THE LAST EVENING
The last evening had come. Jean was to take at Obernai a night train
for Strasburg, so as to be in the barracks of St. Nicholas the next
morning at seven o'clock, the regulation hour. His uniform, ordered
of a Strasburg tailor, as was usual for the one-year service men,
was waiting for him, blue and yellow, folded on two chairs, in the
room which a month ago Madame Oberlé had taken, facing the barracks
of St. Nicholas, about the middle of the rue des Balayeurs. After
dinner he said to his mother: "Let me go out alone, so that I can
say good-bye to the Alsheim country I shall not see again for a long
time."
She smiled. M. Joseph Oberlé answered:
"My dear fellow, you will not see me again; I have bills falling due
to-morrow, and I must work in my office. And besides, I do not care
about useless sentiment. Well, perhaps you will not find it easy to
get leave before two months. I dare say not, but that will only make
you the better pleased to come home. Come! Good-bye."
More affectionately than he would have believed it possible he
embraced him, and with a word from Lucienne in her clear, young
voice, "Soon," he went out.
The night air was laden with moisture to a remarkable degree: not a
cloud. A crescent moon, stars in thousands; but between heaven and
earth a veil of mist was spread which allowed the light to
penetrate, but dispersed it in such a manner that there was no
object really in shadow, and none which showed brightly. Everything
was bathed in a pearly atmosphere. It was warm to breathe. "How
sweet my Alsace is!" said Jean, when he had opened the door of the
kitchen garden, and found himself behind the village houses, facing
the plain, on which the moonlight was sleeping, blotted here and
there with the shadows of an apple-tree or a walnut. An immense
languor escaped from the soil, into which the first rains of autumn
had sunk. The perfumes of stubble and ploughed land mixed with the
odours from all kinds of vegetation come to their fullness of growth
and aroma. The mountain was sending out gently to the valley the
odour of pine pollen on the breeze, and the mint and the dying
strawberries and bilberries, and its juniper berries crushed by the
feet of passers-by and flocks. Jean breathed in the odour of Alsace;
he thought he could recognise the exquisite perfume of that little
mountain which is near Colmar, called Florimont, where the dittany
grows, and he thought, "It is the last time. Never again! Never
again!"
There were no glittering points of light on the roofs; he followed
the line of them on the left of the path: they seemed to have joined
fraternal hands round the church, and under each Jean could picture
a face known and friendly. Such were his thoughts for a while as he
walked on. But as soon as he saw, grey in the middle of the fields,
the big clump of trees which hid M. Bastian's house, every other
thought fled. Arrived at the farm where the younger son had said to
him, "It is by Grande Fontaine that you must cross the frontier," he
went into the cherry avenue, and he still remembered and found the
white gate. No one was passing. Besides, what did it matter? Jean
opened the lattice gate, went in, and walked on the grass border,
even with the great trees, to the window of the drawing-room, which
was lighted, then going round the house, came to the door which
opened on the side opposite the village of Alsheim.
He waited an instant, went into the vestibule, and opened the door
of the large room where the Bastian family sat every evening. They
were all there in the light of the lamps, just as Jean had imagined.
The father was reading the paper. The two women on the other side of
the brown table laden with white linen unfolded, were embroidering
with initials the towels which were going into the Bastian linen
press. The door had opened with no other noise than that of the pad
brushing against the parquet. However, all was so calm round the
dwelling and in the room, that they turned their eyes to see who was
coming in. There was a moment of uncertainty for M. Bastian, and
hesitation for Jean. He had fixed his gaze first of all on Odile. He
had seen how she also had suffered, and that she was the first, the
only one who recognised him, and how she grew pale, and that in her
anguish, her raised hand, her breath, her glance, were arrested. The
linen Odile was sewing slipped from her hands without her being able
to make the slightest movement to lift it up.
It was perhaps by this sign that M. Bastian recognised the visitor.
Emotion seized him immediately.
"What?" he asked gently, "is it you, Jean? No one showed you in.
What have you come for?"
He slowly put his paper down on the table without ceasing to
scrutinise the young man who was standing in the shadow, on the same
spot, a step or two from the door.
"I have come to say good-bye," said Jean.
But his voice was so full of pain that M. Bastian understood
something unknown, tragic, had entered his house. He rose, saying,
"Why, yes, to-morrow will be the first of October. You are going to
the barracks, my poor boy. No doubt you wish to speak to me?"
Already M. Bastian had advanced, had held out his hand, and the
young man, drawing him back into the darkest corner of the room, had
answered in a very low voice, his eyes looking into the eyes of
Odile's father. Madame Bastian gazed into the shadow, where they
made an indistinct group.
"I am leaving," Jean murmured, "and I shall never come back, M.
Bastian; that is why I took the liberty of coming."
He felt the rough hand of the Alsatian tremble. There was an
exchange of secret and rapid dialogue between the men, while the two
anxious women rose from their chairs, and with their hands leaning
on the table, bent forward.
"What do you say? You will come back in a year?"
"No, I am going to join the regiment because I promised to. But I
shall leave it."
"You will leave it?"
"The day after to-morrow."
"Where are you going?"
"To France!"
"For ever?"
"Yes."
The old Alsatian turned aside for a moment. "Talk on, you women,
talk on; we have business to discuss."
They moved away, whilst he, breathless as though with running,
cried: "Be careful what you do; be prudent; don't let yourself be
caught."
He placed both hands on Jean's shoulders. "I must stay: that's my
way, you see, of loving Alsace; there is no better. I live here, and
here I die. But for you, my boy, things are different, I
understand--don't let the women guess; it's too serious. Does any
one know at your home?"
"No."
"Keep your secret," and then, lowering his voice, "You wanted to see
her once more. I don't blame you, since you will never meet again."
Jean nodded as though to say "Yes, I had to see her once more."
"Look at her a minute, and then go. Stay where you are--look over my
shoulder."
Over M. Bastian's shoulder Jean could see that the troubled look in
Odile's eyes had grown to terror. She met his gaze fearlessly; she
had no thought but for the dialogue which she could not hear, the
mystery in which she felt she had some part, and her face betrayed
her anguish.
"What are they saying? Is it bad news again? Is it better? No; not
better, they are not both looking my way."
Her mother was still paler than her daughter.
"Farewell, my boy," said M. Bastian in low tones. "I loved you.... I
could not act differently ... but I think highly of you; I will
remember you."
Overcome by emotion, the old Alsatian silently pressed Jean's hand
and let it fall. As to Jean, trembling and dazed, he walked to the
door, looking back for the last time. He was going then--in one
minute he would be gone, never to return to Alsheim.
"Au revoir, madame," he said.
He would have liked to say au revoir to Odile, but sobs prevented
the words.
He gained the shadow of the corridor; they heard him hurrying away.
"What does it mean?" demanded Madame Bastian. "Xavier, you are
hiding something from us."
The old Alsatian sobbed aloud; he threw precaution to the winds--she
had guessed.
"Odile," she cried, "run and say good-bye to him."
Odile was already across the room; she caught Jean up at the corner.
"I beg of you to tell me why you are so miserable," she cried.
He turned, determined to be silent, to keep his vow. She was quite
close to him; he opened his arms; she threw herself into them.
"Oh God," she cried, "you are leaving; I know it--you are going."
He kissed her hair tenderly, a lifelong farewell, turned the corner,
and fled from her.