A SPRIG OF EMPIRE
Paul clutched with convulsive fingers the heart-breaking diary to which
Élisabeth had confided her anguish:
"The poor angel!" he thought. "What she must have gone through! And this
is only the beginning of the road that led to her death. . . ."
He dreaded reading on. The hours of torture were near at hand, menacing
and implacable, and he would have liked to call out to Élisabeth:
"Go away, go away! Don't defy Fate! I have forgotten the past. I love
you."
It was too late. He himself, through his cruelty, had condemned her to
suffer; and he must go on to the bitter end and witness every station of
the Calvary of which he knew the last, terrifying stage.
He hastily turned the pages. There were first three blank leaves, those
dated 20, 21 and 22 August: days of confusion during which she had been
unable to write. The pages of the 23rd and 24th were missing. These no
doubt recounted what had happened and contained revelations concerning
the inexplicable invasion.
The diary began again at the middle of a torn page, the page belonging
to Tuesday the 25th:
"'Yes, Rosalie, I feel quite well and I thank you for
looking after me so attentively.'
"'Then there's no more fever?'
"'No, Rosalie, it's gone.'
"'You said the same thing yesterday, ma'am, and the
fever came back . . . perhaps because of that visit.
. . . But the visit won't be to-day . . . it's not
till to-morrow. . . . I was told to let you know,
ma'am. . . . At 5 o'clock to-morrow. . . .'
"I made no answer. What is the use of rebelling? None
of the humiliating words that I shall have to hear
will hurt me more than what lies before my eyes: the
lawn invaded, horses picketed all over it, baggage
wagons and caissons in the walks, half the trees
felled, officers sprawling on the grass, drinking and
singing, and a German flag flapping from the balcony
of my window, just in front of me. Oh, the wretches!
"I close my eyes so as not to see. And that makes it
more horrible still. . . . Oh, the memory of that
night . . . and, in the morning, when the sun rose,
the sight of all those dead bodies! Some of the poor
fellows were still alive, with those monsters dancing
round them; and I could hear the cries of the dying
men asking to be put out of their misery.
"And then. . . . But I won't think of it or think of
anything that can destroy my courage and my hope.
. . .
"Paul, I always have you in my mind as I write my
diary. Something tells me that you will read it if
anything happens to me; and so I must have strength to
go on with it and to keep you informed from day to
day. Perhaps you can already understand from my story
what to me still seems very obscure. What is the
connection between the past and the present, between
the murder of long ago and the incomprehensible attack
of the other night? I don't know. I have told you the
facts in detail and also my theories. You will draw
your conclusions and follow up the truth to the end.
"_Wednesday, 26 August._
"There is a great deal of noise in the château. People
are moving about everywhere, especially in the rooms
above my bedroom. An hour ago, half a dozen motor vans
and the same number of motor cars drove onto the lawn.
The vans were empty. Two or three ladies sprang out of
each of the cars, German women, waving their hands and
laughing noisily. The officers ran up to welcome them;
and there were loud expressions of delight. Then they
all went to the house. What do they want?
"But I hear footsteps in the passage. . . . It is 5
o'clock. . . . Somebody is knocking at the door. . . .
* * * * *
"There were five of them: he first and four officers
who kept bowing to him obsequiously. He said to them,
in a formal tone:
"'Attention, gentlemen. . . . I order you not to touch
anything in this room or in the other rooms reserved
for madame. As for the rest, except in the two big
drawing-rooms, it is yours. Keep anything here that
you want and take away what you please. It is war and
the law of war.'
"He pronounced those words, 'The law of war,' in a
tone of fatuous conviction and repeated:
"'As for madame's private apartments, not a thing is
to be moved. Do you understand? I know what is
becoming.'
"He looked at me as though to say:
"'What do you think of that? There's chivalry for you!
I could take it all, if I liked; but I'm a German and,
as such, I know what's becoming.'
"He seemed to expect me to thank him. I said:
"'Is this the pillage beginning? That explains the
empty motor vans.'
"'You don't pillage what belongs to you by the law of
war,' he answered.
"'I see. And the law of war does not extend to the
furniture and pictures in the drawing-rooms?'
"He turned crimson. Then I began to laugh:
"'I follow you,' I said. 'That's your share. Well
chosen. Nothing but rare and valuable things. The
refuse your servants can divide among them.'
"The officers turned round furiously. He became redder
still. He had a face that was quite round, hair, which
was too light, plastered down with grease and divided
in the middle by a faultless parting. His forehead
was low; and I was able to guess the effort going on
behind it, to find a repartee. At last he came up to
me and, in a voice of triumph, said:
"'The French have been beaten at Charleroi, beaten at
Morange, beaten everywhere. They are retreating all
along the line. The upshot of the war is settled.'
"Violent though my grief was, I did not wince. I
whispered:
"'You low blackguard!'
"He staggered. His companions caught what I said; and
I saw one put his hand on his sword-hilt. But what
would he himself do? What would he say? I could feel
that he was greatly embarrassed and that I had wounded
his self-esteem.
"'Madame,' he said, 'I daresay you don't know who I
am?'
"'Oh, yes!' I answered. 'You are Prince Conrad, a son
of the Kaiser's. And what then?'
"He made a fresh attempt at dignity. He drew himself
up. I expected threats and words to express his anger;
but no, his reply was a burst of laughter, the
affected laughter of a high and mighty lord, too
indifferent, too disdainful to take offense, too
intelligent to lose his temper.
"'The dear little Frenchwoman! Isn't she charming,
gentlemen? Did you hear what she said? The
impertinence of her! There's your true Parisian,
gentlemen, with all her roguish grace.'
"And, making me a great bow, with not another word, he
stalked away, joking as he went:
"'Such a dear little Frenchwoman! Ah, gentlemen, those
little Frenchwomen! . . .'
* * * * *
"The vans were at work all day, going off to the
frontier laden with booty. It was my poor father's
wedding present to us, all his collections so
patiently and fondly brought together; it was the dear
setting in which Paul and I were to have lived. What a
wrench the parting means to me!
"The war news is bad! I cried a great deal during the
day.
"Prince Conrad came. I had to receive him, for he sent
me word by Rosalie that, if I refused to see him, the
inhabitants of Ornequin would suffer the
consequences."
Here Élisabeth again broke off her diary. Two days later, on the 29th,
she went on:
"He came yesterday. To-day also. He tries to appear
witty and cultured. He talks literature and music,
Goethe, Wagner and so on. . . . I leave him to do his
own talking, however; and this throws him in such a
state of fury that he ended by exclaiming:
"'Can't you answer? It's no disgrace, even for a
Frenchwoman, to talk to Prince Conrad of Prussia!'
"'A woman doesn't talk to her gaoler.'
"He protested briskly:
"'But, dash it all, you're not in prison!'
"'Can I leave the château?'
"'You can walk about . . . in the grounds. . . .'
"'Between four walls, therefore, like a prisoner.'
"'Well, what do you want to do?'
"'To go away from here and live . . . wherever you
tell me to: at Corvigny, for instance.'
"'That is to say, away from me!'
"As I did not answer, he bent forward a little and
continued, in a low voice:
"'You hate me, don't you? Oh, I'm quite aware of it!
I've made a study of women. Only, it's Prince Conrad
whom you hate, isn't it? It's the German, the
conqueror. For, after all, there's no reason why you
should dislike the man himself. . . . And, at this
moment, it's the man who is in question, who is trying
to please you . . . do you understand? . . . So.
. . .'
"I had risen to my feet and faced him. I did not speak
a single word; but he must have seen in my eyes so
great an expression of disgust that he stopped in the
middle of his sentence, looking absolutely stupid.
Then, his nature getting the better of him, he shook
his fist at me, like a common fellow, and went off
slamming the door and muttering threats. . . ."
The next two pages of the diary were missing. Paul was gray in the face.
He had never suffered to such an extent as this. It seemed to him as
though his poor dear Élisabeth were still alive before his eyes and
feeling his eyes upon her. And nothing could have upset him more than
the cry of distress and love which marked the page headed:
_1 September._
"Paul, my own Paul, have no fear. Yes, I tore up those
two pages because I did not wish you ever to know such
revolting things. But that will not estrange you from
me, will it? Because a savage dared to insult me, that
is no reason, surely, why I should not be worthy of
your love? Oh, the things he said to me, Paul, only
yesterday: his offensive remarks, his hateful threats,
his even more infamous promises . . . and then his
rage! . . . No, I will not repeat them to you. In
making a confidant of this diary, I meant to confide
to you my daily acts and thoughts. I believed that I
was only writing down the evidence of my grief. But
this is something different; and I have not the
courage. . . . Forgive my silence. It will be enough
for you to know the offense, so that you may avenge me
later. Ask me no more. . . ."
And, pursuing this intention, Élisabeth now ceased to describe Prince
Conrad's daily visits in detail; but it was easy to perceive from her
narrative that the enemy persisted in hovering round her. It consisted
of brief notes in which she no longer let herself go as before, notes
which she jotted down at random, marking the days herself, without
troubling about the printed headings.
Paul trembled as he read on. And fresh revelations aggravated his dread:
"_Thursday._
"Rosalie asks them the news every morning. The French
retreat is continuing. They even say that it has
developed into a rout and that Paris has been
abandoned. The government has fled. We are done for.
"_Seven o'clock in the evening._
"He is walking under my windows as usual. He has with
him a woman whom I have already seen many times at a
distance and who always wears a great peasant's cloak
and a lace scarf which hides her face. But, as a rule,
when he walks on the lawn he is accompanied by an
officer whom they call the major. This man also keeps
his head concealed, by turning up the collar of his
gray cloak.
"_Friday._
"The soldiers are dancing on the lawn, while their
band plays German national hymns and the bells of
Ornequin are kept ringing with all their might. They
are celebrating the entrance of their troops into
Paris. It must be true, I fear! Their joy is the best
proof of the truth.
"_Saturday._
"Between my rooms and the boudoir where mother's
portrait used to hang is the room that was mother's
bedroom. This is now occupied by the major. He is an
intimate friend of the prince and an important person,
so they say. The soldiers know him only as Major
Hermann. He does not humble himself in the prince's
presence as the other officers do. On the contrary, he
seems to address him with a certain familiarity.
"At this minute they are walking side by side on the
gravel path. The prince is leaning on Major Hermann's
arm. I feel sure that they are talking about me and
that they are not at one. It looks almost as if Major
Hermann were angry.
"_Ten o'clock in the morning._
"I was right. Rosalie tells me that they had a violent
scene.
"_Tuesday, 8 September._
"There is something strange in the behavior of all of
them. The prince, the major and the other officers
appear to be nervous about something. The soldiers
have ceased singing. There are sounds of quarreling.
Can things be turning in our favor?"
"_Thursday._
"The excitement is increasing. It seems that couriers
keep on arriving at every moment. The officers have
sent part of their baggage into Germany. I am full of
hope. But, on the other hand. . . .
"Oh, my dear Paul, if you knew the torture those
visits cause me! . . . He is no longer the bland and
honey-mouthed man of the early days. He has thrown off
the mask. . . . But, no, no, I will not speak of that!
. . .
"_Friday._
"The whole of the village of Ornequin has been packed
off to Germany. They don't want a single witness to
remain of what happened during the awful night which I
described to you.
"_Sunday evening._
"They are defeated and retreating far from Paris. He
confessed as much, grinding his teeth and uttering
threats against me as he spoke. I am the hostage on
whom they are revenging themselves. . . .
"_Tuesday._
"Paul, if ever you meet him in battle, kill him like a
dog. But do those people fight? Oh, I don't know what
I'm saying! My head is going round and round. Why did
I stay here? You ought to have taken me away, Paul, by
force. . . .
"Paul, what do you think he has planned? Oh, the
dastard! They have kept twelve of the Ornequin
villagers as hostages; and it is I, it is I who am
responsible for their lives! . . . Do you understand
the horror of it? They will live, or they will be
shot, one by one, according to my behavior. . . . The
thing seems too infamous to believe. Is he only trying
to frighten me? Oh, the shamefulness of such a threat!
What a hell to find one's self in! I would rather
die. . . .
"_Nine o'clock in the evening._
"Die? No! Why should I die? Rosalie has been. Her
husband has come to an understanding with one of the
sentries who will be on duty to-night at the little
door in the wall, beyond the chapel. Rosalie is to
wake me up at three in the morning and we shall run
away to the big wood, where Jérôme knows of an
inaccessible shelter. Heavens, if we can only succeed!
. . .
"_Eleven o'clock._
"What has happened? Why have I got up? It's only a
nightmare. I am sure of that; and yet I am shaking
with fever and hardly able to write. . . . And why am
I afraid to drink the glass of water by my bedside, as
I am accustomed to do when I cannot sleep?
"Oh, such an abominable nightmare! How shall I ever
forget what I saw while I slept? For I was asleep,
that is certain. I had lain down to get a little rest
before running away; and I saw that woman's ghost in a
dream. . . . A ghost? It must have been one, for only
ghosts can enter through a bolted door; and her steps
made so little noise as she crept over the floor that
I scarcely heard the faintest rustling of her skirt.
"What had she come to do? By the glimmer of my
night-light I saw her go round the table and walk up
to my bed, cautiously, with her head lost in the
darkness of the room. I was so frightened that I
closed my eyes, in order that she might believe me to
be asleep. But the feeling of her very presence and
approach increased within me; and I was able clearly
to follow all her doings. She stooped over me and
looked at me for a long time, as though she did not
know me and wanted to study my face. How was it that
she did not hear the frantic beating of my heart? I
could hear hers and also the regular movement of her
breath. The agony I went through! Who was the woman?
What was her object?
"She ceased her scrutiny and went away, but not very
far. Through my eyelids I could half see her bending
beside me, occupied in some silent task; and at last I
became so certain that she was no longer watching me
that I gradually yielded to the temptation to open my
eyes. I wanted, if only for a second, to see her face
and what she was doing.
"I looked; and Heaven only knows by what miracle I had
the strength to keep back the cry that tried to force
its way through my lips! The woman who stood there and
whose features I was able to make out plainly by the
light of the night-light was. . . .
"Ah, I can't write anything so blasphemous! If the
woman had been beside me, kneeling down, praying, and
I had seen a gentle face smiling through its tears, I
should not have trembled before that unexpected vision
of the dead. But this distorted, fierce, infernal
expression, hideous with hatred and wickedness: no
sight in the world could have filled me with greater
terror. And it is perhaps for this reason, because
the sight was so extravagant and unnatural, that I did
not cry out and that I am now almost calm. _At the
moment when my eyes saw, I understood that I was the
victim of a nightmare._
"Mother, mother, you never wore and you never can wear
that expression. You were kind and gentle, were you
not? You used to smile; and, if you were still alive,
you would now be wearing that same kind and gentle
look? Mother, darling, since the terrible night when
Paul recognized your portrait, I have often been back
to that room, to learn to know my mother's face, which
I had forgotten: I was so young, mother, when you
died! And, though I was sorry that the painter had
given you a different expression from the one I should
have liked to see, at least it was not the wicked and
malignant expression of just now. Why should you hate
me? I am your daughter. Father has often told me that
we had the same smile, you and I, and also that your
eyes would grow moist with tears when you looked at
me. So you do not loathe me, do you? And I did dream,
did I not?
"Or, at least, if I was not dreaming when I saw a
woman in my room, I was dreaming when that woman
seemed to me to have your face. It was a delirious
hallucination, it must have been. I had looked at your
portrait so long and thought of you so much that I
gave the stranger the features which I knew; and it
was she, not you, who bore that hateful expression.
"And so I sha'n't drink the water. What she poured
into it must have been poison . . . or perhaps a
powerful sleeping-drug which would make me helpless
against the prince. . . . And I cannot but think of
the woman who sometimes walks with him. . . .
"As for me, I know nothing, I understand nothing, my
thoughts are whirling in my tired brain. . . .
"It will soon be three o'clock. . . . I am waiting for
Rosalie. It is a quiet night. There is not a sound in
the house or outside. . . .
"It is striking three. Ah, to be away from this! . . .
To be free! . . ."