THE FERRYMAN'S HOUSE
Paul Delroze did not speak a word. Pushing his prisoner in front of him,
after tying the major's wrists behind his back, he returned to the
bridge of boats in the darkness illumined by brief flashes of light.
The fighting continued. But a certain number of the enemy tried to run
away; and, when the volunteers who guarded the bridge received them with
a volley of fire, the Germans thought that they had been cut off; and
this diversion hastened their defeat.
When Paul arrived, the combat was over. But the enemy was bound, sooner
or later, to deliver a counter-attack, supported by the reinforcements
that had been promised to the commandant; and the defense was prepared
forthwith.
The ferryman's house, which had been strongly fortified by the Germans
and surrounded with trenches, consisted of a ground floor and an upper
story of three rooms, now knocked into one. At the back of this large
room, however, was a recess with a sloping roof, reached by three steps,
which at one time had done duty as a servant's attic. Paul, who was
entrusted with the arrangement of this upper floor, brought his prisoner
here. He laid him on the floor, bound him with a cord and fastened him
to a beam; and, while doing so, he was seized with such a paroxysm of
hatred that he took him by the throat as though to strangle him.
He mastered himself, however. After all, there was no hurry. Before
killing the man or handing him over to the soldiers to be shot against
the wall, why deny himself the supreme satisfaction of having an
explanation with him?
When the lieutenant entered, Paul said, so as to be heard by all and
especially by the major:
"I recommend that scoundrel to your care, lieutenant. It's Major
Hermann, one of the chief spies in the German army. I have the proofs on
me. Remember that, in case anything happens to me. And, if we should
have to retreat. . . ."
The lieutenant smiled:
"There's no question of that. We shall not retreat, for the very good
reason that I would rather blow up the shanty first. And Major Hermann,
therefore, would be blown up with us. So make your mind easy."
The two officers discussed the defensive measures to be adopted; and the
men quickly got to work.
First of all, the bridge of boats was unmade, trenches dug along the
canal and the machine-guns turned to face the other way. Paul, on his
first floor, had the sandbags moved from the one side of the house to
the other and the less solid-looking portions of the wall shored up with
beams.
At half-past five, under the rays of the German flashlights, several
shells fell round about. One of them struck the house. The big guns
began to sweep the towpath.
A few minutes before daybreak, a detachment of cyclists arrived by this
path, with Bernard d'Andeville at their head. He explained that two
companies and a section of sappers in advance of a complete battalion
had started, but their progress was hampered by the enemy's shells and
they were obliged to skirt the marshes, under the cover of the dyke
supporting the towpath. This had slowed their march; and it would be an
hour before they could arrive.
"An hour," said the lieutenant. "It will be stiff work. Still, we can do
it. So . . ."
While he was giving new orders and placing the cyclists at their posts,
Paul came up; and he was just going to tell Bernard of Major Hermann's
capture, when his brother-in-law announced his news:
"I say, Paul, dad's with me!"
Paul gave a start:
"Your father is here? Your father came with you?"
"Just so; and in the most natural manner. You must know that he had been
looking for an opportunity for some time. By the way, he has been
promoted to interpreter lieutenant. . . ."
Paul was no longer listening. He merely said to himself:
"M. d'Andeville is here. . . . M. d'Andeville, the Comtesse Hermine's
husband. He must know, surely. Is she alive or dead? Or has he been the
dupe of a scheming woman to the end and does he still bear a loving
recollection of one who has vanished from his life? But no, that's
incredible, because there is that photograph, taken four years later and
sent to him: sent to him from Berlin! So he knows; and then . . . ?"
Paul was greatly perplexed. The revelations made by Karl the spy had
suddenly revealed M. d'Andeville in a startling light. And now
circumstances were bringing M. d'Andeville into Paul's presence, at the
very time when Major Hermann had been captured.
Paul turned towards the attic. The major was lying motionless, with his
face against the wall.
"Your father has remained outside?" Paul asked his brother-in-law.
"Yes, he took the bicycle of a man who was riding near us and who was
slightly wounded. Papa is seeing to him."
"Go and fetch him; and, if the lieutenant doesn't object . . ."
He was interrupted by the bursting of a shrapnel shell the bullets of
which riddled the sandbags heaped up in the front of them. The day was
breaking. They could see an enemy column looming out of the darkness a
mile away at most.
"Ready there!" shouted the lieutenant from below. "Don't fire a shot
till I give the order. No one to show himself!"
It was not until a quarter of an hour later and then only for four or
five minutes that Paul and M. d'Andeville were able to exchange a few
words. Their conversation, moreover, was so greatly hurried that Paul
had no time to decide what attitude he should take up in the presence of
Élisabeth's father. The tragedy of the past, the part which the Comtesse
Hermine's husband played in that tragedy: all this was mingled in his
mind with the defense of the block-house. And, in spite of their great
liking for each other, their greeting was somewhat absent and
distracted.
Paul was ordering a small window to be stopped with a mattress. Bernard
was posted at the other end of the room.
M. d'Andeville said to Paul:
"You're sure of holding out, aren't you?"
"Absolutely, as we've got to."
"Yes, you've got to. I was with the division yesterday, with the English
general to whom I am attached as interpreter, when the attack was
decided on. The position seems to be of essential importance; and it is
indispensable that we should stick to it. I saw that this gave me an
opportunity of seeing you, Paul, as I knew that your regiment was to be
here. So I asked leave to accompany the contingent that had been ordered
to. . . ."
There was a fresh interruption. A shell came through the roof and
shattered the wall on the side opposite to the canal.
"Any one hurt?"
"No, sir."
M. d'Andeville went on:
"The strangest part of it was finding Bernard at your colonel's last
night. You can imagine how glad I was to join the cyclists. It was my
only chance of seeing something of my boy and of shaking you by the
hand. . . . And then I had no news of my poor Élisabeth; and Bernard
told me. . . ."
"Ah," said Paul quickly, "has Bernard told you all that happened at the
château?"
"At least, as much as he knew; but there are a good many things that are
difficult to understand; and Bernard says that you have more precise
details. For instance, why did Élisabeth stay at the château?"
"Because she wanted to," said Paul. "I was not told of her decision
until later, by letter."
"I know. But why didn't you take her with you, Paul?"
"When I left Ornequin, I made all the necessary arrangements for her to
go."
"Good. But you ought not to have left Ornequin without her. All the
trouble is due to that."
M. d'Andeville had been speaking with a certain acerbity, and, as Paul
did not answer, he asked again:
"Why didn't you take Élisabeth away? Bernard said that there was
something very serious, that you spoke of exceptional circumstances.
Perhaps you won't mind explaining."
Paul seemed to suspect a latent hostility in M. d'Andeville; and this
irritated him all the more on the part of a man whose conduct now
appeared to him so perplexing:
"Do you think," he said, "that this is quite the moment?"
"Yes, yes, yes. We may be separated any minute. . . ."
Paul did not allow him to finish. He turned abruptly towards his
father-in-law and exclaimed:
"You are right, sir! It's a horrible idea. It would be terrible if I
were not able to reply to your questions or you to mine. Élisabeth's
fate perhaps depends on the few words which we are about to speak. For
we must know the truth between us. A single word may bring it to light;
and there is no time to be lost. We must speak out now. . . . Whatever
happens."
His excitement surprised M. d'Andeville, who asked:
"Wouldn't it be as well to call Bernard over?"
"No, no," said Paul, "on no account! It's a thing that he mustn't know
about, because it concerns. . . ."
"Because it concerns whom?" asked M. d'Andeville, who was more and more
astonished.
A man standing near them was hit by a bullet and fell. Paul rushed to
his assistance; but the man had been shot through the forehead and was
dead. Two more bullets entered through an opening which was wider than
it need be; and Paul ordered it to be partly closed up.
M. d'Andeville, who had been helping him, pursued the conversation:
"You were saying that Bernard must not hear because it concerns. . . ."
"His mother," Paul replied.
"His mother? What do you mean? His mother? It concerns my wife? I don't
understand. . . ."
Through the loopholes in the wall they could see three enemy columns
advancing, above the flooded fields, moving forward on narrow causeways
which converged towards the canal opposite the ferryman's house.
"We shall fire when they are two hundred yards from the canal," said the
lieutenant commanding the volunteers, who had come to inspect the
defenses. "If only their guns don't knock the shanty about too much!"
"Where are our reinforcements?" asked Paul.
"They'll be here in thirty or forty minutes. Meantime the seventy-fives
are doing good work."
The shells were flying through space in both directions, some falling in
the midst of the German columns, others around the blockhouse. Paul ran
to every side, encouraging and directing the men. From time to time he
went to the attic and looked at Major Hermann, who lay perfectly still.
Then Paul returned to his post.
He did not for a second cease to think of the duty incumbent on him as
an officer and a combatant, nor for a second of what he had to say to M.
d'Andeville. But these two mingled obsessions deprived him of all
lucidity of mind! and he did not know how to come to an explanation with
his father-in-law or how to unravel the tangled position. M. d'Andeville
asked his question several times. He did not reply.
The lieutenant's voice was raised:
"Attention! . . . Present! . . . Fire! . . ."
The command was repeated four times over. The nearest enemy column,
decimated by the bullets, seemed to waver. But the others came up with
it; and it formed up again.
Two German shells burst against the house. The roof was carried away
bodily, several feet of the frontage were demolished and three men
killed.
After the storm, a calm. But Paul had so clear a sense of the danger
which threatened them all that he was unable to contain himself any
longer. Suddenly making up his mind, addressing M. d'Andeville without
further preamble, he said:
"One word in particular. . . . I must know. . . . Are you quite sure
that the Comtesse d'Andeville is dead?" And without waiting for the
reply, he went on: "Yes, you think my question mad. It seems so to you
because you do not know. But I am not mad; and I ask you to answer my
question as you would do if I had the time to state the reasons that
justify me in asking it. Is the Comtesse Hermine dead?"
M. d'Andeville, restraining his feelings and consenting to adopt the
hypothesis which Paul seemed to insist on, said:
"Is there any reason that allows you to presume that my wife is still
alive?"
"There are very serious reasons, I might say, incontestable reasons."
M. d'Andeville shrugged his shoulders and said, in a firm voice:
"My wife died in my arms. My lips touched her icy hands, felt that chill
of death which is so horrible in those we love. I myself dressed her, as
she had asked, in her wedding gown; and I was there when they nailed
down the coffin. Anything else?"
Paul listened to him and thought to himself:
"Has he spoken the truth? Yes, he has; and still how can I admit
. . . ?"
Speaking more imperiously, M. d'Andeville repeated:
"Anything else?"
"Yes," said Paul, "one more question. There was a portrait in the
Comtesse d'Andeville's boudoir: was that her portrait?"
"Certainly, her full length portrait."
"Showing her with a black lace scarf over her shoulders?"
"Yes, the kind of scarf she liked wearing."
"And the scarf was fastened in front by a cameo set in a gold snake?"
"Yes, it was an old cameo which belonged to my mother and which my wife
always wore."
Paul yielded to thoughtless impulse. M. d'Andeville's assertions seemed
to him so many admissions; and, trembling with rage, he rapped out:
"Monsieur, you have not forgotten, have you, that my father was
murdered? We often spoke of it, you and I. He was your friend. Well, the
woman who murdered him and whom I saw, the woman whose image has stamped
itself on my brain wore a black lace scarf round her shoulders and a
cameo set in a gold snake. And I found this woman's portrait in your
wife's room. Yes, I saw her portrait on my wedding evening. Do you
understand now? Do you understand or don't you?"
It was a tragic moment between the two men. M. d'Andeville stood
trembling, with his hands clutching his rifle.
"Why is he trembling?" Paul asked himself; and his suspicions increased
until they became an actual accusation. "Is it a feeling of protest or
his rage at being unmasked that makes him shake like that? And am I to
look upon him as his wife's accomplice? For, after all. . . ."
He felt a fierce grip twisting his arm. M. d'Andeville, gray in the
face, blurted out:
"How dare you? How dare you suggest that my wife murdered your father?
Why, you must be drunk! My wife, a saint in the sight of God and man!
And you dare! Oh, I don't know what keeps me from smashing your face
in!"
Paul released himself roughly. The two men, shaking with a rage which
was increased by the din of the firing and the madness of their quarrel,
were on the verge of coming to blows while the shells and bullets
whistled all around them.
Then a new strip of wall fell to pieces. Paul gave his orders and, at
the same time, thought of Major Hermann lying in his corner, to whom he
could have brought M. d'Andeville like a criminal who is confronted with
his accomplice. But why then did he not do so?
Suddenly remembering the photograph of the Comtesse Hermine which he had
found on Rosenthal's body, he took it from his pocket and thrust it in
front of M. d'Andeville's eyes:
"And this?" he shouted. "Do you know what this is? . . . There's a date
on it, 1902, and you pretend that the Comtesse Hermine is dead! . . .
Answer me, can't you? A photograph taken in Berlin and sent to you by
your wife four years after her death!"
M. d'Andeville staggered. It was as though all his rage had evaporated
and was changing into infinite stupefaction. Paul brandished before his
face the overwhelming proof constituted by that bit of cardboard. And
he heard M. d'Andeville mutter:
"Who can have stolen it from me? It was among my papers in Paris. . . .
Why didn't I tear it up? . . ." Then he added, in a very low whisper,
"Oh, Hermine, Hermine, my adored one!"
Surely it was an avowal? But, if so, what was the meaning of an avowal
expressed in those terms and with that declaration of love for a woman
laden with crime and infamy?
The lieutenant shouted from the ground floor:
"Everybody into the trenches, except ten men. Delroze, keep the best
shots and order independent firing."
The volunteers, headed by Bernard, hurried downstairs. The enemy was
approaching the canal, in spite of the losses which he had sustained. In
fact, on the right and left, knots of pioneers, constantly renewed, were
already striving with might and main to collect the boats stranded on
the bank. The lieutenant in command of the volunteers formed his men
into a first line of defense against the imminent assault, while the
sharpshooters in the house had orders to kill without ceasing under the
storm of shells.
One by one, five of these marksmen fell.
Paul and M. d'Andeville were here, there and everywhere, while
consulting one another as to the commands to be given and the things to
be done. There was not the least chance, in view of their great
inferiority in numbers, that they would be able to resist. But there
was some hope of their holding out until the arrival of the
reinforcements, which would ensure the possession of the blockhouse.
The French artillery, finding it impossible to secure an effective aim
amid the confusion of the combatants, had ceased fire, whereas the
German guns were still bombarding the house; and shells were bursting at
every moment.
Yet another man was wounded. He was carried into the attic and laid
beside Major Hermann, where he died almost immediately.
Outside, there was fighting on and even in the water of the canal, in
the boats and around them. There were hand-to-hand contests amid general
uproar, yells of execration and pain, cries of terror and shouts of
victory. The confusion was so great that Paul and M. d'Andeville found
it difficult to take aim.
Paul said to his father-in-law:
"I'm afraid we may be done for before assistance arrives. I am bound
therefore to warn you that the lieutenant has made his arrangements to
blow up the house. As you are here by accident, without any
authorization that gives you the quality or duties of a combatant.
. . ."
"I am here as a Frenchman," said M. d'Andeville, "and I shall stay on to
the end."
"Then perhaps we shall have time to finish what we have to say, sir.
Listen to me. I will be as brief as I can. But if you should see the
least glimmer of light, please do not hesitate to interrupt me."
He fully understood that there was a gulf of darkness between them and
that, whether guilty or not, whether his wife's accomplice or her dupe,
M. d'Andeville must know things which he, Paul, did not know and that
these things could only be made plain by an adequate recital of what had
happened.
He therefore began to speak. He spoke calmly and deliberately, while M.
d'Andeville listened in silence. And they never ceased firing, quietly
loading, aiming and reloading, as though they were at practise. All
around and above them death pursued its implacable work.
Paul had hardly described his arrival at Ornequin with Élisabeth, their
entrance into the locked room and his dismay at the sight of the
portrait, when an enormous shell exploded over their heads, spattering
them with shrapnel bullets.
The four volunteers were hit. Paul also fell, wounded in the neck; and,
though he suffered no pain, he felt that all his ideas were gradually
fading into a mist without his being able to retain them. He made an
effort, however, and by some miracle of will was still able to exercise
a remnant of energy that allowed him to keep his hold on certain
reflections and impressions. Thus he saw his father-in-law kneeling
beside him and succeeded in saying to him:
"Élisabeth's diary. . . . You'll find it in my kit-bag in camp . . .
with a few pages written by myself . . . which will explain. . . . But
first you must . . . Look, that German officer over there, bound up
. . . he's a spy. . . . Keep an eye on him. . . . Kill him. . . . If
not, on the tenth of January . . . but you will kill him, won't you?"
Paul could speak no more. Besides, he saw that M. d'Andeville was not
kneeling down to listen to him or help him, but that, himself shot, with
his face bathed in blood, he was bending double and finally fell in a
huddled heap, uttering moans that grew fainter and fainter.
A great calm now descended on the big room, while the rifles crackled
outside. The German guns were no longer firing. The enemy's
counter-attack must be meeting with success; and Paul, incapable of
moving, lay awaiting the terrible explosion foretold by the lieutenant.
He pronounced Élisabeth's name time after time. He reflected that no
danger threatened her now, because Major Hermann was also about to die.
Besides, her brother Bernard would know how to defend her. But after a
while this sort of tranquillity disappeared, changed into uneasiness and
then into restless anxiety, giving way to a feeling of which every
second that passed increased the torture. He could not tell whether he
was haunted by a nightmare, by some morbid hallucination. It all
happened on the side of the attic to which he had dragged Major
Hermann. A soldier's dead body was lying between them. And it seemed, to
his horror, as if the major had cut his bonds and were rising to his
feet and looking around him.
Paul exerted all his strength to open his eyes and keep them open. But
an ever thicker shadow veiled them; and through this shadow he
perceived, as one sees a confused sight in the darkness, the major
taking off his cloak, stooping over the body, removing its blue coat and
buttoning it on himself. Then he put the dead man's cap on his head,
fastened his scarf round his neck, took the soldier's rifle, bayonet and
cartridges and, thus transfigured, stepped down the three wooden stairs.
It was a terrible vision. Paul would have been glad to doubt his eyes,
to believe in some phantom image born of his fever and delirium. But
everything confirmed the reality of what he saw; and it meant to him the
most infernal suffering. The major was making his escape!
Paul was too weak to contemplate the position in all its bearings. Was
the major thinking of killing him and of killing M. d'Andeville? Did the
major know that they were there, both of them wounded, within reach of
his hand? Paul never asked himself these questions. One idea alone
obsessed his failing mind. Major Hermann was escaping. Thanks to his
uniform, he would mingle with the volunteers! By the aid of some
signal, he would get back to the Germans! And he would be free! And he
would resume his work of persecution, his deadly work, against
Élisabeth!
Oh, if the explosion had only taken place! If the ferryman's house could
but be blown up and the major with it! . . .
Paul still clung to this hope in his half-conscious condition. Meanwhile
his reason was wavering. His thoughts became more and more confused. And
he swiftly sank into that darkness in which one neither sees nor hears.
. . .
* * * * *
Three weeks later the general commanding in chief stepped from his motor
car in front of an old château in the Bourbonnais, now transformed into
a military hospital. The officer in charge was waiting for him at the
door.
"Does Second Lieutenant Delroze know that I am coming to see him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take me to his room."
Paul Delroze was sitting up. His neck was bandaged; but his features
were calm and showed no traces of fatigue. Much moved by the presence of
the great chief whose energy and coolness had saved France, he rose to
the salute. But the general gave him his hand and exclaimed, in a kind
and affectionate voice:
"Sit down, Lieutenant Delroze. . . . I say lieutenant, for you were
promoted yesterday. No, no thanks. By Jove, we are still your debtors!
So you're up and about?"
"Why, yes, sir. The wound wasn't much."
"So much the better. I'm satisfied with all my officers; but, for all
that, we don't find fellows like you by the dozen. Your colonel has sent
in a special report about you which sets forth such an array of acts of
incomparable bravery that I have half a mind to break my own rule and to
make the report public."
"No, please don't, sir."
"You are right, Delroze. It is the first attribute of heroism that it
likes to remain anonymous; and it is France alone that must have all the
glory for the time being. So I shall be content for the present to
mention you once more in the orders of the day and to hand you the cross
for which you were already recommended."
"I don't know how to thank you, sir."
"In addition, my dear fellow, if there's the least thing you want, I
insist that you should give me this opportunity of doing it for you."
Paul nodded his head and smiled. All this cordial kindness and
attentiveness were putting him at his ease.
"But suppose I want too much, sir?"
"Go ahead."
"Very well, sir, I accept. And what I ask is this: first of all, a
fortnight's sick leave, counting from Saturday, the ninth of January,
the day on which I shall be leaving the hospital."
"That's not a favor, that's a right."
"I know, sir. But I must have the right to spend my leave where I
please."
"Very well."
"And more than that: I must have in my pocket a permit written in your
own hand, sir, which will give me every latitude to move about as I wish
in the French lines and to call for any assistance that can be of use to
me."
The general looked at Paul for a moment, and said:
"That's a serious request you're making, Delroze."
"Yes, sir, I know it is. But the thing I want to undertake is serious
too."
"All right, I agree. Anything more?"
"Yes, sir, Sergeant Bernard d'Andeville, my brother-in-law, took part as
I did in the action at the ferryman's house. He was wounded like myself
and brought to the same hospital, from which he will probably be
discharged at the same time. I should like him to have the same leave
and to receive permission to accompany me."
"I agree. Anything more?"
"Bernard's father, Comte Stéphane d'Andeville, second lieutenant
interpreter attached to the British army, was also wounded on that day
by my side. I have learnt that his wound, though serious, is not likely
to prove fatal and that he has been moved to an English hospital, I
don't know which. I would ask you to send for him as soon as he is well
and to keep him on your staff until I come to you and report on the task
which I have taken in hand."
"Very well. Is that all?"
"Very nearly, sir. It only remains for me to thank you for your kindness
by asking you to give me a list of twenty French prisoners, now in
Germany, in whom you take a special interest. Those twenty prisoners
will be free in a fortnight from now at most."
"Eh? What's that?"
For all his coolness, the general seemed a little taken aback. He
echoed:
"Free in a fortnight from now! Twenty prisoners!"
"I give you my promise, sir."
"Don't talk nonsense."
"It shall be as I say."
"Whatever the prisoners' rank? Whatever their social position?"
"Yes, sir."
"And by regular means, means that can be avowed?"
"By means to which there can be no possible objection."
The general looked at Paul again with the eye of a leader who is in the
habit of judging men and reckoning them at their true value. He knew
that the man before him was not a boaster, but a man of action and a
man of his word, who went straight ahead and kept his promises. He
replied:
"Very well, Delroze, you shall have your list to-morrow."