A FRENCH CONSCRIPT
DENHAM IVOR was a man considerably better educated and better read than
the average young officer of his day, a matter for congratulation in
respect of Roy's present education; and also his intellectual gifts
were well above the average level.
The main force of the man lay, however, rather in the direction of
character than of pure intellect. There was about him a soldierly
directness and simplicity, together with a whole-heartedness which
often belongs to that type of nature. Whatever might befall, he would
do his duty, not only with no thought of consequences to himself, but
in the most direct and thorough mode possible.
He was a good man as well as a gallant soldier. He was one who might
say little, but who would at all costs do what he believed to be right.
He was honourable, true, pure-minded, chivalrous towards women, tender
towards little children, reverent and faithful towards his God. He was
indomitable in courage when he faced a foe; but so soon as fighting
ceased, he would be the first to succour a wounded enemy.
All this means largely, as has been earlier stated, that Denham Ivor
had taken shape under the influence and the example of John Moore. Ivor
was the pupil; Moore was the master.
The prolonged banishment from England and captivity in France could not
fail to be to him a terrible trial; not only because he was cut off
indefinitely from the girl whom he loved with whole-hearted devotion;
but because too he was cut off, in his full vigour, from every hope
of promotion and honour, and from serving under the Commander whom he
loved with a devotion no less whole-hearted.
Yet he seldom spoke to any one about the greatness of the trouble. It
seemed as if his spirit of soldierly obedience had taught him also the
secret of submission to the Divine Will.
It is easy to see that a friendship of this kind could not fail to
be good for Roy. And the friendship was not such in name only, since
advantages existed on both sides. Much as Ivor could do for the lad,
in the way of teaching him and keeping him out of mischief, there was
another side to the question. Roy, by his light-heartedness and his
spirit of unconquerable fun, could and did do much to lighten the
weight of the young Guardsman's wearisome captivity.
The journey from Fontainebleau to Verdun, of one hundred and seventy
miles or more, would be nothing much in these days of steam-power, but
it was a considerable matter in those times of slow travelling. It
seemed to weigh upon Ivor's spirits more than anything had yet weighed
upon them; or Denham was less successful in hiding what he felt. Mrs.
Baron was brighter than for months past. Her relief at not being forced
to leave her husband, or to part yet with Roy, tended to cheerfulness;
and Colonel Baron, glad to see her happy, was the same himself. Roy,
as usual, was in good spirits. Ivor alone appeared to have parted with
his elasticity. He did not give in to the mood of depression; but it
was patent enough to Mrs. Baron, whose concerned gaze wandered often
towards him.
No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly
Keene, which floated before his eyes through all those miles of
driving, driving, ever further away from where he craved to be. He
might reply readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence recurred,
up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft velvet eyes,
her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would hear the
tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did like
Captain Ivor—well, just a little!—and that she might perhaps be willing
to marry him—well, some day!
Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding
country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest itself,
how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever be.
He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment, before
he should see Polly again. Why not? In those times wars had been wont
to last in one unbroken stretch for such periods as seven years, ten
years, twenty years, thirty years.
Would Polly be content to wait for him?
This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to
call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse
possibility. The idea that she might not be willing to wait came
freshly; but having once come it did not soon depart.
He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene
around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one
thought.
They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small
town, where fresh horses would be waiting. Ivor was listening to Roy,
responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street, when,
without warning, that query burst upon him.
Would Polly indeed be willing to wait? Did she care enough? She was
very young; hardly more than a child. If he were to be years away from
her, the two never meeting, letters seldom passing between them, could
he expect—would it even be fair and reasonable to expect—that he should
remain enshrined in her heart, as surely as she would remain enshrined
in his? Polly had known him intimately but a few weeks, though their
acquaintance extended further back; and impressions made upon the mind
and imagination at seventeen are not always lasting. Moreover, Polly
was exceedingly pretty, quite unusually charming. Other men would wish
to marry her. Could he expect such constancy on her part as that she
should wait for her absent lover, refusing every other chance that
might present itself? What would her grandmother think and say? Polly,
with all her charms, was a portionless maiden.
The whole question rolled itself out before Denham's mental gaze, as
they drove along the chief street of the place, exciting less attention
than usual. With his bodily eyes he saw little, yet in a manner he was
aware that a considerable stir prevailed, and he heard, almost without
hearing, Roy's rapid questions.
"I don't at all know," he replied mechanically, as they came to a halt
before the inn.
"Den—look—what a lot of people outside the maison de ville! And some of
them seem so miserable. What are they after?"
"I have not the least idea. Something seems to be wrong. Easy to find
out."
The mystery was soon explained. This happened to be a day appointed
for drawing for the conscription; and around the door of the little
town-hall opposite were gathered the near relatives of the young
fellows who were eligible. There was no mistaking the dread written
upon their faces.
One woman in particular drew notice. She was bent and old in
appearance, though very likely not beyond middle age; she had grey
hair; and she wore a short very full skirt, with a long-waisted bodice,
and big brass buckles on her shoes. From under the wide-brimmed hat her
face waited, with a consuming eagerness, for news, the lips working,
the eyes staring.
"I wonder if she's got a son. I hope, if she has, he won't be taken,"
exclaimed Roy. "What are they doing inside."
"Drawing lots, to see who must go to the wars. All the young men in the
neighbourhood, of a certain age, have been called together, probably;
and those who are passed by surgeons as whole and healthy have to draw
lots. Some will escape, and some will have to go."
"Look—they are coming out. And something is being said—what is it?"
"Hush—the names of those who are drawn."
All listened intently; and the elderly woman, clasping her worn hands,
leaned forward, with a face of concentrated suspense.
"Jean Paulet," sounded clearly.
A bitter wailing cry burst from her, drowning what followed. She held
out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and dropped
senseless to the ground.
"Can nothing be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Baron in distress. "The poor
creature! George, will they not let him off? Surely they need not be so
cruel as to take him away!"
"I am afraid the only chance would be a substitute—and not much hope of
that."
"Do ask. Find out something. Do, please."
Denham crossed the road with his rapid stride, followed closely by his
inevitable shadow, Roy, while the Colonel came after in more leisurely
style. The poor woman's friends were attending to her; and Ivor, always
the Colonel's spokesman in a foreign language, made inquiries of a
respectable man, probably a small shopkeeper, standing by. The man
shrugged his shoulders as he replied. "It had to be," he said, not
unkindly, but resignedly. All young men equally were subject to the
conscription, and he who "fell" had to go. There was no escape, no
remedy. None, except through the purchase of a substitute; and Marie
Paulet, he feared, could not manage that. She was a good woman, truly
estimable, and he was sorry for her, yes, sincerely sorry; but what was
to be done? The First Consul required soldiers, and, in fact, he would
have them! Another expressive shrug.
How much would be required for a substitute? Eh Bien—one hundred
livres would doubtless suffice. Madame Paulet, foreseeing this day,
had toiled hard and saved assiduously during many years; but with her
utmost exertions, as he knew, for she had told him, she had managed to
get together only fifty-five livres. No substitute could be obtained
for only fifty-five livres. No, no, impossible! Jean would have to go,
and his mother would grow used to it, like other mothers. How soon?
Sans doute he would be marched away at once—immediately—to the nearest
dépôt, there to be exercised. The thing had to be. There was no remedy.
All France was giving up her best men, by tens of thousands, to feed
the army. In parts already none but women and old men remained to till
the soil.
"Was Madame Paulet a widow?" asked Denham.
"Oui, oui, oui, oui," the man said, fast as the words could come.
Certainly she was a widow; but then she was not over sixty, nor was
Jean her only son. Had she been over sixty, and depending for her
subsistence upon an only son, then vraiment her case would have been
easily pleaded. Marie Paulet was under fifty in age, though she looked
more, since she had toiled hard and had known much sorrow. She had a
second son too, young and somewhat lame, but able to work, though in
truth more of a burden than an assistance. Jean, however, would have to
go. This was a supplementary conscription for the year, more men being
urgently required by the First Consul.
Jean Paulet stood with a face of sullen despair beside his mother,
saying not a word. He was scarcely over nineteen, only one fortnight
past the day, Ivor's informant remarked; and he looked young, being
loose-limbed and shambling, though broad-shouldered.
"Ask them how much they could make up among themselves towards the
purchase of a substitute. Some may be willing to help," suggested the
Colonel.
Denham obeyed, and a discussion took place in raised voices. The two
Englishmen waited gravely, Mrs. Baron watching from the coach, while
Roy stood close by, scanning the conscript with interested gaze. Marie
Paulet sat upon the cold ground, weeping bitterly.
"About fifteen livres seems to be all, sir. They are poor here. It is
a marvel how the woman has managed to save so much. But I am ready to
give fifteen livres."
Colonel Baron's eyebrows stirred. "Well, tell them that, if they can
find a substitute for one hundred livres, you will give fifteen, and I
will do the same. For my part, I doubt if a substitute can be procured,
the drain on the country has been so severe of late. But it will soften
matters a little to the poor woman. I rather grudge letting the money
go into French pockets—but I'd defy any one with proper sensibilities
to stand out against that poor creature's misery."
Denham explained what "Monsieur le Colonel Anglais" had said, failing
to make clear his own share in the matter, though from no lack of power
to express himself. The scene that followed was eminently French in
its abandon of joy. One of the young men present who was eligible but
who had not been drawn—had not tombé, as the saying was—came forward,
and offered for the sum of one hundred livres to go as the substitute
for Jean Paulet. This settled matters; and without hesitation Colonel
Baron produced notes for the amount he had named, Denham adding his own
donation with a rapid movement, which drew no attention.
Thereupon enthusiasm rose to its height. The people of the town, with
whom Marie and her son were plainly favourites, shouted their approval;
while Marie crept close to Colonel Baron, knelt at his feet, sobbed
out her wordless rapture, and even kissed his hands, to the Colonel's
discomfiture.
"I say, Den, I'm going back to the carriage. Say whatever you choose to
them. It's all right, but I vow this sort of thing doesn't quite suit
a Britisher. And it strikes me you haven't made 'em understand that
you're doing as much as I am. Tell 'em that, and talk as much as you
think necessary, and then come along."
A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further
explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he
had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which the
Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them with a certain reticent
indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A
slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes bent upon
poor old Mme. Paulet were infinitely kind.
Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one
moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his
unexpected escape.
"Bonjour, Monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going
to fight against the English just yet."
Jean muttered broken words—something of a faltering hope and prayer
that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps—who
could tell?—to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for Monsieur
le Colonel's friend.
It seemed very unlikely—most unlikely—that he and these passing English
prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be able to
do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in this
world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet.
As the coach started, in the midst of grateful acclamations, Marie
Paulet held up mute hands, tears streaming down her faded cheeks. Such
a look was hers, that even Colonel Baron was conscious of moisture in
his eyes, though by no means easily moved to outward emotion. Mrs.
Baron was weeping outright, with the thought of what such a parting
would be between Roy and herself. As for Denham, nobody managed to get
a clear sight of his face for a quarter of a minute.
Once more they were rolling along the interminable roads, Roy wondering
whether Jean Paulet would be drawn at some future time; while Denham's
mind, like a spring released, went back to the one engrossing question,
which for a space had been thrust into the background. Would Polly
indeed wait for him? Or would she grow tired of waiting, forget his
love, and become the wife of another?
That possibility held him in thrall both day and night, through the
rest of this wearisome journey.