MADAM DEATH
There was no reply, because the young man was hanging out over his window
sill in the darkness trying to switch away, from her closed window below,
the big, clattering Death’s Head moth which obstinately and persistently
fluttered there.
What possessed the moth to continue battering its wings at the window of
the room below? Had the other moths which he released done so, too? They
had darted out of his room into the night, each garnished with a tissue
robe. He supposed they had flown north; he had not looked out to see.
What had gone wrong with this moth, then?
He took his emaciated blond head between his bony fingers and pondered,
probing for reason with German thoroughness--that celebrated thoroughness
which is invariably riddled with flaws.
Of all contingencies he had thought--or so it seemed to him. He could not
recollect any precaution neglected. He had come to Sainte Lesse for a
clearly defined object and to make certain reports concerning matters of
interest to the German military authorities north of Nivelle.
The idea, inspired by the experiments of Henri Fabre, was original with
him. Patiently, during the previous year, he had worked it out--had proved
his theory by a series of experiments with moths of this species.
He had arranged with his staff comrade, Dr. Glück, for a forced hatching
of the pupæ which the latter had patiently bred from the enormous green
and violet-banded caterpillars.
At least one female Death’s Head must be ready, caged in the trenches
beyond Nivelle. Hundreds of pupæ could not have died. Where, then, was his
error--if, indeed, he had made any?
Leaning from the window, he looked down at the frantic moth, perplexed, a
little uneasy now.
"Swine!" he muttered. "What, then, ails you that you do not fly to the
mistress awaiting you over yonder?"
He could see the cylinder of white tissue shining on the creature’s body,
where it fluttered against the pane, illuminated by the rays of the candle
from within the young girl’s room.
Could it be possible that the candle-light was proving the greater
attraction?
Even as the possibility entered his mind, he saw another Death’s Head dart
at the window below and join the first one. But this newcomer wore no
tissue jacket.
Then, out of the darkness the Death’s Heads began to come to the window
below, swarms of them, startling him with the racket of their wings.
From where did they arrive? They could not be the moths he liberated.
But.... _Were they?_ Had some accident robbed their bodies of the tissue
missives? Had they blundered into somebody’s room and been robbed?
Mystified, uneasy, he hung over his window sill, staring with sickening
eyes at the winged tumult below.
With patient, plodding logic he began to seek for the solution. What
attracted these moths to the room below? Was it the candle-light? That
alone could not be sufficient--could not contend with the more imperious
attraction, the subtle effluvia stealing out of the north and appealing to
the ruling passion which animated the frantic winged things below him.
Patiently, methodically in his mind he probed about for some clue to the
solution. The ruling passion animating the feathery whirlwind below was
the necessity for mating and perpetuating the species.
That was the dominant passion; the lure of candle-light a secondary
attraction.... Then, if this were so--and it had been proven to be a
fact--then--then--_what_ was in that young girl’s bedroom just below him?
Even as the question flashed in his mind he left the window, went to his
door, listened, noiselessly unlocked it.
A low murmur of voices came from the café.
He drew off both shoes, descended the stairs on the flat pads of his
large, bony feet, listening all the while.
Candle-light streamed out into the corridor from her open bedroom door;
and he crept to the sill and peered in, searching the place with small,
pale eyes.
At first he noticed nothing to interest him, then, all in an instant, his
gaze fell upon Madam Death under her prison of glass.
There she sat, her great bulging abdomen distended with eggs, her lambent
eyes shining with the terrible passion of anticipation. For one thing only
she had been created. That accomplished she died. And there she crouched
awaiting the fulfillment of her life’s cycle with the blazing eyes of a
demon.
------------------
From the café below came the cautious murmur of voices. The young man
already knew what they were whispering about; or, if he did not know he no
longer cared.
The patches of bright colour in his sunken cheeks had died out in an ashen
pallor. As far as he was concerned the world was now ended. And he knew
it.
He went into the bedroom and sat down on the bed’s edge. His little, pale
eyes wandered about the white room; the murmur of voices below was audible
all the while.
After a few moments’ patient waiting, his gaze rested again on Madam
Death, squatting there with wings sloped, and the skull and bones staring
at him from her head and distended abdomen.
After all there was an odd resemblance between himself and Madam Death. He
had been born to fulfill one function, it appeared. So had she. And now,
in his case as in hers, death was immediately to follow. This was
sentiment, not science--the blind lobe of the German brain balancing
grotesquely the reasoning lobe.
------------------
The voices below had ceased. Presently he heard a cautious step on the
stair.
He had a little pill-box in his pocket. Methodically, without haste, he
drew it out, chose one white pellet, and, holding it between his bony
thumb and forefinger, listened.
Yes, somebody was coming up the stairs, very careful to make no sound.
Well--there were various ways for a Death’s Head Hussar to die for his War
Lord. All were equally laudable. God--the God of Germany--the celestial
friend and comrade of his War Lord--would presently correct him if he was
transgressing military discipline or the etiquette of Kultur. As for the
levelled rifles of the execution squad, he preferred another way....
_This_ way!...
His eyes were already glazing when the burly form of Sticky Smith filled
the doorway.
He looked down at Madam Death under the tumbler beside him, then lifted
his head and gazed at Smith with blinded eyes.
"Swine!" he said complacently, swaying gently forward and striking the
floor with his face.