THE LETTER
She slept heavily and without dreams. Exhausted nature drank at the
well of sleep, and, thus refreshed, gave her new gifts of strength and
thought when the dawn came. She had suffered from no malady but malady
of the mind; and now that the crisis was past and all the long days
of anxiety ended in this day of sure calamity, her mind came back to
her and taught her to reason as she had not reasoned since the day of
Wörth. Calmly, quietly she reckoned with her position. There were facts
she would hide no longer from herself--the fact of her estrangement
from France; of the pity she gave to the soldiers of France when pride
of them should have been her impulse; of her affection for the country
she had left and for the English friends she had made in Strasburg.
That affection demanded no loosening of the bonds which bound her
still in love to Edmond. She knew that her love was stronger than all
else, just as it was independent of all else. She did not believe that
the misfortunes of their lives were irreparable. Misfortune, indeed,
should be to them the beginning of a new understanding and a truer
comradeship. Edmond would have need of her when Strasburg fell. She
would give of her pity a generous offering.
If thus she could reason calmly, none the less was her anxiety
unceasing. The very doubt as to what was happening to those she thought
of in that city of fire and terror aided her to a recovery of her
bodily strength. She rose from her bed by the very desire to rise. The
week that succeeded her recovery was a week of questions unceasing
to those who visited her--the abbé, the American doctor, old Richard
Watts. They evaded her questions or answered them to no purpose. Even
old Watts could bring her no tidings to satisfy her.
“You are to get better, little passenger,” he said always. “The rest
is my business. I shall see that two foolish fellows do not make fools
of themselves any more. Tell yourself that, when you think about it,
and do not worry. Say that old Richard Watts is more than a match
for them. We cannot hold out much longer here, and when we open the
gates common-sense will come in. We mustn’t expect any common-sense
while the Germans are sending a thousand shells a day as a pleasant
token of their good intentions. But it will come by-and-by, and then
that rascal, Edmond, will be on his knees to you. If he doesn’t come
of his own free will, I’ll bring him here by the scruff of his neck.
We’ll laugh at his threats, and Brandon shall join in. Trust Brandon
to keep his head if these French maniacs let him. He’s at the American
consulate now, and I don’t suppose they’re going to give him up. So you
make your mind easy, little Beatrix. I’m your friend if you’ll have me
for that. God knows it’s something to have the friendship of a little
girl like you.”
She thanked him from her heart.
“It is I who should be grateful,” she exclaimed, holding out her hand
to him; “as if I could ever forget the friend who saved my friend’s
life. And you see I’m well again already. I shall go out and hear about
things for myself to-morrow.”
“Indeed, and you will do nothing of the sort, young lady. Go out--the
little passenger go out, when the shells fall like hail and there are
dead at every corner. The idea of it!”
“But you have come out to see me?”
“Oh, I don’t count. There’s no one would miss old Dick Watts. If I
smoke a few pipes more or less, it doesn’t matter much to anyone, you
be sure.”
“It would matter to me.”
He squeezed her little hand in his great fist.
“Ah,” he said, “there’s news for old Anne Brown. The little passenger
cares. And because she cares she won’t show her pretty face in
Strasburg until the gates are open. I may say that, young lady.”
She turned away with a sigh.
“My husband does not come--how can I remain here?”
“He will come when the Germans enter. Pity is much to a man. He will
need your pity, then. You will forgive, and he will forget the rest.”
She was silent a moment, and then she said very earnestly, “How I wish
that the end was to-day!”
“As all sensible men wish it. To-day or to-morrow, what does it matter?
We have done enough for an idea. The rest is a cheap love for heroics.”
She turned to him smiling.
“You will never love France,” she said.
“I love it with your love, young lady.”
She was silent, for she knew that this man read the truth which had
haunted her now many a weary night and day. No longer was it possible
to look upon herself as a Frenchwoman loyal to France in heart and
thought. The defeat of France’s army had changed her--perchance had
driven her to that very pride in Saxon might which she deplored but
could not modify. The belief was in itself an infidelity to the man who
loved her. She tried to thrust it from her, but it returned every hour
and would be heard. “You are an Englishwoman,” the voice said. Her love
of England was never so great as in that hour.
Richard Watts left her at six o’clock that night, and at seven the abbé
returned from one of his daily visits to the hospital. He came in with
many expressions of delight at the progress she was making, and, much
to her surprise, had a letter for her in a handwriting she did not
recognise.
“It will be from Monsieur, no doubt,” the old man said, as he handed
her the dainty missive. “These Germans allow their prisoners to write,
they say. I would have believed no good of them if I had not carried
the letter myself. You must tell us that he is well, Madame. Ah! if
there could be roses on your cheeks when he comes home again!”
She did not contradict him, but opened her letter with trembling hands.
There was no address upon the paper that she could see, nor was the
letter signed. She read it with swimming eyes which scarce could
decipher the wavering lines.
“At dawn to-morrow,” the letter said, “in the gardens of Laroche, the
surgeon, your English friend will die.”
Beatrix read the letter twice, then crumpled it in her hand. The abbé,
watching her curiously, saw the blood rush to her cheeks; but she did
not gratify his curiosity. When he had waited a little while and knew
that her silence was final, he bade her good-night and left the room.
An hour later Guillaumette ran into the darkened church, where he
was praying for the stricken city, to tell him that her mistress had
quitted the presbytery, and was gone she knew not whither.
“She has left us, Monsieur, she who is so ill. The good God help us! we
shall never see my mistress again!”