I look at the Sergeant. He seems no more interested in my story than
if I were preaching a sermon in a Sunday School. Of course, I keep
the sequel to myself, namely, how Fanny and I conspired to call in
a locksmith who promised to make a key within two hours, but forgot
to tell us that these two hours were to begin only three days later.
Punctuality is a virtue of which no workman ever wishes to pride
himself, not even in Austria.
The Sergeant has an air as though he were dreaming, an absent-minded
air which he sometimes assumes. When he is visionary like that,
nothing can make him follow other people's thoughts. But he makes no
secrets of his ideas, and sooner or later we learn what is in his
mind. So I wait in the respectful silence a Lance-Corporal owes to his
superior officer.
Suddenly he jumps up.
"P.C.," he cries, "I firmly believe that I will get my commission
to-day!"
It was about time he did get it! Thrice already he has purchased an
officer's kit. Twice he has lost it. Let us hope that the third will
serve.
"And whence does that belief come?" I ask him.
"I told you that I got a supplementary lot of hand grenades by
blackmailing the Colonel. Well, it has occurred to me that I might try
the same trick for obtaining my commission. Where protection, ability,
and courage have failed, blackmailing might succeed."
"Yes," I answer somewhat doubtfully, "but how will you blackmail him?"
"That," he declares solemnly, "is of course a secret between him and
me!"
Mr. Reader will understand me, if I state that I grew curious.
"Is there a woman at the bottom of it?"
You ought to have heard the Sergeant's fit of laughter. He does not
laugh very often, our Charlie, but when he does, it is the noisiest
laugh in the world. Develish we call it. It is indeed a terrific
laughter, long and irresistible. Finally, however, he will be able to
utter some words. This time he says:
"No! Dear me, no! There wasn't a woman at the bottom of it--no! There
was something quite different!"
At this moment the order comes, the order which we had been waiting
for during an hour. In single file we march through the communication
trenches.
Now, if you think, impatient reader, that I will annoy you with a
detailed description of the attack, you are greatly mistaken. Firstly,
you have doubtless read many such descriptions in the papers and do not
want another. Secondly, I could not depict the attack, because I had
another business than that of observing, Lance-Corporals not being,
generally, Special Correspondents. Finally, you have no idea how
easily one forgets the details. They are rapidly dimmed in the fog of
war.
Yet I remember the Germans coming very near us and being beaten back.
And I remember, too, the following incidents:
On our way the Sergeant tells me that it is to-day two years since
he saw _Parsifal_ in London, which he declares being not only a
Hun-palatable, tedious work, but also a Hun-Christian one mocking the
Mass and acceptable only from the Hun's point of view, as Pan-Germanic
propaganda. Whereupon we hear from somewhere the bells of the holy
Grail ringing. It is Pringle, the ventriloquist, who provides them, of
course.
Cotton, the chemist, who enjoys quite naturally the nickname Guncotton,
and who habitually speaks a special language nobody can understand
(for it is crammed with chemical formulas), starts a great sniffing
performance. At last he declares that there is a distinct scent of
H₂SO₄, and wonders, wonders, wonders.
Nor is his astonishment incomprehensible. H₂SO₄ is sulphuric acid,
and what he smells is in reality cabbages being cooked somewhere in a
neighbouring trench.
Later on I remember our throwing hand grenades. The Sergeant is very
clever at that game, which he accompanies with fits of his devilish
laughter. When a shell bursts near us without hurting anybody, he
laughs again, rather imitating the laughter of Mephisto in the third
act of _Faust_.
The Colonel is quite near us, and Charlie by his side. There is a
periscope and the Colonel can see whatever we achieve.
The Sergeant throws another hand grenade.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" he laughs, "one more Hun Hun-done!"
"That was a nice one," states the Colonel.
"What of my commission, Sir?" risks Charlie.
But he has no luck. In the same moment the Colonel's periscope is
smashed by some unkind shell. Spontaneously Charles Young laughs.
The Colonel, who is no coward, at once climbs up the parapet.
"What are you doing there, sir?" cries Charlie.
No answer.
"You'll be killed in a jiffy!"
No answer.
"But that's madness! Come back!"
The Colonel shouts something which we cannot understand in the noise,
probably "Shut up!" and stands there amidst the bullets which are
immediately directed at him.
"You damn fool!" thunders Charlie, "will you come down?"
This time the Colonel turns round and shouts so strongly that I can
hear the words:
"You will be court-martialled for that!"
But in the next instant Charlie runs up to him:
"I don't care! And if you don't come down at once I'll tell the company
your secret."
He has caught the Colonel's arm and drags him down to relative safety.
And another fit of laughter follows.
I wonder. Has he won his commission or decidedly lost it? But there
is no time for wondering. A big shell, a Jack Johnson, falls in our
trench. There is a terrific explosion, and I see Charlie thrown up
into the air, three or four yards up, and coming back.
No one else is wounded, although we were all shaking a bit. Even the
Colonel.
There he lies, my chum, my Charlie, quite pale, white as a corpse, save
for the blood that covers his big nose. Somebody bends over him and
says:
"Some water, quick!"
Off runs Guncotton shouting:
"H₂O!"
But after a minute he comes back with real water. Nobody utters a
word while poor Charlie's nose is washed. At last the Colonel, much
affected, says:
"He has finished swearing and laughing. Poor fellow, he has at last met
his fate."
And solemnly--for he is a very religious man--he adds:
"May the Lord have mercy upon his soul."
Now, is it the Colonel's speech that rouses him, or is it the effect of
the fresh water? But the answer comes at once:
"Nonsense!" says the Sergeant, "I am quite Hun-hurt!" and laughs once
more. "Where am I? In hell?"
The Colonel takes flight, although, I repeat it, he is no coward.
* * * * *
I am back in my trench, and the time for being bored has come once
more. So I return to Vienna and to Mitzi Doblana, with apologies to
Bean in case of her ever reading this book.
I think you will have noticed the great difficulty I experienced in
meeting Miss Mitzi. First I suffered from a closed door and then from
a locksmith of remarkable punctuality. When at last I had secured the
key, which was to be not only the means of opening that hostile door
but also of solving a mystery, my landlord had no long rehearsal for
another couple of days. Thus nearly a week had passed since I had had
her promise of an interview, and in all these days there arose not the
slightest opportunity of catching a glimpse of her.
Now, if you have the least idea of the peculiar qualities of a young
man's heart, you will know that such waiting is the right thing to
inflame it, namely, the heart. Therefore, when finally we met, fancy
my joy as I saw her advancing towards me and presenting me one of those
beautiful hands of hers with a sweet: "At last!"
Yes, at last! At last she let me kiss her hand--as was due to me
since that Sunday evening when she had abandoned my bags and valises,
and myself into the bargain. I need not tell you that I paid myself
heartily and that, while I was kissing that loveable hand I kissed
it thoroughly. It was an enchanting hand, with graceful nails and
with a soft, fascinating skin. And, my word, what a soap she used, a
bewitchingly scented soap.
Footnote by the gentle reader: P. C., go on with your story!
Well, I will. Yet it is not my, but Miss Mitzi's story!
By the way, Mitzi is a Viennese diminutive of Marie, and I ought to
translate it by Pussy, for it is used equally for cats and girls, which
proves that the Viennese have some trifling knowledge of psychology.
I began by telling her that there had been no danger of her father
asking me questions about the Salzburg trip. How could he have guessed
that we had travelled together from Salzburg to Vienna?
Her answer was that she never had feared such a thing. It was of me
that she was afraid.
"For the present I am locked up, as you have noticed; but sooner or
later I will be released. My father will then present us to each other,
and I did not want you to exclaim at that moment: 'Oh! but we have met
already.'"
"Be assured that I will not make the slightest blunder."
"Now," she went on, "I suppose that you wish to have an explanation."
"I cannot deny that I feel curious. But I will not be inquisitive...."
"And I will be candid. It is not in order to satisfy your curiosity
that I am prepared to give you an explanation, but because I hope that
you will help me. You are probably the only person who can."
I trust that my dear readers do not place so much confidence in
Patrick Cooper as did Miss Doblana. I don't want to mislead anybody by
insinuating that her belief in my capacities was in any way justified.
But I must state one thing: My heart leaped up. Not only were we to
share a secret, but I was to be allowed to help her! I accordingly
promised what you may expect: discretion and help.
"I must begin at the beginning."
(Holy Sergeant Young, you will be pleased with this young lady who
shares your principles.)
"I am taking singing lessons. People say I have a nice voice. It is not
a strong one, but it is expressive. My aim is to become an operatic
singer, though my father strongly objects. This is strange, as mother
herself was a singer. Yet, strange as it may seem, there is a reason
for it. When mother married she did not tell him that she was a sister
of no lesser person than La Carina. Of course, you know La Carina?"