A FACE AT THE WINDOW
He was dressed as a Frenchman, with a polished silk hat and a big bow
carelessly tied. For the rest, his disguise was of the slightest, yet
so skilfully done that a friend would have passed him in the street.
But he gave her no opportunity to express surprise at his presence
there, nor at his new appearance.
“Let us go where there are not so many interesting people,” he said. “I
have much to say to you.”
She was dizzy still, and pale and trembling. He called a waiter from a
café and ordered a little glass of brandy. When she had drunk it, he
began to lead her away from the cathedral towards the Rue de Kehl. Her
curiosity amused him.
“You see, I have no business in Strasburg,” he said lightly. “People
might misunderstand me as they misunderstood that poor fellow yonder.
It would be quite wrong of them--but then, I have a regard for my
bones.”
She shuddered.
“They would kill you, Brandon!” she exclaimed.
“Exactly; they would kill me. It is one of the follies of war. You beat
out a man’s brains because he might be a spy. Afterwards you are sorry,
but you cannot put his brains back again. Forgive me, I am only talking
in general terms. We had better not particularise until we are in safer
quarters.”
She stopped suddenly. The peril in which he stood, and which she must
in some measure share, was not to be overlooked. Many, both civilians
and soldiers, were passing on their way to the Minster square. A
regiment of Gardes Mobiles went by with swinging step and merry music.
She knew that a word whispered to them, a word that a Prussian dragoon
had entered Strasburg, would bring instant death to the man who had
come into the city because of his promise to her.
“You were wrong to come; I was wrong to ask you,” she said quickly.
“They would never understand--never.”
He laughed lightly and lit a cigarette.
“We will not consult them, Beatrix,” he said; “I came here because I
knew you would be anxious. You must give me your word that you will
not tell one man, woman, or child in all Strasburg. It’s my only
chance. Even old Hélène must not know. What isn’t known cannot be
misunderstood. Don’t think I have come on my own business at all. If I
was that sort of person I would not be at your side now. All that we
want to learn about this place we learnt a year ago--and, of course you
have been to church, Madame Lefort?”
His voice and manner changed quickly as an officer of the guard elbowed
him from the pavement. When the man was out of hearing he began again:
“That is old Gatelet; he has dined with me at the Maison Rouge many a
day. I wonder what he would say if he knew where I had been since we
saw each other? It is astonishing how you forget your liking for a man
when he’s on the other side, especially when the other side is winning.”
Again she checked her pace to question him.
“Brandon,” she said, “where are you going to now?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Anywhere, where there are no listeners. I am lodging for to-day with
Madame Venier, over at the little white house there. She has one of the
ministers from St. Thomas’s with her, and enough daughters to chaperone
a regiment. If you would walk into her parlour--”
She stamped her foot angrily.
“You know that I cannot go.”
“Very well, then; I’ll forget that I suggested it. But you can’t write
to Edmond here at the gate.”
“You think that I could write to him?”
“I know that you could, for I’ll send the letter myself.”
She breathed quickly, debating it. Some of the men whom she had seen in
the café when the spy was struck down were coming up the street. She
entered the house when she saw them, and he followed her quickly.
“I have no right to come,” she protested. “Edmond would never forgive
me.”
“Oh, now--that’s nonsense. Why should he not forgive you? I will tell
him all about it myself--when the proper time comes. Meanwhile, he is
at Ulm, and will not give his parole. Persuade him to, and you may have
him back in Strasburg in a week’s time. But I wouldn’t if I were you.
It’s dangerous, and might lead to the unexpected. He’s living like a
prince where he is, and there aren’t any bullets. There will be plenty
if he comes back to Strasburg.”
“I do not understand,” she said helplessly. “What is the parole he must
give, and why?”
He pointed to an arm-chair, and drew it up to the table for her.
“It’s just this way,” he said--“but will you let me smoke? I have been
about the streets all day in this Sunday best, and it’s a little heavy
for the nerves.”
She nodded her head quickly, while he filled the pipe and lighted it
deliberately. The sense of their danger was more sure every moment that
she lingered there. The horrid scene at the doors of the Minster still
haunted her eyes. This man at her side might make another scene such as
that--and for her sake.
“I am waiting to hear about the parole,” she said.
“Well,” he answered bluntly, “it’s this way. If he will promise not to
bear arms against Germany for the rest of the war, they’ll send him
back to you. I know Edmond well. He won’t give that promise unless you
ask it. And if he gives it, and comes back to Strasburg, a week will
find him on the fortifications.”
“In which case?”
“In which case they will shoot him when we take the city.”
He did not speak boastfully, but there was behind his words a _soupçon_
of that arrogance which victory may give even to a man incapable of
common emotions. She heard him as one who neither counselled nor
dissuaded her, but left everything to her own judgment. Never had she
been asked to decide a question so momentous.
“You know that I cannot write it,” she exclaimed hotly; “he would think
I did not wish him to return.”
“Very well; but you know what you are risking. He will certainly be
shot when we come in.”
“Oh, my God,” she said; “what a cruel thing war is!”
“To the vanquished, of course. The mischief is that our French friends
never know when they are vanquished. Edmond will be like the others. He
will give his word--and break it.”
“I don’t believe it,” she exclaimed emphatically; “when he comes to the
Place Kleber he will listen to me. I shall make it a point of honour
between us. He may break his word to you, but he never will to me.”
“Then write the letter now. It shall go to Ulm to-morrow. I don’t
hunger for the sights of Strasburg, you may be sure. To-night will see
me on the other side of the river and thankful to be there.”
“Brandon,” she exclaimed, “how much I owe to you!”
He laughed.
“I should be a poor man if all my ledger accounts were like yours,
Beatrix.”
He began to pace the room that she might write uninterruptedly. For a
long while she sat contemplating the white paper before her. Though she
had combated his assertions, she knew in her heart that he spoke the
truth, and that the letter which brought her husband back to Strasburg
might also be his death-warrant. Edmond would never resist the spirit
then prevailing in the city. He would go to the fortifications, and
the Prussians would take him there. They would shoot him as one who
had broken his parole, and hers would be the word which called him
back to his doom. She could not write that word; she must leave it to
his judgment, she thought. Nor could she tell him why she hesitated.
Impossible to say “I fear that you will break your oath.” Rather, she
wrote words of love and sympathy, narrating all that had happened at
Strasburg--her meeting with her old friend, Brandon North, on the
evening of the battle, the strange companion she had found upon the
road, the anticipations of a siege, the news that the Prussians were at
Schiltigheim. But she did not say, “Come back to me,” and there were
tears in her eyes when she sealed the letter.
“Well,” said Brandon, who had watched her closely, “you have finished
it.”
She turned away sadly.
“I have flattered you by taking your opinion.”
“Oh, I don’t count in the matter. But I am sure you are wise, Beatrix.
Another month will finish this business. Better for him to come home
then with whole bones than now--to God knows what. And you--of course,
you are leaving Strasburg?”
“Leaving Strasburg--why?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Because the Prussians are at Schiltigheim.”
“Is that all?”
He laughed--almost brutally, she thought.
“Not at all; it is only the beginning. In a month there will be no
Strasburg to remain in. Forgive me if I am too frank. One seems able to
talk to you as one talks to no one else. I suppose it’s because we’re
both English, Beatrix.”
She thought that the confession was an indirect sneer at her husband;
her cheeks crimsoned in resentment.
“There is no other country but England?” she exclaimed ironically.
“I think so,” he said simply.
The great pride of his belief appealed to her. She held out her hands
to him.
“Edmond is your friend,” she exclaimed; “you will except him always.
And I am very grateful to you, Brandon--more grateful than I can say.”
He pooh-poohed her expression of thanks, and was about to take leave of
her when a face, thrust close to the window, made them both draw back.
It was the face of Gatelet, the officer of the National Guard, whom
they had passed in the street an hour ago. Visible for an instant, it
disappeared at once as Brandon turned with a startled exclamation and
took a step to the window.
“Gatelet--by all that’s unlucky,” he said, standing irresolute and
concealing from her all that moment meant to him. She, in turn, was
conscious of a tremor of excitement and a dread unlike anything she had
ever known.
“Oh, my God, Brandon--if he should have recognised you!”
He forced a laugh, but took up his hat as he spoke.
“Well,” he said, feigning merriment, “it would certainly be unpleasant,
Beatrix.”
“But you will leave Strasburg--now, this moment.”
“Not at all--I am going for a walk to the café of the Contades.”
“To tell all the city that you are here.”
He began to put on his gloves.
“Gatelet certainly recognised me, or he would not have come back. As he
does not know my business and will not trouble himself to guess it, the
odds are that he takes me for a spy. In that case I am going to give
them a run for their money, Beatrix. Once the sun does me the favour to
set, I shall get to Schiltigheim without trouble. Meanwhile I prefer
the open--you understand.”
They left the house together. There was no one before its doors.
She watched him striding along the road to the gardens. She knew
that he had come to the city for her sake, and she trembled when she
contemplated the position in which his friendship for her had placed
him.
Nor could she hide it from herself that she was helping one who
yesterday was, and to-morrow would be, the enemy of that country which
had given her a lover and a home.