In the morning, when the bugle sounded from the barracks they rose and
looked out of the window. She loved his body that was proud and blond
and able to take command. And he loved her body that was soft and
eternal. They looked at the faint grey vapour of summer steaming off
from the greenness and ripeness of the fields. There was no town
anywhere, their look ended in the haze of the summer morning. Their
bodies rested together, their minds tranquil. Then a little anxiety
stirred in both of them from the sound of the bugle. She was called
back to her old position, to realize the world of authority she did not
understand but had wanted to serve. But this call died away again from
her. She had all.
She went downstairs to her work, curiously changed. She was in a new
world of her own, that she had never even imagined, and which was the
land of promise for all that. In this she moved and had her being. And
she extended it to her duties. She was curiously happy and absorbed.
She had not to strive out of herself to do her work. The doing came
from within her without call or command. It was a delicious outflow,
like sunshine, the activity that flowed from her and put her tasks to
rights.
Bachmann sat busily thinking. He would have to get all his plans ready.
He must write to his mother, and she must send him money to Paris. He
would go to Paris, and from thence, quickly, to America. It had to be
done. He must make all preparations. The dangerous part was the getting
into France. He thrilled in anticipation. During the day he would need
a time-table of the trains going to Paris—he would need to think. It
gave him delicious pleasure, using all his wits. It seemed such an
adventure.
This one day, and he would escape then into freedom. What an agony of
need he had for absolute, imperious freedom. He had won to his own
being, in himself and Emilie, he had drawn the stigma from his shame,
he was beginning to be himself. And now he wanted madly to be free to
go on. A home, his work, and absolute freedom to move and to be, in
her, with her, this was his passionate desire. He thought in a kind of
ecstasy, living an hour of painful intensity.
Suddenly he heard voices, and a tramping of feet. His heart gave a
great leap, then went still. He was taken. He had known all along. A
complete silence filled his body and soul, a silence like death, a
suspension of life and sound. He stood motionless in the bedroom, in
perfect suspension.
Emilie was busy passing swiftly about the kitchen preparing the
children’s breakfasts when she heard the tramp of feet and the voice of
the Baron. The latter had come in from the garden, and was wearing an
old green linen suit. He was a man of middle stature, quick, finely
made, and of whimsical charm. His right hand had been shot in the
Franco-Prussian war, and now, as always when he was much agitated, he
shook it down at his side, as if it hurt. He was talking rapidly to a
young, stiff Ober-leutnant. Two private soldiers stood bearishly in the
doorway.
Emilie, shocked out of herself, stood pale and erect, recoiling.
“Yes, if you think so, we can look,” the Baron was hastily and
irascibly saying.
“Emilie,” he said, turning to the girl, “did you put a post card to the
mother of this Bachmann in the box last evening?”
Emilie stood erect and did not answer.
“Yes?” said the Baron sharply.
“Yes, Herr Baron,” replied Emilie, neutral.
The Baron’s wounded hand shook rapidly in exasperation. The lieutenant
drew himself up still more stiffly. He was right.
“And do you know anything of the fellow?” asked the Baron, looking at
her with his blazing, greyish-golden eyes. The girl looked back at him
steadily, dumb, but her whole soul naked before him. For two seconds he
looked at her in silence. Then in silence, ashamed and furious, he
turned away.
“Go up!” he said, with his fierce, peremptory command, to the young
officer.
The lieutenant gave his order, in military cold confidence, to the
soldiers. They all tramped across the hall. Emilie stood motionless,
her life suspended.
The Baron marched swiftly upstairs and down the corridor, the
lieutenant and the common soldiers followed. The Baron flung open the
door of Emilie’s room and looked at Bachmann, who stood watching,
standing in shirt and trousers beside the bed, fronting the door. He
was perfectly still. His eyes met the furious, blazing look of the
Baron. The latter shook his wounded hand, and then went still. He
looked into the eyes of the soldier, steadily. He saw the same naked
soul exposed, as if he looked really into the _man_. And the man was
helpless, the more helpless for his singular nakedness.
“Ha!” he exclaimed impatiently, turning to the approaching lieutenant.
The latter appeared in the doorway. Quickly his eyes travelled over the
bare-footed youth. He recognized him as his object. He gave the brief
command to dress.
Bachmann turned round for his clothes. He was very still, silent in
himself. He was in an abstract, motionless world. That the two
gentlemen and the two soldiers stood watching him, he scarcely
realized. They could not see him.
Soon he was ready. He stood at attention. But only the shell of his
body was at attention. A curious silence, a blankness, like something
eternal, possessed him. He remained true to himself.
The lieutenant gave the order to march. The little procession went down
the stairs with careful, respectful tread, and passed through the hall
to the kitchen. There Emilie stood with her face uplifted, motionless
and expressionless. Bachmann did not look at her. They knew each other.
They were themselves. Then the little file of men passed out into the
courtyard.
The Baron stood in the doorway watching the four figures in uniform
pass through the chequered shadow under the lime trees. Bachmann was
walking neutralized, as if he were not there. The lieutenant went
brittle and long, the two soldiers lumbered beside. They passed out
into the sunny morning, growing smaller, going towards the barracks.
The Baron turned into the kitchen. Emilie was cutting bread.
“So he stayed the night here?” he said.
The girl looked at him, scarcely seeing. She was too much herself. The
Baron saw the dark, naked soul of her body in her unseeing eyes.
“What were you going to do?” he asked.
“He was going to America,” she replied, in a still voice.
“Pah! You should have sent him straight back,” fired the Baron.
Emilie stood at his bidding, untouched.
“He’s done for now,” he said.
But he could not bear the dark, deep nakedness of her eyes, that
scarcely changed under this suffering.
“Nothing but a fool,” he repeated, going away in agitation, and
preparing himself for what he could do.