appeared. Christophe expected to see Lorchen's bold face in the train; for
he was sure she would keep her promise; but she did not appear. He ran
anxiously from one compartment to another; he said to himself that if she
had been in the train she would have been one of the first to get out. As
he was plunging through the stream of passengers coming from the opposite
direction he saw a face which he seemed to know. It was the face of a
little girl of thirteen or fourteen, chubby, dimpled, and ruddy as an
apple, with a little turned-up nose and a large mouth, and a thick plait
coiled around her head. As he looked more closely at her he saw that she
had in her hand an old valise very much like his own. She was watching him
too like a sparrow; and when she saw that he was looking at her she came
towards him; but she stood firmly in front of Christophe and stared at him
with her little mouse-like eyes, without speaking a word. Christophe knew
her; she was a little milkmaid at Lorchen's farm. Pointing to the valise he
said:
"That is mine, isn't it?"
The girl did not move and replied cunningly:
"I'm not sure. Where do you come from, first of all?"
"Buir."
"And who sent it you?"
"Lorchen. Come. Give it me."
The little girl held out the valise.
"There it is."
And she added:
"Oh! But I knew you at once!"
"What were you waiting for then?"
"I was waiting for you to tell me that it was you."
"And Lorchen?" asked Christophe. "Why didn't she come?"
The girl did not reply. Christophe understood that she did not want to say
anything among all the people. They had first to pass through the customs.
When that was done Christophe took the girl to the end of the platform:
"The police came," said the girl, now very talkative. "They came almost
as soon as you had gone. They went into all the houses. They questioned
everybody, and they arrested big Sami and Christian and old Kaspar. And
also Mélanie and Gertrude, though they declared they had done nothing, and
they wept; and Gertrude scratched the gendarmes. It was not any good then
saying that you had done it all."
"I?" exclaimed Christophe.
"Oh! yes," said the girl quietly. "It was no good as you had gone. Then
they looked for you everywhere and hunted for you in every direction."
"And Lorchen?"
"Lorchen was not there. She came back afterwards after she had been to the
town."
"Did she see my mother?"
"Yes. Here is the letter. And she wanted to come herself, but she was
arrested too."
"How did you manage to come?"
"Well, she came back to the village without being seen by the police, and
she was going to set out again. But Irmina, Gertrude's sister, denounced
her. They came to arrest her. Then when she saw the gendarmes coming she
went up to her room and shouted that she would come down in a minute, that
she was dressing. I was in the vineyard behind the house; she called to me
from the window: 'Lydia! Lydia!' I went to her; she threw down your valise
and the letter which your mother had given her, and she explained where I
should find you. I ran, and here I am."
"Didn't she say anything more?"
"Yes. She told me to give you this shawl to show you that I came from her."
Christophe recognized the white shawl with red spots and embroidered
flowers which Lorchen had tied round her head when she left him on the
night before. The naïve improbability of the excuse she had made for
sending him such a love-token did not make him smile.
"Now," said the girl, "here is the return train. I must go home.
Good-night."
"Wait," said Christophe. "And the fare, what did you do about that?"
"Lorchen gave it me."
"Take this," said Christophe, pressing a few pieces of money into her hand.
He held her back as she was trying to go.
"And then...." he said.
He stooped and kissed her cheeks. The girl affected to protest.
"Don't mind," said Christophe jokingly. "It was not for you."
"Oh! I know that," said the girl mockingly. "It was for Lorchen."
It was not only Lorchen that Christophe kissed as he kissed the little
milkmaid's chubby cheeks; it was all Germany.
The girl slipped away and ran towards the train which was just going. She
hung out of the window and waved her handkerchief to him until she was out
of sight. He followed with his eyes the rustic messenger who had brought
him for the last time the breath of his country and of those he loved.
When she had gone he found himself utterly alone, this time, a stranger
in a strange land. He had in his hand his mother's letter and the shawl
love-token. He pressed the shawl to his breast and tried to open the
letter. But his hands trembled. What would he find in it? What suffering
would be written in it?--No; he could not bear the sorrowful words of
reproach which already he seemed to hear; he would retrace his steps.
At last he unfolded the letter and read: "My poor child, do not be anxious
about me. I will be wise. God has punished me. I must not be selfish and
keep you here. Go to Paris. Perhaps it will be better for you. Do not worry
about me. I can manage somehow. The chief thing is that you should be
happy. I kiss you. MOTHER.
"Write to me when you can."
Christophe sat down on his valise and wept.
* * * * *
The porter was shouting the train for Paris.
The heavy train was slowing down with a terrific noise. Christophe dried
his tears, got up and said:
"I must go."
He looked at the sky in the direction in which Paris must be. The sky, dark
everywhere, was even darker there. It was like a dark chasm. Christophe's
heart ached, but he said again:
"I must go."
He climbed into the train and leaning out of the window went on looking at
the menacing horizon:
"O, Paris!" he thought, "Paris! Come to my aid! Save me! Save my thoughts!"
The thick fog grew denser still. Behind Christophe, above the country he
was leaving, a little patch of sky, pale blue, large, like two eyes--like
the eyes of Sabine--smiled sorrowfully through the heavy veil of clouds and
then was gone. The train departed. Rain fell. Night fell.