are a
lucky woman. . . . Of course I may not always come back to you. We poor
soldiers are so easily led. . . . . But I shall not be killed. You see.
And in the end you will triumph, and I—shall—come—back. . . .”
So soon as Madame Lacaze could find her voice, she asked her smiling
husband what money she was to have to maintain herself and the
apartment.
His reply was definite.
“The apartment is given up and the furniture sold. I have done that
to-day. You will lodge with the Marats and go out to work. I have been
wondering what you could do, my sweet, but you have shown me. If you sew
hard, you will make quite a lot of money.”
Madeleine walked to the window and picked up the remains of her chemise.
The garment tugged at her thoughts. She let them go. . . .
In an instant she was at Ruffec, stepping the cool, quiet streets. There
was old Monsieur Laffargue, the doctor, getting down from his gig. Now
he was smiling broadly and rallying her about her cheeks. ‘You must do
something,’ he said. She could hear his jolly old voice. ‘Something. I
don’t know what. No one will ever believe there’s no paint there.’ She
passed on smiling. . . . A voice called from a window. Madame Durand, of
course, the postman’s wife. ‘Madeleine, Madeleine, my sister has had a
son. A great fat rogue, they say, four kilos at birth. Is it not
wonderful?’ Madeleine rejoiced with her, and went her way. Then Père
Fréchou stopped her, to give her five great peaches—two for each of her
eyes and one for her pretty red lips . . . She came to the Rue de
l’Image, all decked with the evening sun. The awnings of the little
shops made it absurdly narrow, like a toy street. And there, striding
into the sunlight, came René Dudoy. His healthy young face lighted up.
‘I was on my way, Madeleine, to tell you how lucky I am. The _patron_
has been given the order for three mantelpieces in stone at the Château
St. Pol, and I am to do the work and to put them in.’ ‘Oh, René, I am so
glad—so awfully glad. Go on and tell Jean and Jacques. Or stay—go home
and get Marie and bring her to supper with us. See what Père Fréchou has
given me. Did ever you see such beauties? We’ll eat them to-night in
your honour. There’s plenty of cream.’ René’s face was a picture.
Madeleine passed on thoughtfully. . . . At the draper’s she laid out her
money—some thirty-two francs—not without much hesitation and plucking
at stuffs. Madame Bidart was kindness itself, and made her a price.
Indeed, the old lady refused to sell her the linen she chose. It was not
good enough, she declared. Now this was superb—fit for a king’s
daughter. ‘But I am not a king’s daughter,’ protested Madeleine,
laughing. ‘You are an angel from heaven,’ said Madame Bidart. ‘I tell
you——’
“How long will you be?” said Lacaze yawning luxuriously. “I mean, it is
getting late, and I must be up at five.”
“A quarter of an hour,” said his wife, and bent to her work.
The night was stifling.
* * * * *
Madeleine’s younger brother was killed that fateful August. Ere
September was old, Jean had been taken prisoner. Of René, no news
reached her.
For the matter of that, she heard naught of Lacaze, either. He had not
told her his regiment. He never wrote. The man might have been dead
. . . might have. . . .
He came to see her at last, one dark December morning. . . .
When he went back, he took a shirt with him.
Twice more he came to see her, and each time took back a shirt. He swore
by these garments—called them his mascots, his charms—declared he
could never be killed while she sat on his shoulders. . . .
The idea stuck.
Madeleine began to believe her linen was preserving his life.
She tried to be grateful.
Two shirts remained to be strapped. Setting to work one Sunday, she
found her chemise was gone. She had used all its stuff. Her impulse, of
course, was to purchase a piece of fresh linen. Without a thought she
would have done so, but for his idle words. As it was. . . .
The temptation was frightful.
Why should she cut up her own clothes? Besides, faith put in mascots was
vain—heathenish. What could they profit a man? Supposing they
could. . . . Supposing there was some curious guardian virtue in linen
she wore. . . . Well, _what—if—there—was_?
She thrust the shirt away and went for a walk.
The next morning she bought some new linen. . . .
She came back from Mass a week later and cut up another chemise.
The third winter of the War stole upon a frantic world, stumbling and
striking. Lacaze did not come. He had not returned since April—April of
1916. Madeleine began to wonder . . . wonder why he did not appear.
When the New Year was in, she went to the War Office.
She did not get far.
“You are his wife?” said the clerk.
“Yes.”
“What is his regiment?”
“I do not know. He has never told me.”
“Show me a letter of his.”
“I have none. He never writes.”
“Nor you to him?”
“Never. He was sergeant, I think.”
Two shoulders were shrugged.
“So are many. You are sure you are married?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, Madame, he is safe. No news is good news. You would have
heard, certainly. There is no doubt about it. Calm yourself, Madame. He
will come back.”
But Lacaze did not come.
Again, in June, she went to the War Office.
She saw the same clerk. He asked the same questions, shrugged the same
shoulders, gave her the same reply. . . .
That Autumn her orders fell off. People, I suppose, were beginning to
sew for themselves. Madeleine could hardly find work for two days a
week. The Marats—the people she lodged with—saw what was coming, and,
meeting her trouble half-way, diverted it from their path. In a word,
they gave her notice. This, thanks to their foresight, they were able to
do without any compunction at all. It would not have been nice to turn
out a soldier’s wife—possibly ‘relict’—because she could not pay her
way. As it was, they could look the world in the face. They did so
defiantly. They also cancelled, with sighs, their subscription to an
orphanage on the ground that they had lost a valuable paying
guest. . . . .
Madeleine entered the service of an English officer’s wife.
Early in 1918 she received a letter from Jean.
_Dearest Madeleine_,
_I have come back alive out of death. I have been a prisoner,
you know, for nearly four years. Now I have been
exchanged—because I am useless to France. I am rather run down,
you see, and my right arm is gone. But take heart, dearest. I
can do nothing just yet, and the Army has sent me home, but old
Monsieur Laffargue says I shall be as strong as ever in ten or
twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back some
time. Do you know he is blind? . ._
Blind. . . .
Those gentle grey eyes sightless. . . . Those strong brown fingers
picking and feeling their way. . . .
Madeleine was at the War Office within the half-hour.
The clerk she had seen was gone, and another attended to her case. This
was a kindly fellow, who had dried many eyes.