"Ah!" she said, and, at the door: "_Bonne chance!_"
Shayne left Hugo, after agreeing on a time and place for their meeting
in the afternoon. The hours passed slowly. Hugo took another drink, and
then, exerting his judgment and will, he refrained from taking more. At
noon he partook of a light meal. He thought, or imagined, that the
ecstasy of the day before was showing some signs of decline. It occurred
to him that the people might be very sober and quiet before the war was
a thing to be written into the history of France.
The sun was shining. He found a place in the shade where he could avoid
it. He ordered a glass of beer, tasted it, and forgot to finish it. The
elation of his first hours had passed. But the thing within him that had
caused it was by no means dead. As he sat there, his muscles tensed with
the picturization of what was soon to be. He saw the grim shadows of the
enemy. He felt the hot splash of blood. For one suspended second he was
ashamed of himself, and then he stamped out that shame as being
something very much akin to cowardice.
He wondered why Shayne was joining the Legion and what sort of person he
was underneath his rather haughty exterior. A man of character,
evidently, and one who was weary of the world to which he had been
privileged. Hugo's reverie veered to his mother and father. He tried to
imagine what they would think of his enlistment, of him in the war; and
even what they thought of him from the scant and scattered information
he had supplied. He was sure that he would justify himself. He felt
purged and free and noble. His strength was a thing of wreck and ruin,
given to the world at a time when wreck and ruin were needed to set it
right. It was odd that such a product should emerge from the dusty brain
of a college professor in a Bible-ridden town.
Hugo had not possessed a religion for a long time. Now, wondering on
another tangent if the war might not bring about his end, he thought
about it. He realized that he would hate himself for murmuring a prayer
or asking protection. He was gamer than the Cross-obsessed weaklings who
were not wise enough to look life in the face and not brave enough to
draw the true conclusions from what they saw. True conclusions? He
meditated. What did it matter--agnosticism, atheism, pantheism--anything
but the savage and anthropomorphic twaddle that had been doled out since
the Israelites singled out Jehovah from among their many gods. He would
not commit himself. He would go back with his death to the place where
he had been before he was born and feel no more regret than he had in
that oblivious past. Meanwhile he would fight! He moved restively and
waited for Shayne with growing impatience.
Until that chaotic and gorgeous hour he had lived for nothing, proved
nothing, accomplished nothing. Society was no better in any way because
he had lived. He excepted the lives he had saved, the few favours he had
done. That was nothing in proportion to his powers. He was his own
measure, and by his own efforts would he satisfy himself. War! He flexed
his arms. War. His black eyes burned with a formidable light.
Then Shayne came. Walking with long strides. A ghostly smile on his
lips. A darkness in his usually pale-blue eyes. Hugo liked him. They
said a few words and walked toward the recruiting-tent. A _poilu_ in
steely blue looked at them and saw that they were good. He proffered
papers. They signed. That night they marched for the first time. A week
later they were sweating and swearing over the French manual of arms.
Hugo had offered his services to the commanding officer at the camp and
been summarily denied an audience or a chance to exhibit his abilities.
When they reached the lines--that would be time enough. Well, he could
wait until those lines were reached.