AUGUST FOURTH, 1914
July 27, 1914. It is ten days since that strange afternoon down at the
old boat-house on the river. I have been living in a kind of dream ever
since. I cannot somehow believe that I'm just plain, ordinary Susan
Birdsey, living on out-of-the-way little Paradise Green, to whom nothing
unusual ever has or ever will happen. Paradise Green is no longer the
prosaic place it was. It is the secret spot chosen by history as the
home of one of her most romantic characters. Who would ever have thought
it? And I, Susan Birdsey, am one of the three humble persons Fate has
chosen to be the sharer of this marvelous secret.
I cannot help thinking of what Miss Cullingford said when she suggested
that we keep a journal,--that some journals had been interesting and
valuable additions to history. That, at least, is what I never supposed
mine could possibly be. And yet, if she could only see it _now_! But she
never will, of course, nor any one else, for I have promised Monsieur
that I will never, without his permission, reveal a single word of what
he has told us. This is not, he says, because it would harm any one, or
make the slightest change in the world's affairs, but because of the
poor "lost dauphin's" wish.
We three have talked of it incessantly,--Carol, the Imp, and I. Somehow
the wonder of it never grows any less. That such a thing _could_ happen
here, here on little Paradise Green! And yet the Imp says it is no new
thing in history for an exiled king to hide himself away in a strange
country amid the humblest surroundings. Where _does_ she get all these
historical facts, anyway? Even Carol, who is fond of history and reads a
lot of it, doesn't know half as much about things as the Imp does. I am
changing my opinion of the Imp very much lately. I used to think she was
such a scatter-brained, harum-scarum child, without a serious thought
in her head. But I guess we really didn't _know_ her then, and misjudged
her a lot.
But it's Louis, our Louis, who seems to us the strangest, the most
impossible thing to believe. Before we heard Monsieur's story we
imagined this about him, but half the time we told ourselves it wasn't,
it _couldn't_ be true. We _must_ be on the wrong track, we said. Now we
know that it is all true, and Louis can never be "our Louis," the friend
we've always known, any more. How could he be? To begin with, he's going
to be the adopted son of the Marquis de Fenouil (I _hope_ that's the way
to spell it!), a great nobleman of France, and go away to France and
inherit a title, and probably we'll never see him again as long as we
live. In addition, as if that weren't enough, he's not the plain
American boy we always thought him, but the great-great-grandson of a
king of France. And _we_ know this, even if the rest of the world does
not, and can never, never feel on the same footing with him again. Not
that that will make any difference, I suppose, if he's to go away from
here for good. But it's like losing your brother,--like losing Dave, for
instance,--only Dave never has been, especially of late years, as
friendly and near to us as Louis has been.
We have seen almost nothing of Louis since that day with Monsieur. He
has been to Bridgeton every day, spending the time, I'm perfectly
certain, with that Page Calvin and his miserable aëroplane. It makes me
perfectly sick to think of it, especially since Monsieur has told us
everything. By the way, I can't get out of the habit of calling him
"Monsieur," but it's just as well, I suppose, because we're not supposed
to know he's anything else. Of course Louis doesn't realize what all
this means to the old gentleman, but if he only knew that it was fairly
breaking his heart, I do believe he'd be willing to give up the
dangerous scheme and take to something else. I feel sure Monsieur
suspects why he's away at Bridgeton, but he never says a word to
us,--just suffers in silence.
The Imp sees Monsieur and talks to him very often as he sits on his
favorite bench on the Green. He sits there a great deal, on that bench
under the big elm, and reads his paper and watches us play tennis.
Sometimes we all go over and talk to him, but he never says a word about
what he told us that day on the river,--not, at least, when we're all
together with him. He does speak of it sometimes to the Imp when they're
alone. She says that to-day he told her that the situation in Europe is
very grave. He is certain that Austria is about to declare war on
Serbia, and that if she does, the whole of Europe will be involved.
There will be the most awful conflict the world has ever known, if this
happens.
The Imp asked him if France was likely to go into it, too, and he said
he did not see how this could be avoided; France would always do what
was right. But here's the worst. He says that if France declares war, he
will have to return immediately, since important political matters will
demand it, and he intends to tell Louis the whole truth and take him
back with him. That piece of news seems perfectly ghastly to us, and
yet I honestly don't see how Monsieur can do anything else.
I felt to-day, after hearing this from the Imp, that I simply must
understand this European situation for myself, so I got the daily paper
and read up everything I could find about it. But I have to confess that
I was not much wiser after I had read it than I was before. So I went to
the Imp and asked her if she could explain the thing. She said:
"Why, it's this way. Monsieur has told me all about it. Austria
considers that she's got to make Serbia get down on her knees and beg
pardon, because an Austrian archduke was killed there. So Austria's sent
Serbia a note proposing all sorts of concessions that Serbia will never
stand for in the world. The Serbians answered that note yesterday, and
were willing to make whatever reparation they could about the archduke,
but they won't hear of some of the other things. Austria wants the
'whole hog,' or nothing, so of course she'll take this opportunity to
declare war. Russia has always sort of sympathized with the Serbians,
so if they get into trouble, she's going to give them a hand. And
Monsieur says she's already mobilizing her troops. Germany is in a
compact always to help Austria out, so that's where _she_ comes in.
Monsieur says Germany's been waiting forty years for this opportunity to
get gay and let loose on Europe, so she isn't going to let such a lovely
chance as this pass." (These are the Imp's words, not Monsieur's, I feel
certain!) "And France has a compact to be an ally of Russia, and
England's in that, too, so you can easily see what a beautiful
parrot-and-monkey time it's going to be!"
The situation is a little clearer to me now, I'll admit, but the whole
thing makes me terribly depressed. I'm glad I don't see much of Louis
now. I simply cannot be with him and act naturally, as if nothing were
out of the ordinary. I cannot face him and think who he really is, and
keep the wonder and pain and bewilderment of it out of my expression. So
perhaps it's a good thing he's away so much.
August 1, 1914. Austria declared war on Serbia a few days ago. The Imp,
in a terrible state of excitement, rushed up to my room with the paper
that morning to announce the news. But we've had worse since, and it's
all turning out as Monsieur said it would. We--that is, the Imp, Carol,
and I--were all going into Bridgeton to the circus to-day, but we've
given it up. None of us seemed to have the heart for that kind of a lark
in the face of what is going on and what it means for Louis. He still
unsuspectingly goes off to see Page Calvin every day, and never gives
the European situation a thought, I'm certain. Of course he can't for a
moment imagine that it will have any bearing on _his_ affairs.
The Imp told us to-day that Miss Yvonne is not a bit well. She's had a
nervous breakdown of some kind. Monsieur thinks it's because of this
awful state of affairs in Europe, and also because they can't seem to
find the least trace of those papers. That has been preying on her mind
for a long time. She thinks it's her fault and her father's that they
didn't bring that letter with them from France. It really wasn't,
because they came away in such a hurry, without knowing much about the
actual circumstances. Nevertheless, she is continually worrying about
it.
We told Mother she was ill, and Mother and the Imp went over to see her
yesterday. They took her some grape conserve and some raised biscuits
we'd just baked, and they said she seemed awfully grateful for the
attention. The Imp said she seemed more _human_ than she ever had
before, and more communicative, too,--not about any of their secret
affairs, of course, but on general topics. She says her eyes bother her
a lot, so the Imp offered to come over every day and read the paper to
her, and she actually said she'd like it.
Louis's birthday comes in a few days--on August fourth--and we're
planning a little surprise-party for him. We're going over there early
in the morning,--Dave, Carol, the Imp, and I,--and just casually ask him
to walk across the fields to the old boat-house with us. When we get
there we're going to suggest to him that he take us out in the launch
for a while. And when we get back we're going to produce a big spread
that we'll have previously hidden in the boat-house, and have a regular
feast on the platform. In the middle of it all we're going to present
Louis with a gold watch-fob that we all chipped in for, and Monsieur is
going to give him the most beautiful watch. Monsieur, of course, is to
be a member of this party. The Imp asked him, and he seemed delighted
with the idea. Under ordinary circumstances, I would consider it the
greatest lark, but as things are, it seems as if I could hardly endure
it--to sit there all day and look at Louis and think what he's soon
going to learn from Monsieur.
August 4, 1914. The worst has happened, the _very_ worst! It makes me
sick beyond words to read what I last wrote here--about having a
surprise-party, a _picnic_! It was a surprise-party right enough, but
the surprise was very much on our side, after all. We all started over
for Louis's this morning, just as we'd planned. We'd been up at six
o'clock, carrying the "feed" (as the Imp calls it) down to the
boat-house, and everything was quite ready. At the last minute Dave
couldn't go over with us, because Father had some urgent errand he
wanted him to attend to in Bridgeton, but he promised to join us later.
I confess that we weren't any of us as hilarious over this party as we'd
ordinarily be, for we all feel a lot depressed about this thing. But we
hadn't a suspicion of what was ahead of us.
We'd hoped to see Monsieur or Louis around outside, but no one was
anywhere in sight. So we knocked at the front door, and Louis came and
opened it.
In all my life I'll never forget how that poor fellow looked. He was
_stricken_! I can't think of any other word that expresses it so well.
He didn't seem surprised to see us, but instead of inviting us inside,
said:
"Come out on the Green and sit on our old bench for a few minutes, will
you? I've something to tell you."
We followed him in dead silence, and we felt that something awful, must
have happened.
"Have you seen the morning papers?" Louis asked, when we were seated.
"No," I said. "What's the matter?"
"_France has declared war!_" he answered.
Somehow he didn't need to say another word. We knew the whole thing. It
had come at last. There wasn't one of us who could think of a word to
say, not even the Imp, though she's usually quick enough with a reply.
But this time she seemed struck dumb.
After we'd all sat there for what seemed like six months, Louis said:
"I've heard the whole story from Mon-- I mean from the marquis. I know
that you know it, too. He told me so. I understand that he didn't intend
to tell me to-day,--that you were going to give me a surprise-party for
my birthday. Thank you, girls, all the same. I--I--"
He couldn't say any more just then, but sat staring away at nothing.
"It was the news in the paper that changed it all," he went on at last.
"Germany has invaded French territory and violated the neutrality of
Belgium, so of course the war is inevitable. The marquis is much excited
and has to go back at once to offer his estates and his assistance to
the government. I shall go with him."
He said all this in the strangest way, in a sort of dull, monotonous
voice, as if he'd just learned it by heart and hadn't the slightest
interest in it. It was the Imp who spoke first.
"Louis," she said, very quietly, "were you sorry to hear about--about
that other matter?"
He didn't answer for a minute, and just sat looking off into space
again. Finally he said, in the same monotonous voice:
"It's _killing_ me!"
"But, Louis," I found the courage to say, "it's really a wonderful
thing. You ought to be proud of it."
"Proud of _what_?" he demanded fiercely.
"Of--of being the descendant of a French king," I said.
"I've been proud as Lucifer all my life to be an _American_," he
answered. "What are French kings to me? And I _am_ an American, too! Not
a thing he's said can make me anything else. I don't care if my ancestor
did come here from France. Every American's ancestors came from
somewhere else, if you go back far enough. That doesn't alter things."
"Yes, that is perfectly true. You are just as much an American as ever,"
I admitted, thinking of that side of it for the first time. "But if
that's so, I can't see what you're so down-hearted about."
"What do you think it means to me to give up all my plans and ambitions
in life and go over to France and become a French nobleman by adoption;
to devote myself to every interest but the one I'm wrapped up in and
fitted for during all the rest of my days?"
"But, Louis," began the Imp, "if you feel so--strongly about it, why do
you have to do it? Couldn't you persuade Monsieur to let you do
something else? He's simply devoted to you. Surely he'd be willing to
meet _your_ wishes, somehow."
"You don't understand," answered Louis. "Can't you see that I'm under an
absolute _obligation_ to meet his wishes? I'd be an ungrateful brute, if
I did anything else. You must realize what his ancestor did for mine. I
wouldn't be in existence to-day, if it hadn't been for what the original
marquis did to help the--the dauphin to escape. Why, I'm also under a
tremendous obligation to the Mettots for the same reason. And then,
there's something else you don't know about that makes it even worse. I
haven't a cent in this world, nor ever have had, that hasn't been
supplied by Mon--by the marquis."
"You had this farm, didn't you?" I interrupted, for Louis has always
told us that this farm was his, or at least would be his when he came of
age. That was all the Mettots had ever told him about his affairs.
"Oh, yes; so I thought!" he answered bitterly. "But of course I didn't
know that my father had died deeply in debt, leaving this place
mortgaged to the hilt. I would never have owned a penny of it if the
marquis hadn't stepped in and redeemed it, paying every cent of the
expenses of my bringing up. Why, the very pocket-money I've had was his,
and I always supposed it was the proceeds from the sales of our
garden-truck. Oh, I'm tied hand and foot by the deepest of obligations!
There's nothing else to do. I'm helpless."
We all were silent for a long time after that. I, for my part, couldn't
think of one thing more to say. Louis was resigned and quiet and utterly
hopeless. And to try and comfort him and put the best side on things was
a perfect farce. None of us attempted it.
"When do you go?" I asked, presently.
"In a week or so," he said. "As soon as things can be arranged.
Monsieur--I mean the marquis--has asked me to beg that we be excused
from the surprise-party, in view of what has happened. I don't know what
he means by that, but probably you do. He also wished me to explain to
you that you are at liberty to tell any one you wish that I am to go to
France to become his adopted son, but that the other secret you will
always kindly keep to yourselves."
"Louis," said the Imp, "we were going to have a surprise-party for you
at the boat-house to-day because it was your birthday, but I guess the
surprise is on us. Anyhow, here's a little trifle we wanted to give you,
but we hadn't intended to present it in _this_ way. You'll understand,
though."
She handed Louis the watch-fob, and he took it in a sort of dazed,
unseeing way. But he thanked us a lot, adding that Monsieur had given
him the watch after they had had their interview.
"I'll never forget you," he said, "and you needn't think because I have
to go to France that I'm not going to see you again, either. I'm coming
back here as often as I can manage it, and I'll be the same old Louis.
You'll see!" This thought seemed to give him the only comfort he had.
"But what about the Meadows?" asked Carol.
"Oh, they're going, too, of course," Louis answered. "Their mission here
is over now. The marquis is going to close the house, but he's granted,
as a concession to me, that he'll keep it, and not sell it or even rent
it to any one else. There I can come back to it once in a while, and
live in the old way for a time. He's an awfully good sort, I will say,
and is only doing this because he sees I'm all broken up over things.
Well, I must go back to help him send off despatches and pack. It's a
hateful job. Come over and see Aunt Yvonne. She's upset over this, and
instead of feeling joyful, as I should suppose she would, is quite
miserable over something. I can't understand what it is, though."
Louis went off directly across the Green. It was heartbreaking to watch
him.
But the Imp says that one thing is certain. They evidently haven't told
Louis about those papers that can't be found.