"YSERY, MISERY"
Toul, Bar-le-Duc, Vitry-le-François. . . . The little towns sped past as
the long train carried Paul and Bernard westwards into France. Other,
numberless trains came before or after theirs, laden with troops and
munitions of war. They reached the outskirts of Paris and turned north,
passing through Beauvais, Amiens and Arras.
It was necessary that they should arrive there first, on the frontier,
to join the heroic Belgians and to join them as high up as possible.
Every mile of ground covered was so much territory snatched from the
invader during the long immobilized war that was in preparation.
Second Lieutenant Paul Delroze--he had received his new rank in the
course of the railway journey--accomplished the northward march as it
were in a dream, fighting every day, risking his life every minute,
leading his men with irresistible dash, but all as though he were doing
it without his own cognizance, in obedience to the automatic operation
of a predetermined will.
While Bernard continued to stake his life with a laugh, as though in
play, keeping up his comrade's courage with his own light-hearted pluck,
Paul remained speechless and absent. Everything--fatigue, privations,
the weather--seemed to him a matter of indifference.
Nevertheless, it was an immense delight, as he would sometimes confess
to Bernard, to be going towards the fighting line. He had the feeling
that he was making for a definite object, the only one that interested
him: Élisabeth's deliverance. Even though he was attacking this frontier
and not the other, the eastern frontier, he was still rushing with all
the strength of his hatred against the detested enemy. Whether that
enemy was defeated here or there made little difference. In either case,
Élisabeth would be free.
"We shall succeed," said Bernard. "You may be sure that Élisabeth will
outwit that swine. Meanwhile, we shall stampede the Huns, make a dash
across Belgium, take Conrad in the rear and capture Èbrecourt. Doesn't
the proposal make you smile? Oh, no, you never smile, do you, when you
demolish a Hun? Not you! You've got a little way of laughing that tells
me all about it. I say to myself, 'There's a bullet gone home,' or
'That's done it: he's got one at the end of his toothpick!' For you've a
way of your own of sticking them. Ah, lieutenant, how fierce we grow!
Simply through practise in killing! And to think that it makes us
laugh!"
Roye, Lassigny, Chaulnes. . . . Later, the Bassée Canal and the River
Lys. . . . And, later and at last, Ypres. Ypres! Here the two lines met,
extended towards the sea. After the French rivers, after the Marne, the
Aisne, the Oise and the Somme, a little Belgian stream was to run red
with young men's blood. The terrible battle of the Yser was beginning.
Bernard, who soon won his sergeant's stripes, and Paul Delroze lived in
this hell until the early days of December. Together with half a dozen
Parisians, a volunteer soldier, a reservist and a Belgian called
Laschen, who had escaped from Roulers and joined the French in order to
get at the enemy more quickly, they formed a little band who seemed
proof against fire. Of the whole section commanded by Paul, only these
remained; and, when the section was re-formed, they continued to group
together. They claimed all the dangerous expeditions. And each time,
when their task was fulfilled, they met again, safe and sound, without a
scratch, as though they brought one another luck.
During the last fortnight, the regiment, which had been pushed to the
extreme point of the front, was flanked by the Belgian lines on the one
side and the British lines on the other. Heroic assaults were delivered.
Furious bayonet charges were made in the mud, even in the water of the
flooded fields; and the Germans fell by the thousand and the ten
thousand.
Bernard was in the seventh heaven:
"Tommy," he said to a little English soldier who was advancing by his
side one day under a hail of shot and who did not understand a single
word of French, "Tommy, no one admires the Belgians more than I do, but
they don't stagger me, for the simple reason that they fight in our
fashion; that is to say, like lions. The fellows who stagger me are you
English beggars. You're different, you know. You have a way of your own
of doing your work . . . and such work! No excitement, no fury. You keep
all that bottled up. Oh, of course, you go mad when you retreat: that's
when you're really terrible! You never gain as much ground as when
you've lost a bit. Result: mashed Boches!"
He paused and then continued:
"I give you my word, Tommy, it fills us with confidence to have you by
our side. Listen and I'll tell you a great secret. France is getting
lots of applause just now; and she deserves it. We are all standing on
our legs, holding our heads high and without boasting. We wear a smile
on our faces and are quite calm, with clean souls and bright eyes. Well,
the reason why we don't flinch, why we have confidence nailed to our
hearts, is that you are with us. It's as I say, Tommy. Look here, do you
know at what precise moment France felt just a little shaking at the pit
of her stomach? During the retreat from Belgium? Not a bit of it! When
Paris was within an ace of being sacked? Not at all. You give it up?
Well, it was on the first day or two. At that time, you see, we knew,
without saying so, without admitting it even to ourselves, that we were
done for. There was no help for it. No time to prepare ourselves. Done
for was what we were. And, though I say it as shouldn't, France behaved
well. She marched straight to death without wincing, with her brightest
smile and as gaily as if she were marching to certain victory. _Ave,
Cæsar, morituri te salutant!_ Die? Why not, since our honor demands it?
Die to save the world? Right you are! And then suddenly London rings us
up on the telephone. 'Hullo! Who are you?' 'It's England speaking.'
'Well?' 'Well, I'm coming in.' 'You don't mean it?' 'I do--with my last
ship, with my last man, with my last shilling.' Then . . . oh, then
there was a sudden change of front! Die? Rather not! No question of that
now! Live, yes, and conquer! We two together will settle fate. From that
day, France did not know a moment's uneasiness. The retreat? A trifle.
Paris captured? A mere accident! One thing alone mattered: the final
result. Fighting against England and France, there's nothing left for
you Huns to do but go down on your knees. Here, Tommy, I'll start with
that one: the big fellow at the foot of the tree. Down on your knees,
you big fellow! . . . Hi! Tommy! Where are you off to? Calling you, are
they? Good-by, Tommy. My love to England!"
It was on the evening of that day, as the 3rd company were skirmishing
near Dixmude, that an incident occurred which struck the two
brothers-in-law as very odd. Paul suddenly felt a violent blow in the
right side, just above the hip. He had no time to bother about it. But,
on retiring to the trenches, he saw that a bullet had passed through the
holster of his revolver and flattened itself against the barrel. Now,
judging from the position which Paul had occupied, the bullet must have
been fired from behind him; that is to say, by a soldier belonging to
his company or to some other company of his regiment. Was it an
accident? A piece of awkwardness?
Two days later, it was Bernard's turn. Luck protected him, too. A bullet
went through his knapsack and grazed his shoulder-blade.
And, four days after that, Paul had his cap shot through: and, this time
again, the bullet came from the French lines.
There was no doubt about it therefore. The two brothers-in-law had
evidently been aimed at; and the traitor, a criminal in the enemy's pay,
was concealed in the French ranks.
"It's as sure as eggs," said Bernard. "You first, then I, then you
again. There's a touch of Hermann about this. The major must be at
Dixmude."
"And perhaps the prince, too," observed Paul.
"Very likely. In any case, one of their agents has slipped in amongst
us. How are we to get at him? Tell the colonel?"
"If you like, Bernard, but don't speak of ourselves and of our private
quarrel with the major. I did think for a moment of going to the
colonel about it, but decided not to, as I did not want to drag in
Élisabeth's name."
There was no occasion, however, for them to warn their superiors. Though
the attempts on the lives of Paul and Bernard were not repeated, there
were fresh instances of treachery every day. French batteries were
located and attacked; their movements were forestalled; and everything
proved that a spying system had been organized on a much more methodical
and active scale than anywhere else. They felt certain of the presence
of Major Hermann, who was evidently one of the chief pivots of the
system.
"He is here," said Bernard, pointing to the German lines. "He is here
because the great game is being played in those marshes and because
there is work for him to do. And also he is here because we are."
"How would he know?" Paul objected.
And Bernard rejoined:
"How could he fail to know?"
One afternoon there was a meeting of the majors and the captains in the
cabin which served as the colonel's quarters. Paul Delroze was summoned
to attend it and was told that the general commanding the division had
ordered the capture of a little house, standing on the left bank of the
canal, which in ordinary times was inhabited by a ferryman. The Germans
had strengthened and were holding it. The fire of their distant
batteries, set up on a height on the other side, defended this
block-house, which had formed the center of the fighting for some days.
It had become necessary to take it.
"For this purpose," said the colonel, "we have called for a hundred
volunteers from the African companies. They will set out to-night and
deliver the assault to-morrow morning. Our business will be to support
them at once and, once the attack has succeeded, to repel the
counter-attacks, which are sure to be extremely violent because of the
importance of the position. You all of you know the position, gentlemen.
It is separated from us by the marshes which our African volunteers will
enter to-night . . . up to their waists, one might say. But to the right
of the marshes, alongside of the canal, runs a tow-path by which we will
be able to come to the rescue. This tow-path has been swept by the guns
on both sides and is free for a great part. Still, half a mile before
the ferryman's house there is an old lighthouse which was occupied by
the Germans until lately and which we have just destroyed with our
gun-fire. Have they evacuated it entirely? Is there a danger of
encountering an advance post there? It would be a good thing if we could
find out; and I thought of you, Delroze."
"Thank you, sir."
"It's not a dangerous job, but it's a delicate one; and it will have to
make certain. I want you to start to-night. If the old lighthouse is
occupied, come back. If not, send for a dozen reliable men and hide
them carefully until we come up. It will make an excellent base."
"Very well, sir."
Paul at once made his arrangements, called together his little band of
Parisians and volunteers who, with the reservist and Laschen the
Belgian, formed his usual command, warned them that he would probably
want them in the course of the night and, at nine o'clock in the
evening, set out, accompanied by Bernard d'Andeville.
The fire from the enemy's guns kept them for a long time on the bank of
the canal, behind a huge, uprooted willow-trunk. Then an impenetrable
darkness gathered round them, so much so that they could not even
distinguish the water of the canal.
They crept rather than walked along, for fear of unexpected flashes of
light. A slight breeze was blowing across the muddy fields and over the
marshes, which quivered with the whispering of the reeds.
"It's pretty dreary here," muttered Bernard.
"Hold your tongue."
"As you please, lieutenant."
Guns kept booming at intervals for no reason, like dogs barking to make
a noise amid the deep, nervous silence; and other guns at once barked
back furiously, as if to make a noise in their turn and to prove that
they were not asleep.
And once more peace reigned. Nothing stirred in space. It was as though
the very grass of the marshes had ceased to wave. And yet Bernard and
Paul seemed to perceive the slow progress of the African volunteers who
had set out at the same time as themselves, their long halts in the
middle of the icy waters, their stubborn efforts.
"Drearier and drearier," sighed Bernard.
"You're very impressionable to-night," said Paul.
"It's the Yser. You know what the men say: 'Yysery, misery!'"
They dropped to the ground suddenly. The enemy was sweeping the path and
the marshes with search-lights. There were two more alarms; and at last
they reached the neighborhood of the old lighthouse without impediment.
It was half-past eleven. With infinite caution they stole in between the
demolished blocks of masonry and soon perceived that the post had been
abandoned. Nevertheless, they discovered, under the broken steps of the
staircase, an open trap-door and a ladder leading to a cellar which
revealed gleams of swords and helmets. But Bernard, who was piercing the
darkness from above with the rays of his electric lamp, declared:
"There's nothing to fear, they're dead. The Huns must have thrown them
in, after the recent bombardment."
"Yes," said Paul. "And we must be prepared for the fact that they may
send for the bodies. Keep guard on the Yser side, Bernard."
"And suppose one of the beggars is still alive?"
"I'll go down and see."
"Turn out their pockets," said Bernard, as he moved away, "and bring us
back their note-books. I love those. They're the best indications of the
state of their souls . . . or rather of their stomachs."
Paul went down. The cellar was a fairly large one. Half-a-dozen bodies
lay spread over the floor, all lifeless and cold. Acting on Bernard's
advice, he turned out the pockets and casually inspected the note-books.
There was nothing interesting to attract his attention. But in the tunic
of the sixth soldier whom he examined, a short, thin man, shot right
through the head, he found a pocket-book bearing the name of Rosenthal
and containing French and Belgian bank-notes and a packet of letters
with Spanish, Dutch and Swiss postage stamps. The letters, all of which
were in German, had been addressed to a German agent residing in France,
whose name did not appear, and sent by him to Private Rosenthal, on
whose body Paul discovered them. This private was to pass them on,
together with a photograph, to a third person, referred to as his
excellency.
"Secret Service," said Paul, looking through them. "Confidential
information. . . . Statistics. . . . What a pack of scoundrels!"
But, on glancing at the pocket-book again, he saw an envelope which he
tore open. Inside was a photograph; and Paul's surprise at the sight of
it was so great that he uttered an exclamation. It represented the woman
whose portrait he had seen in the locked room at Ornequin, the same
woman, with the same lace scarf arranged in the identical way and with
the same expression, whose hardness was not masked by its smile. And was
this woman not the Comtesse Hermine d'Andeville, the mother of Élisabeth
and Bernard?
The print bore the name of a Berlin photographer. On turning it over,
Paul saw something that increased his stupefaction. There were a few
words of writing:
"_To Stéphane d'Andeville. 1902._"
Stéphane was the Comte d'Andeville's Christian name!
The photograph, therefore, had been sent from Berlin to the father of
Élisabeth and Bernard in 1902, that is to say, four years after the
Comtesse Hermine's death, so that Paul was faced with one of two
solutions: either the photograph, taken before the Comtesse Hermine's
death, was inscribed with the date of the year in which the count had
received it; or else the Comtesse Hermine was still alive.
And, in spite of himself, Paul thought of Major Hermann, whose memory
was suggested to his troubled mind by this portrait, as it had been by
the picture in the locked room. Hermann! Hermine! And here was Hermine's
image discovered by him on the corpse of a German spy, by the banks of
the Yser, where the chief spy, who was certainly Major Hermann, must
even now be prowling.
"Paul! Paul!"
It was his brother-in-law calling him. Paul rose quickly, hid the
photograph, being fully resolved not to speak of it to Bernard, and
climbed the ladder.
"Well, Bernard, what is it?"
"A little troop of Boches. . . . I thought at first that they were a
patrol, relieving the sentries, and that they would keep on the other
side. But they've unmoored a couple of boats and are pulling across the
canal."
"Yes, I can hear them."
"Shall we fire at them?" Bernard suggested.
"No, it would mean giving the alarm. It's better to watch them. Besides,
that's what we're here for."
But at this moment there was a faint whistle from the tow-path. A
similar whistle answered from the boat. Two other signals were exchanged
at regular intervals.
A church clock struck midnight.
"It's an appointment," Paul conjectured. "This is becoming interesting.
Follow me. I noticed a place below where I think we shall be safe
against any surprise."
It was a back-cellar separated from the first by a brick wall containing
a breach through which they easily made their way. They rapidly filled
up the breach with bricks that had fallen from the ceiling and the
walls.
They had hardly finished when a sound of steps was heard overhead and
some words in German reached their ears. The troop of soldiers seemed to
be fairly numerous. Bernard fixed the barrel of his rifle in one of the
loop-holes in their barricade.
"What are you doing?" asked Paul.
"Making ready for them if they come. We can sustain a regular siege
here."
"Don't be a fool, Bernard. Listen. Perhaps we shall be able to catch a
few words."
"You may, perhaps. I don't know a syllable of German. . . ."
A dazzling light suddenly filled the cellar. A soldier came down the
ladder and hung a large electric lamp to a hook in the wall. He was
joined by a dozen men; and the two brothers-in-law at once perceived
that they had come to remove the dead.
It did not take long. In a quarter of an hour's time, there was nothing
left in the cellar but one body, that of Rosenthal, the spy.
And an imperious voice above commanded:
"Stay there, you others, and wait for us. And you, Karl, go down first."
Some one appeared on the top rungs of the ladder. Paul and Bernard were
astounded at seeing a pair of red trousers, followed by a blue tunic and
the full uniform of a French private. The man jumped to the ground and
cried:
"I'm here, _Excellenz_. You can come now."
And they saw Laschen, the Belgian, or rather the self-styled Belgian who
had given his name as Laschen and who belonged to Paul's section. They
now knew where the three shots that had been fired at them came from.
The traitor was there. Under the light they clearly distinguished his
face, the face of a man of forty, with fat, heavy features and
red-rimmed eyes. He seized the uprights of the ladder so as to hold it
steady. An officer climbed down cautiously, wrapped in a wide gray cloak
with upturned collar.
They recognized Major Hermann.