“We use nothing else,” he explained. “They are all manner of rags, quite
clean and sterilized. This boxful will last a long time.”
The chauffeur asked the price, ripped open the box, and pulled out the
first piece of stuff. Madeleine took the box from him and stowed it away
in the car.
When she returned, Terry had wiped his hands and was looking curiously
at his duster.
“’Ere’s a present from Flanders all right,” he said slowly. “See? That’s
where some pore bloke stopped one.”
Madeleine peered at the stuff.
This was the left breast of what had been a man’s shirt. Immediately
over the heart there was a rough hole. The cotton thereabouts was all
stained to a dull brown, so that the green and grey stripes were
indistinguishable. The shoulder was gone, but hanging from the top of
the fragment was a strip of quilted linen.
* * * * *
Let me quote from Lady Joan’s letter, dated some five days later and
written from St. Jean-de-Luz.
. . . _I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible document. Poor girl!
The shock was frightful. As luck would have it, the very next town on
our route—a place called Ruffec—was her old home. Her brother was
there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she’ll ever come back
to me, I haven’t the faintest idea. . . ._
Again let me quote from a letter her ladyship wrote when two months had
gone by.
_P.S.—You remember Madeleine? I’ve just had a note from her saying
she’s married again! No wonder France is recovering more quickly than
England. Most English girls would still be upon slops. However, that’s
her affair. But isn’t it just my luck? She was a perfect maid._
Which was a true saying.
* * * * *
Two years later Lacaze alighted at Ruffec from the Paris train.
The man was changed terribly. Five years in the German mines had left
their mark. He had been broken down.
His hair was grisled, his broad, square shoulders were bowed, his
carriage mean. None would have known the shrunken shambling figure for
that of the mighty steeple-jack. His countenance, however, was
unmistakable. This was ravaged, too, but the old faint smile still hung
about those merciless lips, and the old insolent scorn still smouldered
in the big black eyes.
Lacaze pulled his hat over his face and stood waiting till such
travellers as had also alighted should have left the platform.
A horn brayed, and the train began to move.
“Good-bye!” cried a voice. “Good-bye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if
he remembers Fernand Didier, and say I was sorry I had no time to visit
him. Good-bye!”
The train gathered speed and rumbled out of the station.
Lacaze moved towards the gates thoughtfully.
Half an hour later he darkened the creamery’s hatch.
René looked up from his work. He was making a basket.
“Enter, monsieur,” he said. “And sit down, please. My wife will be back
in a moment, and then she will serve you.”
Slowly Lacaze came in, looking down on the ground.
“You are married, then?” he said quietly.
The other stared.
“Yes,” he said, “monsieur. Why not?”
“No reason at all,” said Lacaze, smiling. “And how is your wife?”
René returned to his work.
“She is very well, thank you.”
“I am glad of that,” said Lacaze. “Very glad.”
René Dudoy looked up.
“Monsieur’s interest is unusually kind. Would it be indiscreet to ask
why?”
Lacaze gave a short laugh.
“I know her,” he said. “She was a friend of mine. But I thought that she
married Lacaze—Lacaze, the steeple-jack.”
“She did,” said Dudoy. “But he was killed in the War. And, after, she
married me. But, monsieur, tell me your name. If you are a friend of
hers, you must have been mine also.”
“I was,” said Lacaze softly, his chin on his chest. “I knew you well.”
The other set down his basket and rose to his feet. “We were both at her
wedding. You sent her roses, I think. And I sent her—violets.”
“Not violets,” said René. “You must have sent something else. You
forget. Lacaze sent her violets.”
In a flash Lacaze had stepped forward and pulled off his hat.
“Your servant,” he breathed, smiling.
Dudoy wrinkled his brow.
“I cannot think who you are,” he said. “Do tell me your name.” The
other’s smile faded into a stare. “There are times, you know, when one
misses one’s sight terribly.” Lacaze started. “When Madeleine’s here, I
can see. We share her beautiful eyes.” He threw back his curly head.
“Then, if you offered me sight, I would not take it. My blindness is a
bond between us which those who have eyes of their own can never know.
But—when she leaves me, then sometimes the old darkness returns—that
awful darkness which, when she came to me, Madeleine did away . . . And
now, I pray you, monsieur, tell me your name.”
Lacaze turned his head and stared into the sunlit street.