With the falling of night, the Germans were in possession of the château
and the gardens. In bands of twenty or thirty they pushed beyond across
the field and through the copses in the direction of Meaux. A few
remained behind, and these occupied the château, using the best linen of
the Baroness, taking down from the wall of the kitchen the cook’s great
battery of spotless copper kettles in which to cook their beans and
soup.
Lily, sitting quietly inside the darkened lodge by the side of Madame
Gigon, heard their shouts and the stamping of their horses in the
stables. Dark figures moved above among the trees of the garden, the
figures of her enemies, the men who would kill if it were possible
Césaire and Jean. In the excitement, no one ventured as far from the
château as the lodge, and for a time she remained safe and in peace.
The cannon were no longer to be heard. For a little while there arose
the distant crackling of rifles like the sound of brush fires made by
the foresters in August; but this too died away after a time.
She bathed her head, fed Madame Gigon once more and sat down again to
wait, and at last, overcome by exhaustion she sank quietly into sleep.
In the château the weary Germans slept and in the stables the horses
ceased their stamping. A deep unbroken stillness settled again over the
garden and the wheatfields beyond, so peaceful that the firing and the
shouting of a little while before might have been wholly an illusion, a
nightmare which had nothing to do with reality.
Thus passed three hours.
It was the sound of knocking which aroused Lily, a violent imperious
sort of knocking which wakened her sharply and brought her quickly to
her feet. As if by force of habit, she opened the door and said in
French, “Gently ... please.... Gently. It is not necessary to break down
the door. There is a sick woman here.”
As it swung open she was enveloped by the sudden bright glare of an
electric torch. At the same moment a voice speaking the most excellent
French said, “I am sorry, Madame. I ask your pardon. I did not know the
lodge was occupied.”
The voice was not gruff. It was rather cold and smooth and carried a
hint of weariness. “I found the door locked. I always knock upon locked
doors,” continued the voice. “May I come in?”
All this time Lily, blinded by the sudden light, stood leaning against
the door, emerging slowly from the effects of her deep slumber. For a
moment she was silent.
“I prefer to come outside,” she replied. “There is a sick woman here....
If you will turn your light inside, you will see that I am not lying.
She is there.”
The light flashed across the high bed of Madame Gigon. “I believe you,
Madame.”
Lily closed the door and stood leaning against it. From the one of the
lower windows of the château streamed a path of light which illuminated
faintly the terrace, the front of the lodge and the Uhlan officer. He
was not tall and was not in the least savage in appearance. On the
contrary his face was smooth shaven and narrow, rather the face of a
scholar than a soldier. Yet he carried himself very erect. There was
something about him that was cold, stiff, almost brittle.
“What do you want of me?” asked Lily in a voice expressionless and free
of all emotion.
For a moment her companion hesitated. He switched off the electric torch
which until now he had kept turned full upon her. “Were you sleeping?”
he asked.
“Yes.” Again in the same dead tone.
“Extraordinary. You must be a woman of great nerve.”
“No ... not at all. I had not slept in thirty-six hours.”
Again he hesitated. “I ... I have been riding for that length of time
... and still I cannot sleep. I have tried.... My nerves are too much on
edge.”
She waited silently.
“Tell me ... why did you remain behind?” he began presently.
She made a gesture indicating the window behind which lay Madame Gigon.
“You have seen the reason,” she said. “It was impossible to go away.”
The man whistled softly. “Aren’t you in the least afraid?”
For a time there was no sound except a deep sigh. “There was nothing to
be done,” she answered presently in the same dead voice. “When there is
nothing to be done, it is foolish to fret. It is best to make the most
of it. What would you have me do?” For a moment a trace of life, almost
of humor entered her voice. “Would you have me lie down and scream?”
Again she sighed. “What good would it do? What would come of it? I do
not believe in scenes.”
The Uhlan laughed. “Unlike most women,” he said. “But you are right.
Afterwards, scenes are ridiculous. Nothing really matters much.... I’ve
learned that in two days,” he added with a sort of pride.
To this she made no reply but her very silence carried its own gesture
of assent. She did not deny his statement.
“I suppose you hate me,” he began, “like a good Frenchwoman.”
For the first time she raised her head and looked squarely at the
stranger. “What do you want?” she asked. “Why are you talking in this
fashion? You understand I am helpless. I must talk with you if you
choose.” In the darkness she frowned. “I suppose that is war.” And then,
“Besides, I am not a Frenchwoman at all. I am an American.”
At this the stranger gave a sudden start, in the darkness more audible
than visible by the sudden click of metal on some part of his uniform.
“Then you must hate me even more.... I have lived in Paris. The
Americans there are more French than the French.”
This remark, it appeared, angered her for she answered quickly. “I know
no Americans in Paris. I know nothing about them.”
The Uhlan laughed. “Madame, I have no intention of injuring you ... in
any way.”
To this she replied, “I suppose you do not mind if I sit down. I am a
little weary.”
The stranger’s manner changed abruptly. He became courteous, almost
courtly.
“I am sorry. I did not know there were chairs. You see I am a stranger
here. Sit down if you prefer it, by all means.... I am not one to work
hardships for a woman.” She moved toward the long chair under the
lindens and lay down, wrapping the cloak about her and closing her eyes.
“Perhaps,” said the stranger, “you would prefer to sleep.”
“No,” she replied quietly, “I could not sleep now.” And as if the idea
amused her she added, “I might as well talk with you ... since you too
suffer from insomnia.”
“As you will ... if you do not hate me too much.”
He sat in the chair by her side and slipped from his waist the belt in
which hung his black lugar pistol. Thus they remained for some time,
silently and peacefully, as if they were old friends between whom there
was no necessity for speech. The German sat with his elbows resting on
his knees, his head buried in his hands. There was a smoothness and
angularity about his thin figure so trimly clad in a uniform that now
carried the stains of battle.
At last he took out a cigarette and said, “I suppose you smoke, Madame?”
To which Lily replied without opening her eyes, “No.”
He was so polite, so scrupulously polite. And presently he sighed, “Ah,
this civilization ... this world of monkeys. (_Monde de singes._)” And
once more the night stillness descended, for Lily made no effort at
speech now. She lay motionless, so still that she might have been dead.
Her silence appeared to reproach him for he turned suddenly and said,
“Do you fancy I like this ... this living like a burglar in a château
... your château?”
“It is not mine,” Lily murmured.
“Do you fancy I like this war.... I am not pleased with killing men. Why
should I? I do not hate them. How is it possible? How can you even hate
me?”
She stirred impatiently. “No. It is impossible to hate genuinely ...
without a reason one can put one’s finger on. All the same you are my
enemy,” she added stubbornly.
The Uhlan laughed. “Who has made me so, Madame? Not myself, surely.” And
then after a little pause, he added with a kind of desperation, “No, I
am like all the others. I have nothing to do with it. We are all caught,
Madame, ... hopelessly caught in one great web spun by a monster. Ah,
what a monster!”
In the distant stable arose suddenly the sound of two horses quarreling.
There was a violent kicking ... a squealing that was savage and
implacable.
“We are not even like that,” he said. “It is not even that we bite and
kick.... We shoot each other at a distance. You, Madame, perhaps have
friends among the men I am fighting. I kill them and they me only
because the first who shoots is the safest. You know the artillerymen
kill men they never even see.” He spat suddenly. “Bah! It is mechanics
... all mechanics ... machinery, you understand, which they make in
great roaring factories. They kill men in factories in order to kill
more men on the battlefield. What is there in that?”
Again she made no answer to his question. The quarreling horses had been
separated and their squealing silenced. There was only the overpowering
stillness once more, a stillness unearthly in quality which lifted all
that it enveloped upon a new plane, determined by new values. Life,
death, reality, dreams--all these things were confused and yet amazingly
clear, as if the whole had been pierced by a single beam of cold white
light.