“You’re feeling better now; I know you are; really, you must say that,
Francois. I can’t bear to see you lying there so still and so white.”
Henri hovered about the cot of his wounded brother after the surgeon
had dressed and bandaged the injured shoulder.
He had forgotten the war storm that raged outside, and even for the
moment ceased to remember that his dearest chum, Billy, was ever at his
elbow with ready sympathy.
“Tell me, Francois,” Henri pleaded, “that you are going to get well.”
“Of course he is,” assured a mild voice from the foot of the cot, “but
you must come away and give him a chance to sleep.”
“Sleep! With all that roar outside?”
“Perhaps, my boy, the surgeon gave him something that would tend to
quiet him. You must calm yourself, and remember that you have your duty
with me. He did his duty without fear or question. Are you less a man
than your brother?”
The nurse well knew how to manage in a case of this kind. She had
tested the metal of a proud young spirit, in the full belief that it
would ring true.
“Come along now,” she gently urged. “Let me show you that thought of
self does not fit here.”
They stood at the cot side of a mortally wounded Belgian soldier.
“We found a letter in his pocket,” softly voiced the nurse, “saying
that he was enclosing a pair of shoes for his three-year-old baby with
the money he had earned as a scout in King Albert’s army. Here are the
little shoes,” lying on the covering sheet.
Billy felt like he was choking, and Henri simply lifted the border of
the nurse’s apron to his lips.
It was several days before Henri obtained permission to talk with his
brother. There was so much to talk about that the few minutes allowed
were as so many seconds.
“But I’ve news from mother!” confided Henri to Billy--“she was all
right when Francois last saw her in Paris, and she got the word I sent
her about my going to the château, and why I was going. It was Francois
who wrote me about the gold and jewels being left behind. Mother tried
to get word to me not to take the risk; she said that more than all
else she wanted me to come straight to her if I could. It makes me
ashamed to see Jules and Francois under the colors and I without, but
I’ve made up my mind to do this thing I have set out to do, and I’ll
stick until it is finished.”
“You can count me in to the finish, Buddy. You stick to the job and you
can safely bet that I’ll stick to you.”
“Don’t I know that, my truest of friends?”
Henri gave Billy a hand-squeeze that made that husky youngster wince.
Francois was rapidly regaining strength, his wound nicely healing, and,
with the progress, his interest in Henri’s mission to the Meuse was
first in mind.
“In my letter,” he said to Henri, “I feared to give details that might
be read by other eyes than yours. You only would know even the name
and location of our house by that letter. But I got it all right from
mother about the secret hiding place of the fortune.
“Neither Jules, you, nor I had ever learned of the more than
a century-old plan of the Château Trouville, handed down by a
great-grandfather, which included an underground way from the hills
through the valley and ending in the north wing of the château.
“Mother herself had almost forgotten that such a place was in existence
until she recalled that some thirty years ago our father gave her what
he jokingly called a honeymoon trip through the tunnel, and she also
recalled that it was a journey which she never repeated. She spoiled a
new dress going through.
“Of course, you and I know that the old house itself is full of queer
corners, walks between the walls, panel openings and all that; we
played hide-and-seek there enough, but the outside passage we never
struck. Father might have told us about it if he had lived.”
“I suppose the tunnel came in handy when old times were squally,”
suggested Henri.
“Never handier, I think, than it may be to you if you ever get within
a mile of what you are going after,” replied Francois; “you will never
get in by the front door the way things are now.”
“Wish you would go along with Billy and me.”
“Not I. I travel only under orders. I am a soldier. You are still your
own master. Now, while you are here, ask nurse to hand you my coat, if
there is anything left of it.”
“Ah, thank you, nurse.”
“Feel in the lining back of the breast pocket, Henri. That’s it. Cut
the seam, brother. There you are.”
Henri held in his hand a thin roll of paper.
“Open it.”
Henri did as directed and saw that it was a miniature map, lined with
red ink.
With their heads together the brothers studied the outlines, Francois
explaining that he made this copy from a section of the original
parchment.
“Jules has a copy, too,” continued Francois, “but he is in the same
boat with me--he can’t quit his post. As I said before, it’s up to you
and your friend to get the family treasure out of the château. If you
can get near enough, this paper will show you the way to get in and out
unseen, even if the house be full of soldiers.”
Henri borrowed needle and thread from the nurse and sewed the paper
inside the collar of his blouse.
A week later the sergeant informed the boys that marching orders had
been given, and they were to move with a detachment to the southwest.
“Going our way, hurrah!”
Henri then remembered that this meant parting from his brother, and was
less inclined to rejoice when this sad thought came to his mind.
Francois was seated near one of the low windows of the hospital
building, enjoying the bright sunlight that shone through the open
casement.
He had a smile in his eyes when he saw Henri, with knapsack on his
back, approaching.
“I know it’s good-by, brother,” he said. “But take it easy, old boy.
We’ll have a grand reunion some day.”
Henri lovingly clasped the free hand of the young soldier, in silent
farewell, bravely squared his shoulders and marched away to join Billy
and the sergeant, waiting at the door.
A bugle sounded and the soldier column swung away from war-torn Arras.