V
Two weeks passed, during which period the placid fields about Le Curois
resounded to the shouts of Canadian troops rehearsing open warfare (for
rumor had it that the hour was almost at hand when Foch was to release
the forces of retribution). For pastime, the troops played baseball and
held field-days of many and varied sports. Whatever they did, they
shouted lustily and continuously while doing it, for they had mastered
one elemental truth--that nothing can be accomplished without
intensity.
Des Rosiers explained baseball to Simunde, who enjoyed the description
without allowing it to interfere with her innumerable domestic and
agricultural duties. It was quite true that Jacque Noir had never
played the game or even mastered its rudiments, but he had the
narrator's instinct that rises above mere accuracy of detail.
Every evening he accompanied Simunde to the pasture-land, and together
they guided the patient cows homeward. When darkness set in and
Simunde's tasks were finished for the day, he sat with her in the
farm-yard and told lurid tales of northern Canada--to all of which
"madame," whose tasks were never finished, lent a delighted and
adjoining ear.
He pictured to Simunde the snow--how it filled the rivers till they ran
no more; how it covered the great pine-trees until, as far as eye could
see, there was nothing but white; and he told of the wind that was
never still. And she listened, as only a Frenchwoman can listen, with
every emotion he called forth registering in her face, as clouds racing
across the sun will throw their shadows on the ground.
Just before the battalion was to return to the line, the second in
command, Major Douglas Campbell, was called to Divisional Headquarters
for a prolonged conference. As a result Des Rosiers was returned to his
company for duty, though he contrived to spend every free hour with the
little belle of Le Curois. As the time for parting approached with
cruel celerity, he talked less and took to long spells of moody
silence. His heart had been melted as completely as the snow in his
Northland is thawed by the sun in spring. As for her, the little
artifices of gesture and the ceaseless coquetry of the eyes became less
noticeable. For the first time in her life she felt the anguish of a
woman's tears; Petite Simunde's guileless and innocent heart had been
won by Jacque Des Rosiers, the bad man of Northern Quebec.
In a tempest of passionate ardor, but with becoming deference, he
addressed his suit to the mother, who promised consideration that night
and her answer on the morrow.
It was hardly twilight when he wandered back along the main road
towards the fields where his battalion was bivouacked. Full of the
picture of the little woman who had bewitched him, he failed to notice
the approach of an exceedingly smart young staff-officer, ablaze in a
glory of red and brass. With unseeing eyes, Des Rosiers looked directly
at the young gentleman, but failed to make any sign. The officer, fresh
from a staff course in England, stopped him with a sharp command.
"Just a moment, my man. Don't you know enough to salute?"
Des Rosiers awoke from his dream, came to attention, and saluted very
badly.
"I no see you, sair," he said.
"Don't lie to me," snapped Brass Hat (who wasn't a bad chap on the
whole); "of course you saw me. Damn it, you looked right at me. It's
fellows like you who give the corps a bad name."
He was wrong there. It was the presence of several thousand men like
Des Rosiers that had given the Canadian Corps a wonderful name--but let
that pass, as Jack Point would have said.
The element of tragedy seldom enters the lists of life with a fanfare
of trumpets. It steals in unobtrusively, like a poor relation. It comes
in the garb of the commonplace, or masked in triviality or gaiety. One
is unaware of its presence until it throws off concealment and points
its yellow fingers at the throat of its victims. What dramatist would
have read tragedy into the absurd tableau presented by a slouchy
French-Canadian soldier and a youthful staff-officer? Yet, as
inexorable as Fate, it was approaching Jacque Des Rosiers, and only a
few yards away, hiding its skeleton's grin behind the mundane
countenance of Sergeant Smith, returning to the battalion after a day's
work in the orderly room.
The officer, who had just made a move to resume his walk, noticed the
sergeant, and called him over.
"You are from the same battalion as this chap?"
"Yes, sir."
"Report him to his company commander for failing to salute an officer.
Impress upon him that I would not have made this complaint, but your
man looked directly at me, and--well, discipline must be maintained,
especially out here."
Whereupon, feeling that he had rendered unto Cæsar the things that were
Cæsar's, the youthful captain sauntered on to the château, occupied by
Divisional Headquarters, and dined with extra zest. And if it be
thought that this narrative treats him unkindly, let it be written
that, three months later, he was badly wounded while performing a very
gallant action. He was a professional soldier, somewhat lacking in
psychology; that was all.
A little later Private Des Rosiers was arraigned before his company
commander, a gentleman who was neither a soldier nor a psychologist.
The heinous crime of passing an officer without acknowledgment was laid
to the charge of the battle-worn and love-lorn villain from Quebec.
"What have you got to say for yourself?"
Des Rosiers said it. The officer shook his head.
"It's not good enough," he said. "You French-Canadians seem to think
there's one law for yourselves and another for everybody else. You
throw all your comrades down by deliberately insulting an officer--a
staff-officer, who reports it to the G.O.C., and there you are. We're
known as a bad battalion just because of a few slackers like you. Put
him on the horse line picket for two nights, and confine him to camp
during the day."
The prisoner started. "Sair," he said, "I can no be here to-morrow
night. _C'est impossible._"
"Oh, is it emposeeble?" answered the officer, who prided himself on a
gift of neat retort. Des Rosiers's eyes protruded to their utmost.
"By Gar!" he cried, "and nex' morning we go back to the line _encore_,
yes?"
"Well? Have you any objections? If so, I am sure the divisional
commander would appreciate hearing them."
"Ah, but _monsieur l'officier_"--his hands were stretched forth in
an agony of appeal--"Petite Simunde, she wait for me. I promise to
come--I no come--it is terrible!"
The judge in khaki laughed.
"I am fed up with the stories of you French-Canadians and your village
sweethearts--and, confound it, stop waving your hands about!"
"Standt'attenshun!" bellowed the sergeant-major.
"Consider yourself lucky to get off so lightly, my man.--That will do,
sergeant-major."
"Escor' a'prisoner--ri tuh--qui' mawch.--Lef' ri', lef' ri', lef'
ri--Pawty, ha't.--Report to horse line N.C.O. right away.--Escor',
dees-mi!"
Rather late for mess, by reason of holding orderly room at an unusual
hour, the company commander sat down to dinner with a glow of virtue in
his bosom. He had been a lawyer-politician in a small Ontario town, and
it pleased him to find that he had not lost the art of Buzfuzian
browbeating.
And through it all the Fates had woven a thread of tragedy about the
life of Jacque Noir, using in their scheme of things a
non-psychological staff-officer, a non-military and non-psychological
company commander, and a sergeant whose name was Smith.
"There is humor in all things," said Jack Point. Gilbert would have
been equally correct if he had substituted the word "tragedy."
Before sundown of the next day the prisoner was reported absent, and
when the battalion marched away for the line Jacque Des Rosiers was not
with it.