It was five o’clock on the following evening that I saw the girl Marthe
again. The Doctor and I had arranged to go round to her lodging after
dinner, by which time we hoped to have a letter for her from Pierre, by
despatch-rider. But Brand was with me in the afternoon, having looked
in to my billet with an English conversation-book for Hélène, who was
anxious to study our way of speech. Madame Chéri insisted upon giving
him a glass of wine, and we stood talking in her drawing-room awhile
about the certain hope of victory, and then trivial things. Hélène was
delighted with her book and Brand had a merry five minutes with her,
teaching her to pronounce the words.
“_C’est effroyable!_” cried Hélène. “‘Through’ ... ‘Tough’ ... ‘Cough’
... _Mon Dieu, comme c’est difficile!_ There is no rule in your tongue.”
Madame Chéri spoke of Edouard, her eldest boy, who had disappeared into
the great silence, and gave me a photograph of him, in case I should
meet him in our advance towards the Rhine. She kissed the photograph
before giving it to me, and said a few words which revealed her strong
character, her passionate patriotism.
“If he had been four years older he would have been a soldier of
France. I should have been happy if he could have fought for his
country, and died for it, like my husband.”
Brand and I left the house and went up towards the Grande Place. I was
telling him about Pierre Nesle’s sister and our strange meeting with
her the night before.
“I’m precious glad,” said Brand, “that no sister of mine was behind
German lines. God knows how much they had to endure. Imagine their
risks! It was a lucky escape for that girl Hélène. Supposing she had
failed to barricade her door?”
When we came into the Grande Place we saw that something was happening.
It was almost dark after a shadowy twilight, but we could see a crowd
of people surging round some central point of interest. Many of them
were laughing, loudly. There was some joke in progress. The women’s
tongues sounded most loud, and shrill.
“They’re getting back to gaiety,” said Brand. “What’s the jest, I
wonder?”
A gust of laughter came across the square. Above it was another sound,
not so pleasant. It was a woman’s shrieks--shriek after shriek, most
blood-curdling, and then becoming faint.
“What the devil----!” said Brand.
We were on the edge of the crowd, and I spoke to a man there.
“What’s happening?”
He laughed, in a grim way.
“It’s the _coiffure_ of a lady. They are cutting her hair.”