All one night Eugenia feared that Captain Castaigne would die.
This was the fourteenth night after the beginning of his fever and
a crisis in the disease. So for twenty-four hours she did not have
one-half hour of uninterrupted sleep. It was not because the young man
needed her constant care, for indeed he was never conscious of her
existence. When he called it was always to ask for some one else, and
yet it was always Eugenia who answered. Then for a little while at
least the patient would seem to be satisfied.
But if at their first accidental meeting in Paris the four American
Red Cross girls had considered Captain Castaigne absurdly young for
his captain’s commission, what must they have thought of him now? To
Eugenia he appeared like a boy of sixteen.
It is true that he had a tiny dark moustache, but except for this his
face remained smooth. Then his nurse had been compelled to cut off
all his dark hair in order to cool his head, and his slender body had
become wasted and his eyes sunken. Indeed, the features, which Eugenia
had once considered too perfect for a man’s, now frequently made her
think of a delicate cameo, when he lay with his face in profile against
the pure white of his pillow.
Watching him on this night, which she feared might be his last, Eugenia
felt unusually moved.
After all, he must have been a brave and capable fellow to have
received his present rank in the French army while still so young.
Moreover, there was a possibility that Captain Castaigne had more
force of character than she had ever given him credit for. Had he not
rebelled against his mother’s ideas of rank and dignity, and in spite
of his devotion to her refused to keep his title in a country which was
now a republic? Of course, Eugenia could not believe that the young
man really had the true democratic spirit in which she so thoroughly
trusted. Still there was a chance that he might not be so futile a
character as she had first supposed.
Leaning over to wipe her patient’s face with a damp cloth, Eugenia
made up her mind to one thing. If Captain Castaigne died she would go
at once to the German colonel in command of the French village and
confess what she had done. Of necessity she must be punished for her
falsehood and treachery, but surely she would be permitted to send for
the Countess Amélie at the last. The young French officer could be of
no interest to his enemies after his death.
But where the Countess could be hiding, nor whom she could find to
send for her, Eugenia had not the faintest idea. For these past two
weeks she had been so entirely shut away from the outside world. Except
for her one visit to the German colonel she had never left the little
“House with the Blue Front Door” since the night she first brought her
patient into it. Nor had Eugenia received a single line from any one
of the other three Red Cross girls to afford her the faintest idea
of what could have become of them. But she did not worry so much as
she might have done at a time when she was less occupied. Besides,
naturally she believed that the three girls were with the French field
hospital at some point back of the line of the French army’s retreat.
Toward dawn Eugenia knew that the hour of greatest danger to her
patient would arrive. For it is an acknowledged scientific fact that
life is at its lowest ebb with the rising and the setting of the sun.
Therefore, just before this time Eugenia left her patient’s bedside and
went into the room adjoining, which she used for her own needs. There
she washed her face and hands in cold water and, letting down her heavy
hair, plaited it in two braids. She was very tired and yet must prepare
herself to meet the coming hour with all the strength and wisdom she
could muster.
Even as she made her toilet she was aware of the feverish muttering
of the young officer. His stupor had passed several days before, but
since his nurse could not decide whether his weak restlessness and
almost incessant crying out were not worse symptoms. Certainly they
were more trying upon her nerves.
“Ma mère, ma mère,” he was repeating his mother’s name over and over
again, as if he must see her again before his spirit could leave his
body.
Eugenia slipped back and for the hundredth time laid her hand gently
on the young fellow’s brow. Somehow he must be quieted, comforted
into thinking his mother near him. Then if he never returned to
consciousness he would pass out of the world’s alarms with a sense of
her presence.
Do you recall that Barbara Meade had discovered a wonderful, healing
quality in the touch of Eugenia’s hands? It is true that a few people
have this vital, health-giving quality in their hands, which is not
true of others.
Anyhow, Eugenia’s patient grew quieter, although he still murmured a
broken word now and then. He was strangely pathetic, because, however
much he might move his arms and the upper part of his body, his legs
remained lifeless. For now and then when he had endeavored to change
his position the pain had been so great as to pierce through his stupor.
“Mon fils, mon fils,” Eugenia whispered several times. It was all the
French she dared permit herself to speak, and yet the simple words “my
son,” even spoken by a New England old maid, carried their magic.
Yet Eugenia was looking little like an old maid as she leaned over the
French boy--and he was scarcely more than a boy. She wore the violet
wrapper, and as she kneeled her long dark braids of hair lay upon the
floor. She too had grown thin and white from her two weeks’ vigil of
nursing, cooking, taking entire charge of her patient, herself and
the little house. Nevertheless, Eugenia’s face had for some reason
softened, perhaps because she was too weary and too selfless in her
devotion to her patient to feel superior to any earthly thing. At this
moment her eyes were both sad and hopeful, while her lashes looked
longer and darker than usual against the pallor of her cheeks.
Finally Captain Castaigne moved away from the soft pressure of his
nurse’s hands. As he moved with more strength than Eugenia believed him
to possess, for the next instant she watched him even more closely.
He was muttering a number of confused phrases, now and then what
sounded like a command to his soldiers. Then all at once he stopped and
laughed a little foolishly.
“Eugenia Peabody,” he pronounced the words distinctly, although with
a French accent which made the name more attractive than it ever had
before. “Eugenié Paybodé” was the way it sounded to its possessor.
Eugenia stared more closely. Could Captain Castaigne know her once
again? Since the first night after his injury he never seemed to have
been aware of her identity.
A further glance into his eyes showed this was not true. There was no
sign of intelligence there, only vagueness and a confused groping in
the dark.
“Mademoiselle Paybodé, she is what you call in English ‘an old maid.’”
Then the young officer laughed boyishly, as if he and a friend had been
discussing a new acquaintance and found the subject amusing.
Eugenia flushed. It was absurd, but for the moment she felt hurt and
angry. Few of us like to be the subject of a joke and Eugenia was not
gifted with much sense of humor. But a little later she had the grace
to be ashamed of herself. However she might dislike the young Frenchman
whom she had been nursing so faithfully, she must remember that he had
unfailing good manners. Their one unfortunate meeting had been due to a
mistake on his part. Afterwards he had done all that he could to make
amends. Certainly he would be the last person to be rude to her under
the present circumstances if he had known what he was saying! Moreover,
the minute after he continued talking at random upon subjects which had
no possible connection.
Soon after, glancing at her watch, Eugenia got up and crossed the
room. The next instant she returned in order to take her patient’s
temperature. His fever was not so high, but then his pulse and heart
seemed to be growing dangerously weaker. Giving him the necessary
stimulant, she again stood by his bedside, watching and waiting.
Captain Castaigne was no longer talking in his delirium. He had grown
quieter and was staring, yet with an unseeing expression, at the
ceiling overhead. At this moment Eugenia discovered that the dawn had
come at last. A shaft of yellow light had entered the high window and
shone across the wounded officer’s face. It gave him such a curiously
transfigured look that for an instant Eugenia was frightened. But the
next, realizing what had occurred, she walked across to the window and
stood looking out at the country.
The morning wind blew across her face. The dawn was a cold December one
and yet the air was grateful. A little later Duke came and thrust his
great head into Eugenia’s hand. Until this moment he had not left his
place by his master’s bedside since twilight the day before. But now he
too seemed to feel that there was nothing more love or vigilance could
do. One must simply wait.
The landscape was particularly lovely this morning, Eugenia thought. A
white frost lay upon the meadows and trees like a veil, and one could
not see the devastation that the recent fighting must have brought
upon the countryside. Eugenia had the right to feel rather like a
prisoner, and yet she was not at this time conscious of herself. She
was wondering how the Countess Amélie could live when she learned that
her only son had fallen a victim to the enemy who had despoiled her
land and captured her home. She was an old woman and this would be too
full a measure of sorrow.
How long Eugenia stood at the window she did not know. It could
scarcely have been more than a few moments, yet when she turned around
she was not aware of what had influenced her. Perhaps it was Duke’s
desertion, for once more he had marched over to his master’s side.
Here, he stood sentinel with his eyes fixed on the young captain’s
face. He no longer crouched upon the floor as he had been doing for the
past twelve hours.
Straightway Eugenia experienced a sudden rushing of warm blood to her
own cheeks and a flooding sense of happiness and warmth.
For Captain Castaigne was looking at her gravely, yet with entire
recognition.
“I have come back to fight once more for France because of you,” he
whispered. Then, in spite of his exhaustion, he tried gallantly to lift
Eugenia’s fingers to his lips. But finding himself too weak, he simply
lay still and smiled at her.
Utterly ridiculous in a self-possessed person like Eugenia! But because
she felt a sudden overpowering inclination to burst into tears of
relief at her patient’s safety, she frowned upon him sternly instead.
“You are not to stir or speak until I return,” she announced severely,
and then deliberately left the room. Of course, she intended to get
some simple nourishment for the young officer at once, but this was
not the important reason for her withdrawal. Certainly Eugenia did not
so far intend to forget her dignity as a nurse as to show emotion!
At about noon on the same day Eugenia was cheerfully working downstairs
in the little French kitchen, while Captain Castaigne was sleeping
quietly upstairs with the door open so that she could hear his faintest
move.
For the kitchen had to be seriously considered. The supply of food
necessary for an invalid was growing dangerously low in their larder,
and for the next few weeks the wounded soldier must have proper
nutriment. After an hour’s investigation Eugenia decided that she must
go to the village and see what could be done. It would be difficult to
leave her patient alone, but his life was no longer in danger. Time
would bring healing, if nothing of an unexpected nature occurred.
Then Eugenia heard a gentle tapping at her kitchen door. It was much
the same noise that François had been accustomed to make on his daily
visits with supplies from the chateau. For a moment Eugenia hoped that
François might have come unexpectedly to their aid. But on opening the
door, she found a wholly unexpected visitor.
A young girl of about sixteen stood outside. At first Eugenia did not
recognize her. Then she saw that she wore a torn skirt and a little
scarlet cap and that she was singularly pretty and graceful.
Like a flash a picture came before her; it was the figure of a little
girl dancing before a group of French soldiers. What was the name
Barbara had afterwards called her, the name of some character in an old
French romance?
“Nicolete,” Eugenia said suddenly. And drawing the girl inside the
little kitchen, she carefully closed the outside door.