Later that same evening the girls were seated in their living room at
the farmhouse. It was almost bed time, so heavy curtains had been drawn
across their small windows, shutting out all possible vision of the
outside world.
But wearing their four new kimonos the girls were grouped in
characteristic attitudes about a small fireplace on the right side of
the room.
Suddenly, after a warm afternoon, a November rain had fallen, bringing
with it cold and dampness. So, although a fire in France is regarded
as a great luxury, the American girls felt compelled to have one. It
was not of the generous kind to which they were accustomed at home, but
was built of carefully hoarded sticks and pine cones old François had
brought them from time to time as valuable gifts. Therefore, the girls
were huddled closer to the fire and to one another than under ordinary
circumstances.
Just at present, however, there was no talking going on, which was
most unusual, since Nona and Barbara were especially addicted to this
feminine habit, while neither Eugenia nor Mildred were extraordinarily
silent. However, at the moment both Mildred and Nona were writing
letters, while Barbara was reading a queer, old-fashioned book she had
discovered stored away in the attic of their little farmhouse. It was,
of course, written in French, and she was supposed to be improving her
vocabulary. But the French was so peculiar that now and then she was
forced to stop to consult a dictionary.
Eugenia was also reading, although her literature was of a more serious
character. She was studying a series of reports the Red Cross societies
of Europe had recently issued. The papers offered important information
and advice to the Red Cross nurses, and Eugenia was too deeply
interested in her profession to neglect any chance for improvement.
She and Mildred were at a small table by the fire with the lamp between
them, while Nona and Barbara were mounted upon sofa cushions, which
they had placed on the bare floor.
By and by Barbara glanced up at the alarm clock on the mantelpiece.
It was standing side by side with a tall French clock of silver gilt
that must once have been a bridal offering. However, the French clock
had these long years been silent, while tonight the plebeian American
timepiece ticked resolutely on.
Seeing the hour, Barbara yawned, closed her book and then, clasping her
hands over her knees, began rocking slowly back and forth.
No one at first paid the least attention to her.
“It is nearly bed time,” she announced finally, “and I do wish
everybody would stop what they are doing and let us talk for a while.
Somehow tonight I feel as if we were four girls away at a foreign
boarding school, instead of four young women intent upon caring for the
wounded. How wonderful if by chance we were nearing the end of this
impossible war!”
After this there was another instant’s silence, though each girl was
keenly aware of Barbara’s last speech. Nona looked up toward the little
wooden crucifix, belonging to the owners of the farmhouse, which had
been left in its honored place upon the wall. Her lips said nothing,
but the appeal of her spirit went deeper than words. Mildred’s eyes
suddenly blurred with tears. She had been writing to her father,
whom she adored, and all at once the time seemed endless since their
farewell. But Eugenia merely put down her papers and sat watching the
younger girl on the floor.
Except for the fall of the rain the night was very still. There was no
thunder and lightning and no wind.
Perhaps it was because of what she had just been reading, or the
discomfort of her visit earlier in the afternoon, but Eugenia was
feeling curiously unstrung. Somehow Barbara’s innocent remark disturbed
her.
“I don’t think there is any chance of the war’s being over for many a
long day, Barbara,” she returned curtly. “Just because we have been
having a lull in the fighting lately you must not feel that work is
over. That is, not unless you want to go home. I often think that best
for all of you three young girls. If you can feel like a boarding
school miss, Bab, certainly you are an infant. But it is good of you to
include me among the pupils in view of what you really think about my
age.”
Barbara laughed, although a little surprised and touched by a portion
of the other girl’s speech. For had not Eugenia called her Bab and laid
her strong, fine hand on her hair? Barbara rather liked the feeling
of Eugenia’s fingers. They were firm and yet gentle tonight. Always
Barbara knew that they were singularly handsome hands, and more than
that, they were hands revealing unusual ability. They were not small,
but slender and long, with beautiful almond-shaped nails and a curious,
vibrant quality at the finger tips.
Barbara took one of them in her own and studied it curiously.
“You have wonderful nursing hands, Eugenia. One feels as if they could
take away pain and almost bring people back to life. Of course, I know
you are right about the war. It isn’t over just because of the heavenly
quiet we have been having lately in this neighborhood. But do let us be
frivolous while we can. Mildred, you have finished your letter, haven’t
you? Nona, when will you ever be through? To whom on earth are you
writing that you can have so much to say? Whoever he or she is I wish
could see you. You look like a Fra Angelico angel in that flowing blue
robe tonight.”
Just long enough to blow a kiss Nona looked up. “Oh, I am writing
to Dick Thornton,” she explained casually. “I had a letter from him
the other day asking me to tell him just what we were doing. He said
Mildred would never tell him half enough.”
A strange little lump mysteriously caught in Barbara’s throat. Dick had
not yet written her and she had thought they were as intimate friends
as he and Nona. Then the smile that was characteristic of her ability
to see things truthfully hovered around her lips. After all, did she
really desire Dick Thornton to behold Nona tonight? Never had she seen
her looking prettier! She had on a blue crêpe wrapper the color of the
Italian sky, her pale yellow hair was unbound and hanging in a single
long curl down her back. Moreover, the fire had flushed her cheeks and
made her dark eyes shine.
Then noticing that Eugenia’s eyes were studying her gravely, Barbara
shook her head and laughed.
“I have a perfectly delicious piece of gossip to confide, if you will
all listen. If you don’t I’m going to bed this minute.”
Nona sealed her letter.
“What on earth are you talking about, Barbara?” she demanded. “How can
you have heard any more gossip than the rest of us? You can’t have
found a lost will or a lost romance in that old book you dug out of the
attic.”
Having at last gained the desired attention of her audience, the
youngest of the four Red Cross girls was not disposed to hurry.
“Well, no, not exactly,” she hedged. “And yet I have been amusing
myself fitting the two stories together. Remember the young girl we saw
dancing for the soldiers the other afternoon?”
“Goodness, yes,” Eugenia replied. “But what a surprising person you
are, Barbara. She is about the last person in the world I would have
guessed you had in mind. What on earth made you think of her again?”
Holding up three fingers, Barbara counted them out slowly. “One, two,
three things made me think of her. Now listen to me attentively, for
‘hereby hangs a tale.’ And perhaps if we exercise enough imagination we
can turn it into the oldest romance of the Troubadours, those poets of
old Provence whose names stand high in the records of song and story.
Remember the tale of ‘Aucassin and Nicolete’ is over seven hundred
years old! We may have to make a few changes to fit it into modern
times.”
Mildred Thornton made no effort to stifle her yawn.
“Oh, goodness gracious, do go on and get to your story or I shall
retire to bed. At least I remember that the blond young soldier told
you the little dancing girl’s name was Nicolete. It was odd for you to
come across the poem so unexpectedly tonight. I read it long ago in my
literature class at school. But where, please, is ‘Aucassin,’ the hero
of your tale, and where, for that matter, is Nicolete? You told me that
she was supposed to disappear after her dance and no one knew what had
become of her,” Mildred protested.
Barbara turned appealingly to Eugenia. “Do make Mildred hush and not
take the fine flavor from my romance,” she begged. “The young soldier
may not have known where the young dancing girl lives, but I do.
Indeed, we all passed her home this afternoon. Didn’t you see a little
scarlet cap on the bayberry bush outside the old hut in the woods?
Well, Nicolete has been living there recently, with an old grandmother,
or an old woman of some kind. She is the adopted daughter of some
mysterious person, I am told. You recall that Nicolete was a slave
girl owned by a viscount?”
Eugenia got up slowly out of her chair.
“I don’t mean to be rude, child, but really I have to attend to some
things before I go to bed and your story seems rather far fetched. Tell
us who Nicolete’s adoring lover is and wait until tomorrow for the
rest.”
Barbara shrugged her shoulders petulantly.
“Of all the disagreeable audiences this is the worst!” she asserted. “I
thought maybe you might be interested in something except horrors. The
story is that this little gypsy girl is really very much in love with
Captain Castaigne, whom we saw this afternoon. That is, she may not be
exactly in love with him, but the soldiers think she is. His mother is
terribly angry, because, of course, they belong to one of the oldest
families in France while she is ‘Poor Little Miss Nobody of Nowhere.’
Then another romantic point is that the little blond soldier who gave
us the flowers is enamored of Nicolete. Monsieur Bebé is what the
other soldiers call him, so I wasn’t so far wrong in thinking he looked
like a baby.”
Barbara did not observe that Eugenia was frowning majestically and that
Mildred Thornton looked rather bored.
Nona, however, was smiling good-humoredly.
“Hurry up and finish, Barbara. Is Captain Castaigne pining away for the
fair Nicolete, refusing to be a knight or to bear arms for his country?
I thought he was supposed to be an extraordinary young officer,” Nona
questioned.
Undoubtedly Barbara was crestfallen.
“I suppose that is the weakest part of the story,” she confessed. “I
don’t know whether Captain Castaigne cares for this particular Nicolete
in the least. He does not care for anything but his beloved country, I
believe. But if you won’t be interested in my romance, please listen to
the first part of my poem,” Barbara begged, picking up her discarded
book. “There is a translation here of the first verse:
“Who would list in right good verse
Tale of grief full sad to hear,
Of two children young and fair,
Nicolete and Aucassin;
Of the woes he had to bear
And the doughty deeds to dare
For his love with face so clear?
Sweet the song, the fable rare,
Courtly and well served the fare;
No man is so full of care,
None so wretched, none so bare,
So o’erdriven by despair
But the hearing will repair,
Give him jollity to spare,
So rich the tale.”
As she finished the verse Eugenia reached down and taking hold of
Barbara lifted her to her feet.
“You are perfectly absurd with your little love tale, dear, and I don’t
see the least point in it. Still, it has been nice and restful to have
had a quiet evening like this. Perhaps it is better for us to forget
the tragedies about us now and then. Besides, I expect I need more
education in romance. But go upstairs to bed, all of you at once. I’ll
close up the house for the night.”
Eugenia shooed the three girls away as if they had been chickens and
she a guardian hen. But after they left her she did not start upon her
task at once. Instead she stood with her hands clasped looking down
into the fire.
Outside the rain must have ceased for she no longer heard the noise of
it. Indeed, the world seemed strangely quiet to ears accustomed to the
cannonading she had heard so often in the past months.
But she was not thinking of this at the present moment, but of her
visit to the chateau earlier in the afternoon. The call had not been
an agreeable one, for she had never felt more ill at ease. However,
Eugenia made up her mind that she would never accept an invitation
there again. She might then escape meeting either the Countess or her
son. And with this thought in mind she stopped to put out the last
flickering flames of the fire.
There she remained crouched in the same position for five minutes,
while upstairs in their bedrooms the other three American Red Cross
girls were almost equally inanimate. For after the quiet of the night
their ears and hearts were suddenly stunned by a burst of terrific
artillery firing. It was as if all the heavy guns of all the armies in
Europe were concentrated upon this particular quarter in France.
By and by Eugenia rose up wearily with her face whiter and older than
it had been for some time.
“I am afraid the Germans have not retreated of their own accord,” she
said, unconsciously speaking aloud. “We may have some hard days ahead
of us. But if they do manage to force the French line of trenches and
reach us, I shall not care so much if only the other girls can get
away. It will not so much matter with a woman as old as I am, and I
shall be glad to be useful.”