“Cutting her hair?”
A woman spoke to me, by way of explanation, laughing like the man.
“Shaving her head, monsieur. She was one of those who were too
complaisant with German officers. You understand? There were many of
them. They ought to have their heads cut off, as well as their hair.”
Another man spoke, gruffly.
“There would be a good many headless corpses, if that were so. To their
shame be it said. It was abominable. No pride. No decency.”
“But the worst will escape,” said another. “In private houses. The
well-dressed demoiselles!”
_“Tuez-les!_” cried a woman. “_Tuez-les!_”
It was a cry for killing, such, as women had screamed when pretty
aristocrats were caught by the mobs of the French Revolution.
“My God!” said Brand.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, and I followed him. The people
made a gap for us, seeing our uniforms, and desired us to enjoy the
joke. What I saw when I came closer was a group of young men holding a
limp figure. One of them was brandishing a large pair of scissors, as
large as shears. Another held up a tangled mass of red hair.
“_Regardez!_” he shouted to the crowd, and they cheered and laughed.
I had seen the hair before, as I knew when I saw a girl’s face,
dead-white, lifeless, as it seemed, and limp against a man’s shoulder.
“It is Marthe!” I said to Brand. “Pierre Nesle’s sister.”
A curious sense of faintness overcame me, and I felt sick.
Brand did not answer me, but I saw his face pale under its tan. He
pushed forward through the crowd and I lost sight of him for a few
moments. After that I saw him carrying the girl; above the heads of the
people I saw her head flopping from side to side horribly, a head with
close-cropped hair. They had torn her clothes off her shoulders, which
were bleeding.
“Help me,” said Brand.
I am not quite clear what happened. I have only a vague remembrance of
the crowd making way for us, with murmurs of surprise, and some hostile
cries of women. I remember helping Brand to carry the girl--enormously
heavy she seemed with her dead weight--but how we managed to get her
into Dr. Small’s car is to this day a blank in my mind. We must have
seen and hailed him at the Corner of the Grande Place as he was going
back to his billet. I have a distinct recollection of taking off my
Burberry and laying it over the girl, who was huddled in the back of
the car, and of Brand saying, “Where can we take her?” I also remember
trying to light a cigarette and using many matches which went out in
the wind. It was Brand’s idea that we should go to Madame Chéri’s house
for sanctuary, and by the time we had driven to that place we had left
the crowd behind and were not followed.
“You go in and explain things,” said Brand. “Ask Madame to give the
girl a refuge.”
I think Madame Chéri was startled by the sight of the car, and perhaps
by some queer look I had. I told her what had happened. This girl was
the sister of Pierre Nesle, whom Madame Chéri had met. The crowd, for
some reason, had cut off her hair. Would Madame save the poor child,
who was unconscious?
I shall never forget the face or speech of that lady, whom I had found
so kind. She drew herself up very stiffly and a relentless expression
hardened her face.
“If you were not English I should say you desired to insult me, sir.
The people have cut off the creature’s hair. ‘For some reason’ you say.
There is only one reason. Because she was faithless to her country and
to her sex, and was familiar with men who were the enemies of France,
the murderers of our men, robbers and assassins. She has been well
punished. I would rather burn down my house than give her shelter. If
they gave her to the dogs to tear in pieces I would not lift my little
finger to save her.”
Hélène came in, and was surprised at the emotion of her mother’s voice.
“What is it, little maman?”
Madame Chéri, regained control of herself, which for a moment she had
lost in a passion that shook her.
“It is a little matter. This officer and I have been talking about vile
people who sold themselves to our enemy. He understands perfectly.”
“I understand,” I said, gravely. “There is a great deal of cruelty in
the world, madame, and less charity than I had hoped.”
“There is, praise be to God, a little justice,” said Madame Chéri, very
calmly.
“Au revoir, madame!”
“Au revoir, monsieur!”
“Au revoir, mademoiselle!”
I was shocked then at the callousness of the lady. It seemed to me
incredible. Now I am no longer shocked, but understand the horror
that was hers, the loathing, for a daughter of France who had--if the
mob were not mistaken!--violated the code of honour which enabled
the French people to resist German brutality, even German kindness,
which they hated worse, with a most proud disdain. That girl outside,
bleeding and senseless in the car, had been friendly with German
officers, notorious in her company with them. Otherwise she would not
have been seized by the crowd and branded for shame. There was a fierce
protective instinct which hardened Madame Chéri against charity. Only
those who have seen what war means to women close to it, in enemy
hands, may truly understand, and, understanding, curse war again for
all its destruction of souls and bodies.