The night in Amiens was dark and sinister when rain fell heavily out of
a moonless sky. Hardly a torch-lamp flashed out except where a solitary
woman scurried down the wet streets to lonely rooms. There were no
British officers strolling about. They had turned in early, to hot baths
and unaccustomed beds, except for one or two, with their burberries
buttoned tight at the throat, and sopping field-caps pulled down about
the ears, and top--boots which went splash, splash through deep puddles
as they staggered a little uncertainly and peered up at dark corners to
find their whereabouts, by a dim sense of locality and the shapes of the
houses. The rain pattered sharply on the pavements and beat a tattoo on
leaden gutters and slate roofs. Every window was shuttered and no light
gleamed through.
On such a night I went out with Beach Thomas, as often before, wet or
fine, after hard writing.
“A foul night,” said Thomas, setting off in his quick, jerky step. “I
like to feel the rain on my face.”
We turned down as usual to the river. It was very dark--the rain was
heavy on the quayside, where there was a group of people bareheaded in
the rain and chattering in French, with gusts of laughter.
“Une bouteille de champagne!” The words were spoken in a clear boy's
voice, with an elaborate caricature of French accent, in musical
cadence, but unmistakably English.
“A drunken officer,” said Thomas.
“Poor devil!”
We drew near among the people and saw a young officer arm in arm with
a French peasant--one of the market porters--telling a tale in broken
French to the audience about him, with comic gesticulations and
extraordinary volubility.
A woman put her hand on my shoulder and spoke in French.
“He has drunk too much bad wine. His legs walk away from him. He will
be in trouble, Monsieur. And a child--no older than my own boy who is
fighting in the Argonne.”
“Apportez-moi une bouteille de champagne, vite!...” said the young
officer. Then he waved his arm and said: “J'ai perdu mon cheval” (“A
kingdom for a bloody horse!”), “as Shakespeare said. Y a-t'il quelqu'un
qui a vu mon sacre cheval? In other words, if I don't find that
four-legged beast which led to my damnation I shall be shot at dawn.
Fusille, comprenez? On va me fusiller par un mur blanc--or is it une
mure blanche? quand l'aurore se leve avec les couleurs d'une rose et
l'odeur d'une jeune fille lavee et parfumee. Pretty good that, eh,
what? But the fact remains that unless I find my steed, my charger,
my war-horse, which in reality does not belong to me at all, because I
pinched it from the colonel, I shall be shot as sure as fate, and, alas!
I do not want to die. I am too young to die, and meanwhile I desire
encore une bouteille de champagne!”
The little crowd of citizens found a grim humor in this speech,
one-third of which they understood. They laughed coarsely, and a man
said:
“Quel drole de type! Quel numero!”
But the woman who had touched me on the sleeve spoke to me again.
“He says he has lost his horse and will be shot as a deserter. Those
things happen. My boy in the Argonne tells me that a comrade of his was
shot for hiding five days with his young woman. It would be sad if this
poor child should be condemned to death.”