Madame coming in later, found the room still disordered, and as she
rang the bell, she shook her head over the interrupted routine of the
household. Even with all the serious problems before them, the
little every-day things must not be neglected.
"Nanine," she said, when the old woman answered her ring, "the
General's friends are gone, and you can put the room in order now."
"Yes, Madame," the old woman looked about her, grumbling. Long
before this hour the work of the household was usually finished.
"The little desk also, Nanine," Madame reminded her as she was
leaving the room; "gather up all those waste papers and burn them,"
and she closed the door after her.
The old woman went about heavily, pulling the chairs in place and
arranging the disordered table. Then she went to the desk and swept
into her broad apron the loose papers. With them went the little
note Marie had left for Von Pfaffen, the slip of paper that was to
sacrifice her happiness for the sake of France.
But Nanine only grumbled at this extra work. This was what Antoine
should do. Where was he? Why wasn't he here? She shuffled to the
fireplace and emptied her apron into the grate. Stooping stiffly she
struck a match and lit the little pile of papers. As they blazed up,
she rested back on her heels, her shriveled old hands held out to the
tiny blaze, grateful for the warmth on this crisp morning.
She didn't hear the door open, nor see the dusty, hard-ridden young
soldier who entered. Her faded old eyes stared into the flames,
tearless, but full of the hopeless tragedy of the peasant who gives
all and must never ask why.
"Mother!" and at the word she turned with a start.
"Jacques!" she cried, scrambling to her feet. "Back so soon?"
"The message from Captain le Cerf was received at Headquarters," he
told her as he kissed her, "and I was ordered to bring it here at
once."
Even in her joy at seeing this dearly loved son the old woman's heart
was glad for Paulette.
"So he got away?" she said; "won't my little Mam'selle be happy?
When is he expected?"
Jacques stretched his dusty length in Madame's damask-covered chair,
and his mother did not reprimand him. Nothing was too good for him.
"He'll be at Sains," he said, "to-morrow, at daybreak!"
"At Sains?" she said, "why, that's not far!"
Jacques held up a note.
"He arrives to-morrow at daybreak," he said; "it's written here."
She came to his side with her head as close to his as the great wings
of her Breton cap would allow, and peered at the paper the boy held
out to her.
"'Sains--to-morrow--at daybreak," she read slowly, her broad
forefinger tracing out the words.
She laid the note down on the desk, almost on the same spot where not
many minutes before had rested Marie's hasty scrawl.
"Do you have to go back at once?" she asked wistfully.
The boy patted her shoulder.
"Yes, mother," he said; "there is great work to do, and I must get
back and do my share!"
"But," and her voice shook, "when will I see you again?"
"I don't know, mother," he said, "I can't tell!"
Quite suddenly the tears started from her faded eyes and trickled
down the furrows of her rough checks.
"You will be careful?" she asked huskily; "you're all I have now,
I'm--I'm getting a bit old and--you're all I have," she finished
weakly.
Jacques patted her shoulder roughly.
"Don't worry, mother," he grinned, sheepishly conscious of the tears
in his own eyes, "don't worry, I'll come back!"
The old woman clung to him fiercely, her chin quivering, her faded
eyes blazing with the fire that outlasts all others.
"Why do you have to go?" she cried hoarsely, "what have we ever done?
Why should you kill anyone? Why should anyone kill you? Why?
What's it all for? What's it all about?" Her withered cheeks were
wet, her staunch old heart was torn with a sort of bewildered sorrow.
"Why should my other two boys be taken from me?" she went on.
"Pierre, the finest smith in Brittany! Jean, who could lift an ox
off its feet! I don't understand!"
The last of her brood shook his sturdy head. He, too, had asked
himself "why?" He had heard others about him asking why, and to none
had there been given an explanation.
"I don't understand myself, mother," he said; "but the country says
we must go, and so we go!"
The old woman's anger flared up again.
"The ones who should suffer are those who set them on," she cried;
"but they never do! They never do! It is only we mothers of strong
young men. I don't see why!"
Jacques looked at her gravely. "It is for our country," he said;
"they want to invade it, destroy our homes, our fine old buildings.
We can't let them do that," and he squared his shoulders as his
country was doing. "We'll go on fighting till they stop trying!" he
said.
Nanine dried her eyes on her apron.
"I suppose you're right, Jacques," she sighed, "but I've given two."
"The officers say it will be over soon!"
"Yes," she answered, "they've said that for a long time, but it goes
on, and men are being ground up like--like coffee in a mill!"
Jacques laughed.
"Not me, mother," he assured her.
"How do I know?" her heavy lips were quivering pathetically again;
"when you were a prisoner I thought you were safe till it was all
over. I thought I'd saved one out of the three!"
Jacques sighed. He never remembered seeing his mother break before.
When the news had come about Jean, she had sat wide-eyed and silent
for an hour, and then had risen and gone about her usual tasks
without mentioning his death. Pierre had lain wounded for days at
Neuilly. She had made the long trip to see him and the finest smith
in Brittany had gasped away his life in the arms that had first held
him. She had journeyed back to the little gate-house of the Château
de la Motte, dry-eyed and silent. But to-day, now that this last one
of her brood was leaving her perhaps forever, the strong old heart
could no longer bear its burden of grief.
"I'll come back, mother," he said huskily, "I'll come back
a--a--sergeant."
"Much good that'll do without arms or legs," she grunted. "I've seen
a lot like that!"
Jacques laughed uneasily.
"But not me, mother!"
"I was proud to think that you got away from them," she went on,
"that they couldn't hold you, but I almost wish you were back."
Jacques looked at her heaving shoulders and tragic, withered face.
"When Pierre and Jean went, you didn't take on so."
"I didn't know what it was like then," she choked, "I didn't know
what it was like!"
"I must go now, mother," he muttered.
The old woman tried bravely to smile into the young face.
"Can't you stay and have something to eat?" she begged.
Jacques was hungry, very hungry. His soul yearned for the many good
things his mother cooked.
"I wish I could," he said wistfully, "but it's orders."
Nanine threw her arms about his neck and rocked him back and forth.
"Be careful," she pleaded, "you're all I have. God bless you!"
The boy tore himself away.
"Good-bye, mother; be sure and give the note to Mam'selle," he called
as he went through the long window into the garden. Nanine waved him
a tearful good-bye, her apron held to her lips, her heart in her
eyes. She watched him till he was out of sight.
What a bitter lot is woman's. The world belongs to men. For women
it is only a meeting, a parting, a supreme joy for awhile, and then
endless, hopeless tears. With a groan she turned heavily back into
the room.
The note for her Mademoiselle must not be forgotten.
As she turned to the desk where it lay, Von Pfaffen came in. His
face darkened.
"Here," he said roughly, "what are you doing?"
Nanine eyed him resentfully, her heavy Breton face flushing.
"Who are you to order me about?" she asked, in her coarsest peasant
manner.
The man was furious at her insolence.
"You'll go out of here," he said, between his teeth; "this is no
place for you!"
"_Nom d'un chien_," the old woman's voice rose in a tirade of abuse,
her eyes blazed with anger; "I'll do what I please! You black coat!"
Von Pfaffen's face reddened under her insult.
"I'll teach you how to talk to your betters," he said with an oath,
and crossing to her with a quick stride, he laid a rough hand on her
shoulder.
She twisted under his clutch.
"You scum! You toad!" she screamed; "you leave me be----!"
Her strident, peasant voice carried out into the hall, and Madame
came hurrying in.
"What is it?" she asked. "What is wrong?"
Nanine stopped her scolding and stood sullenly, while the man
explained.
"I did not give her permission to come in here, Madame," he said,
"and she refuses to go!"
"It is all right," said Madame quietly. "I told her to come and
arrange the room. You were busy with the General. Go to
Mademoiselle Paulette, Nanine, she is expecting you. Her commission
has come. She wants you to help her with her costume."
The old woman started for the door, her anger at the butler making
her forget for a moment the paper that Jacques had brought, and which
lay on the desk.
The man opened the door. She went through heavily, turning just
enough for him to see the sneer she flung at him as she left.
"Anything more, Madame?" he asked.
She shook her head, and he turned ungraciously, closing the door
after him.
Madame stood for a moment by the table. Her heart was heavy. War is
cruelest to women, for their wounds are of the soul; but Marie,
opening the door, met a brave smile, kindly welcoming eyes. When
Paulette had left her, she had promised to try and rest, but it was
impossible, and nervously she paced her room, her brain in a turmoil
with the thoughts that harassed her. Would her plan succeed?
It must! It must! There must be nothing to prevent it! She was
filled with a breathless hope as the bewildering possibility became
clear to her, that she might indeed become the instrument by means of
which France was to be saved! The thought transfigured her, lifted
her out of the doubt and agony which had surrounded her. To be of
use to the one she loved, to save what was more to him than his life,
was her mission. This accomplished, whatever happened to her was of
no consequence.
There were so many things that might interfere with the success of
her plan, Von Pfaffen might discover it, her note might fall into
other hands. There was so little time, so much to be done. She
realized that she must deliver her message as soon as possible.
Perhaps he was waiting even now. She flung open her door and hurried
down the stair and into the salon, but here was her husband's mother
with her quiet smile and sweet, kind eyes, and on the little desk
still lay the folded slip of paper that was so like the one she had
placed there.
Madame's voice was compassionate as she looked into the white face.
"Come in, dear," she said. "You must try and compose yourself, your
cheeks are pale. I think a walk in the garden would do us both good."
"You are so sweet to me, so kind!" murmured Marie. "I want you all
to love me!"
Madame pressed her hand tenderly.
"We will, dear," she said. "You and Paulette and I will be alone for
luncheon to-day. We can all learn to know each other better."
Marie looked at her wistfully.
"I do love you," she said earnestly; "no matter what happens, I want
you to believe that."
Madame had divined her condition with the quick sense of the mother
heart, and her kindness doubled.
"Come," she said, "and we can talk of our dear ones," but the girl
was thinking of the little paper on the desk.
"I can't," she gasped, "I can't," and she shrank away.
Madame went to the bell.
"Come," she said, "Antoine shall bring us wraps. The morning air is
cool."
Marie watched her, a prayer in her heart, to be able to do something
to repay these people for the love they were giving her.
Presently Von Pfaffen opened the door. He shot a swift glance at the
girl from under his heavy brows.
"Madame?" he asked, turning to his mistress.
"Bring the scarfs you will find in the entrance hall, Antoine."
As the man left the room, Marie sank breathlessly into a chair.
Would she be able to carry out her plan? Would her pale cheeks, or
anything in her manner, betray her to her tormentor's keen gaze?
Madame looked pityingly into the white face.
"Come dear, you break my heart with your tragic eyes. Remember, I am
his mother!"
With a cry, the girl started to her feet, but Von Pfaffen opened the
door, the scarfs over his arm, and again she subsided into her chair,
waiting.
Madame took a filmy gray scarf and let him wrap it about her
shoulders, and as she went toward the window, he came to Marie with
the ostensible humility of a servant.
She rose to her feet, and forced herself toward this man whom she
loathed.
As he slipped the wrap about her shoulders, he muttered under his
breath:
"Well?"
And in a quick whisper she answered:
"On the desk!"
Madame at the window, turned.
"Coming, dear?" she asked, and as the man stepped aside Marie
followed her out into the garden.
Von Pfaffen watched them disappear, then he turned hurriedly to the
little desk, where he found the paper that told of Maurice's coming.
Eagerly he seized it and held it close to his eyes, his face glowing
with triumph.
"'Sains--to-morrow--at daybreak,'" he read. "Ah, my Fatherland!" he
breathed, then lifting his fist, shook it fiercely at his
surroundings. "Now I am rid of all this!"
Triumphantly he went through the door, his shoulders squared, the
cloak of the servant dropped forever.