"Asticot?"

"M'sieu'?"

"That was only one small scouting party of Uhlans. Perhaps there are

more of them along the river."

Asticot began to curse again, but Warner stopped him.

"Curb that charmingly fluent flow of classic eloquence," he said. "It

may sound well on the outer boulevards, but I don't care for it."

The _voyou_ gulped, swallowed a weird oath, and shivered.

"Asticot, that man Wildresse ought to be apprehended and shot. Have you

any idea where his hiding place is?"

"In the Bois d'Ausone. It _was_ there. Animals travel."

"Could you find the place?"

Asticot shrugged and rubbed his pock-marked nose. The forest of Ausone

was too near the cannon to suit him, and he said so without hesitation.

"Very well," said Warner. "When we meet any of our soldiers or

gendarmes you can explain where Wildresse has been hiding. He won't

come out, I suppose, until the occupation of Ausone by the Germans

reassures him. He ought to be caught and executed."

"If the cannon would only stop their ugly noises I'd go myself,"

muttered Asticot. "_Tenez, M'sieu'_, it would be a pleasure for me to

bleed that treacherous hog----"

"I don't doubt it," said Warner pleasantly, "but, odd as it may appear

to you, Asticot, I have a personal prejudice against murder. It's

weak-minded of me, I know. But if you have no objection, we'll let

military law catch Wildresse and deal with him if it can."

Asticot looked at him curiously:

"Is it then distasteful to M'sieu' that I bleed this _espece de_ pig for

him?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"You do not desire me to settle the business of this _limace_?"

"No."

"For what purpose is an enemy?" inquired the _voyou_. "For revenge.

And of what use is revenge if you do not use it on your enemy?"

"You can't understand me, can you, Asticot?"

"No," said Asticot naively, "I can't."

*CHAPTER XXX*

It was still very early as Warner walked up to the Golden Peach, but

Magda and Linette were astir and a delicious aroma of coffee floated

through the hallway.

Warner surveyed his most recent acquisition with a humorous and slightly

disgusted air. As it appeared impossible to get rid of Asticot, there

seemed nothing to do but to feed him.

So he called out Linette and asked her to give some breakfast to the

young _voyou_; and Linette showed Asticot into the bar and served

breakfast with a scorn and aloofness which fascinated Asticot and also

awed him.

None of the leering impudence, none of the easy effrontery of the outer

boulevards, aided Asticot to assert himself or helped him toward any

attempt at playfulness toward this wholesome, capable, business-like

young woman.

She served him with a detached and supercilious air, placed cover and

food with all the nonchalance of serving a house cat with its morning

milk. And Asticot dared not even look at her until her back was turned;

then only did he venture to lift his mousy eyes to study the

contemptuous girl who had provided him with what he spoke of as the

"_quoi d'boulotter_."

As for Warner, he had sauntered into the kitchen, where Madame Arlon

greeted him heartily, and was prettily confused and flattered when he

seated himself and insisted on having breakfast with her.

Over their cafe-au-lait they discussed the menace of invasion very

quietly, and the stout, cheery landlady told him that she had concluded

to keep the inn open in any event.

"What else is there for me to do?" she asked. "To leave my house is to

invite robbery; perhaps even destruction, if the Prussians arrive. I

had rather remain and protect my property if I can. At any rate, it

will not be for long, God willing!"

"I do not believe it will last very long, this headlong rush of the

Germans into France," he said thoughtfully. "It seems to me as though

they had the start of us, but nothing more serious. I'm very much

afraid we are going to see them here in the Recollette Valley before

they are driven back across the frontier."

Linette's cheeks grew very red.

"I had even rather serve that frightful _voyou_ in there than be forced

to set food before a Prussian," she said in a low voice.

"Wait a bit longer," said Warner. "--A little patience, perhaps a

little more humiliation, but, sooner or later, surely, surely the

liberation of the Vosges--the return of her lost children to France, the

driving out of German oppression, arrogance, and half-cooked

civilization forever.... It's worth waiting for, worth endurance and

patience and sacrifice."

"It is worth dying for," said Magda simply.

"If," added Linette, "one only knew how best to serve France by offering

one's life."

"It is best to live if that can be accomplished honorably," said Madame

Arlon. "France is in great need of all her children."

The three women spoke thoughtfully, naturally, with no idea of heroics,

expressing themselves without any self-consciousness whatever.

After a silence Warner said to Linette with a smile:

"So you don't admire my new assistant, Monsieur Asticot?"

"Monsieur Warner! That dreadful _voyou_ in _your_ service!"

Warner laughed:

"It seems so. I didn't invite him. But I can't get rid of him. He

sticks like a lost dog."

"Send him about his business--which doubtless is to pick pockets!" cried

Linette. "Monsieur has merely to whisper 'Gendarmes!' to him, and he

does not stop running until he sights the Eiffel Tower!"

Madame Arlon smiled:

"He really is a dreadful _type_," she said. "The perfume of Paris

gutters clings to him. Monsieur Warner had better get rid of him before

articles begin to be missed."

"Oh, well," remarked Warner, "he'll probably scuttle away like a scared

rabbit when the Germans come through Sais. I'm not worrying.

Meanwhile, he carries my field kit and washes brushes--if I ever can

make up my mind to begin painting again.... That heavy, steady thunder

from the north seems to take all ambition out of me."

"It affects me like real thunder," nodded Madame Arlon. "The air is

lifeless and dead; one's feet drag and one's head grows heavy. It is

like the languor which comes over one before a storm.

"Do the guns seem any louder to you since last night?"

"I was wondering.... Well, God's will be done.... But I do not believe

it is in His heart to turn the glory of His face from France.... Magda,

if we are to make the preserves today, it will be necessary for you to

gather plums this morning. Linette, is that type still eating?"

"He stuffs himself without pause," replied the girl scornfully. "Only a

guinea pig can eat like that!"

She went into the bar cafe and bent a pair of pretty but hostile eyes

upon Asticot, who stared at her with his mouth full, then, still

staring, buttered another slice of bread.

"Voyons," she said impatiently, "do you imagine yourself to be at

dinner, young man? Permit me to remind you that this is

breakfast--cafe-au-lait--not a banquet at the Hotel de Ville!"

"I am hungry," said Asticot simply.

"Really?" she retorted, exasperated. "One might almost guess as much,

what with the _tartines_ and _tranches_ you swallow as though you had

nothing else to do. Come, stand up on what I suppose you call your

feet. Your master is out in the road already, and I don't suppose that

even you have the effrontery to keep him waiting."

Asticot arose; a gorged sigh escaped him. He stretched himself with the

satisfaction of repletion, shuffled his feet, peeped cunningly and

sideways out of his mousy eyes at Linette.

"_Allons_," she said coldly, "it's paid for. Fichez-moi le camp!"

There was a vase of flowers on the bar. Asticot shuffled over, sniffed

at them, extracted the largest and gaudiest blossom--a yellow

dahlia--and, with a half bold, half scared smirk, laid it on the table

as an offering to Linette.

The girl was too much astonished and incensed to utter a word, and

Asticot left so hurriedly that when she had recovered her power of

speech he was already slouching along down the road a few paces behind

Warner.

The latter had hastened his steps because ahead of him walked Sister

Eila; and he meant to overtake and escort her as far as the school, and

then back to the Chateau, if she were returning.

As he joined her and they exchanged grave but friendly greetings, he

suddenly remembered her as he had last seen her, kneeling asleep by the

chapel pillar.

And then he recollected what she had murmured, still drowsy with dreams;

and the memory of it perplexed him and left his face flushed and

troubled.

"How is your patient, Sister?" he inquired, dropping into step beside

her.

"Much better, Mr. Warner. A little care is all he needs. But I wish

his mind were at rest." She glanced behind her at Asticot, plainly

wondering who he might be.

"What worries Gray?" inquired Warner.

"The prospect of being taken prisoner, I suppose."

"Of course. If the Germans break through from the north they'll take

him along. That would be pretty hard luck, wouldn't it?--To be taken

before one has even a taste of battle!"

Sister Eila nodded:

"He says nothing, but I know that is what troubles him. When I came in

this morning, I found him up and trying to walk. I sent him back to

bed. But he tells me he does not need to use his legs in his branch of

the British service, and that if he could only get to Chalons he would

be fit for duty. I think, from things he has said, that both he and Mr.

Halkett belong to the Flying Corps."

Warner was immensely interested. Sister Eila told him briefly why she

suspected this to be true, then, casting another perplexed glance behind

her, she asked in a low voice who might be the extremely unprepossessing

individual shuffling along the road behind them. And Warner told her,

humorously; but she did not smile.

Watching her downcast eyes and grave lips in the transparent shadow of

her white coiffe, he thought he had never seen a human face so pure, so

tender--with such infinite capacity for charity.

She said very gently:

"My duties have led me more than once into the Faubourgs. There is

nothing sadder to me than Paris.... Always I have believed that sin and

degradation among the poor should be treated as diseases of the mind....

Poor things--they have no doctor, no medicines, no hospital to aid them

in their illness--the most terrible illness in the world, which they

inherit at birth--poverty! Poverty sickens the body, and at last the

mind; and from a diseased mind all evil in the world is born.... They

are not to blame who daily crucify Christ; for they know not what they

do."

He walked silently beside her. She spoke again of crippled minds, and

of the responsibility of civilization, then looked up at his gloomy

visage with a faint smile, excusing herself for any lack of cheerfulness

and courage.

"Indeed," she said almost gayly, "God is best served with a light heart,

I think. There is no palladin like good humor to subdue terror and slay

despair; no ally of Christ so powerful as he who laughs when evil

threatens. Sin is most easily slain with a smile, I think; its germs

die under it as bacilli die in the sunlight. _Tenez_, Monsieur Warner,

what do you think of my theories of medicine, moral, spiritual, and

mundane? Is it likely that the Academy will award me palms?"

He laughed and assured her that her views were sound in theory and in

practice. A moment later they came in sight of the school.

"It is necessary that I make some little arrangements with Sister

Felicite for my absence," she explained. "I scarcely know what she is

going to do all alone here, if the children are to remain."

They went into the schoolroom, where exercises had already begun, and

the droning, minor singsong of children filled the heavy air.

Sister Felicite greeted Warner, then, dismissing the children to their

desks, withdrew to a corner of the schoolroom with Sister Eila.

Their low-voiced consultation lasted for a few minutes only; the little

girls, hands solemnly folded, watched out of wide, serious eyes.

On the doorstep outside, Asticot sat and occasionally scratched his

large ears with a sort of bored embarrassment.

Warner went out to the doorstep presently and looked up at the sky,

which threatened rain. As he stood there, silent, preoccupied, Sister

Eila came out with Sister Felicite, nodding to Warner that she was ready

to leave. And, at the same instant, two horsemen in grey uniforms rode

around the corner of the school, pistols lifted, lances without pennons

slanting backward from their armslings.

Asticot, paralyzed, gaped at them; Warner, as shocked as he, stood

motionless as four more Uhlans came trotting up and coolly drew bridle

before the school.

Already three of the Uhlans had dismounted, stacked lances, abandoning

their bridles to the three who remained on their horses.

As they came striding across the road toward the school, spurs and

carbines clinking and rattling, a child in the schoolroom caught sight

of them and screamed.

Instantly the room was filled with the terrified cries of little girls:

Sister Eila and Sister Felicite, pale but calm, backed slowly away

before the advancing Uhlans, their arms outstretched in protection in

front of the shrieking, huddling herd of children. Behind them the

terrified little girls crouched under desks, hid behind the stove, or

knelt clinging hysterically to the grey-blue habits of the Sisters, who

continued to interpose themselves between the Uhlans and their

panic-stricken pupils.

The Uhlans glanced contemptuously at Asticot as they mounted the door

steps, looked more closely at Warner; then one of them walked, clanking,

into the schoolroom, lifting his gloved hand to his helmet in salute.

Sister Felicite tried vainly to quiet the screaming children; Sister

Eila, her head high, confronted the Uhlans, both arms extended.

"Stop where you are!" she said coolly. "What do you wish, gentlemen?

Don't you see that you are frightening our children? If you desire to

speak to us we will go outside."

An Uhlan clumsily tried to reassure and make friends with a little girl

who had hidden herself behind the stove. She fled from him, sobbing,

and threw herself on her knees behind Sister Eila, hanging to her

skirts.

"Pas mechant," repeated the big cavalryman, with a good-natured grin;

"moi, pere de famille! Beaucoup enfants a moi. Pas peur de moi. Vous

est bon Francais."

Another Uhlan pointed inquiringly at Warner, who had placed himself

beside Sister Felicite.

"_Anglais?_" he demanded.

"American," said Sister Eila calmly.

"Oh," he exclaimed with a wry grin. "Americans are our friends.

Frenchmen have our respect. We salute them as brave enemies. But not

the English! Therefore, do not be afraid. We Germans mean no harm to

peaceful people. You shall see; we are not barbarians! Tell your

children we are not ogres."

He stood tall and erect in his grey, close-fitting uniform, looking

curiously about him. The plastron of the tunic, or _ulanka_, was piped

with yellow, and bore the _galons_ and the heraldic buttons of a

_Feldwebel_. The shoulder strap bore the number 3; the boots and belt

were of tan-colored leather; all metal work was mat-silver; spurs,

saber, were oxidized; and the oddly shaped helmet, surmounted by the

mortar board, was covered with a brown holland slip bearing the

regimental number.

The children had become deathly silent, staring with wide and frightened

eyes upon these tall intruders; the Sisters of Charity stood motionless,

calm, level-eyed; Warner, wondering why the Uhlans had entered the

school, had drawn Sister Eila's arm through his, and remained beside her

watching the Germans with undisturbed curiosity and professional

interest. Afterward his well-known picture of the incident was bought

by the French Government.

The _Wachtmeister_ in charge of the peloton turned to him with a sort of

insolent civility.

"Wie viel Kilometer ist es bis Ausone?" he inquired.

Warner made no reply.

"Wie heisst dieser Ort?" The Wachtmeister had raised his voice

insolently.

"Sais," replied Warner carelessly.

"Sind hier deutsche Truppen durchmarschiert?"

Warner remained silent.

"Sind deutsche Truppen im Walde?"

"There is no use asking an American for information," said Warner

bluntly. "You'll get none from me."

Instantly the man's face changed.

"So! Eh, bien! Qui cherche a s'esquiver sera fusille!" he said in

excellent French. "Unlock every door in the house. If there are any

dogs tie them up. If they bark, you will be held responsible. Don't

move! Keep those children where they are until we have finished!"

He nodded to a trooper behind him. The Uhlan instantly drew a short

hammer and a cold chisel from his pouch, knelt down, and with incredible

rapidity ripped up a plank from the hardwood floor, laying bare to view

the solid concrete underneath.

"Sound it!"

The trooper sounded the concrete with the heavy butt of his chisel.

"All right!" The non-com touched his schapska in salute to the Sisters

of Charity. "Take your children away before noon. We need this place.

German troops will occupy it in half an hour." Then he swung around and

shot an ugly glance at Warner.

"If you are as neutral as you pretend to be, see that you are equally

reticent toward the French when we let you go.... You may be American,

but you behave like an Englishman. You annoy me; do you understand?"

Warner shrugged his shoulders.

"What do you mean by that gesture of disrespect?" demanded the Uhlan

sharply.

"I mean that you ask improper questions and you know it!"

"I ask what I choose to ask!" he said angrily. "I think I shall take

you with us, anyway, and not leave you here!"

"You'll only get into trouble with my Government and your own----"

"Take that man!" shouted the Uhlan in a passion. "I'll find out what he

is----"

A shot rang loudly from the road outside; the Uhlans turned in

astonishment, then ran for the door where their comrades flung them

their bridles. They seized their lances and scrambled into their

saddles, still disconcerted and apparently incredulous of any serious

danger to themselves. Then another Uhlan who had cantered off down the

road suddenly fired from his saddle; the others, bending forward,

scanned the road intently for a moment; then the whole peloton swung

their horses, spurred over the ditch and up the grassy bank, trotted in

single file through the hedge gate, and, putting their horses to a

gallop, headed straight across the meadow toward the river and the

quarry bridge beyond.

They had reached the river willows and were already galloping through

them when, far away toward the south end of the meadow, a horseman

trotted into view, drew bridle, fired at the Uhlans, then launched his

horse into a dead run toward them, disengaging his lance from which a

pennon flew gayly.

After him, bending forward in their saddles, came two score riders in

pale blue jackets, lances advanced, urging their wiry horses, spurring

hard to intercept the Uhlans.

But the Germans, who had gained the bridge, were now galloping over it,

and they disappeared amid a distant racket of shots.

To the spectators at the school door, it all looked like a pretty,

harmless, unreal scene artistically composed and arranged for

moving-picture purposes; the wide, flat green meadow was now swarming

with the pale blue and white laced dolmans of French hussar lancers.

Everywhere they were galloping, trotting, maneuvering; a section of a

light battery appeared, drew rapidly nearer, went plunging across the

meadow hub-deep in wild flowers, swung the guns and dropped them at the

bridge, making the demi-tour at a gallop.

Back came the caissons, still at a gallop; the dark, distant figures of

the cannoniers moved rapidly for a moment around each gun; a tiny figure

held up one arm, dropped it; crack! echoed the report of the

field-piece; up went the arm, down it jerked; crack! went the other.

From a front room overhead Warner and Sister Eila were leaning out and

watching the lively spectacle along the river.

"It looks to me," he said, "as though the Germans were in the cement

works.... By George! They are! The yards and quarries are alive with

their cavalry! Look! Did you see that shell hit the stone crusher?

There goes another. The big chimney on the Esser Works is

falling--look!--down it comes! Our gunners have knocked it into dust!"

Another section of artillery came plunging into view across the meadows,

the drivers spurring and lashing, the powerful horses bounding forward,

and the guns jumping and bouncing over the uneven ground.

It was like a picture book--exactly what the layman expects of a

battle--a wide, unobstructed view over a flat green meadow, artillery at

a gallop with officers spurring ahead; brilliantly uniformed cavalry

arriving in ever-increasing squadrons, some dismounting and deploying,

others drawn up here and there under serried thickets of lances. But

there was no smoke, only a dusky, translucent haze clinging for a moment

to the gun muzzles; no enemy in sight save for a scrambling dot here and

there among the quarry hills where, from the cement works, a cloud of

dust rose and widened, veiling the trees and hillsides.

For a while the lively rattle of the fusillade continued, but in a few

minutes a six-gun battery arrived and went into ear-splitting action,

almost instantly extinguishing the German fire from the quarry. A few

more ragged volleys came, then only dropping shots from their carbines

as the hussars rode forward and broke into a gallop across the quarry

bridge.

More cavalry was arriving all the while, dragoons and

_chasseurs-a-cheval_, all riding leisurely toward the quarry. More

artillery was coming, too, clanking and bumping up the road, a great

jolting column of field batteries, not in a hurry, paying little

attention to the lively proceedings across the river, where the German

cavalry was retreating over the rolling country toward the eastern hills

and the blue hussars were riding after them.

The artillery passed the school and continued on toward Ausone. Behind

them came infantry with their swinging, slouchy stride, route step,

mildly interested in the doings of the cavalry in the meadow, more

interested in the Sisters of Charity leaning from the schoolhouse

windows and the excited children crowding at the open door.

Not very far beyond the school a regiment turned out into a stubble

field and stacked arms. Other regiments swung out east and west along

the Route de Sais, stacked arms, let go sacks, and went to work with

picks and spades.

More artillery rumbled by; then came some engineers and a pontoon train

which turned out toward the river opposite the school after the

engineers had opened a way through the hedge stile.

Sister Eila and Warner had returned from the upper story to stand on the

doorstep among the children.

"One thing is certain," he said in her ear; "Sister Felicite will have

to take the children away tonight. The infantry yonder are intrenching,

and all these wagons and material that are passing mean that the valley

is to be defended."

The young Sister nodded and whispered to Sister Felicite, who looked

very grave.

Some odd-looking, long, flat motor trucks were lumbering by; the freight

which they carried was carefully covered with brown canvas. Other

trucks were piled high with sections of corrugated iron, hollow steel

tubes, and bundles of matched boards and planking.

For these vehicles there was a dragoon escort.

"Aeroplanes and material for portable sheds," said Warner. "They intend

to erect hangars. There is going to be trouble in the valley of the

Recollette."

He turned and looked out and around him, and saw the valley already

alive with soldiers. Across the river on the quarry road they were also

moving now, cavalry and artillery; and, as far as he could follow

eastward with his eye, red-legged soldiers were continuing the lines of

trenches already begun on this side of the river.

An officer of hussars rode up, saluted the Sisters and Warner, glanced

sharply at Asticot, who had flattened himself against the vines on the

schoolhouse wall, and, leaning forward from his saddle, asked if the

German cavalry had been there that morning.

"Six Uhlans, _mon capitaine_," said Warner. "They ripped up a plank

from the floor; I can't imagine why. You can see it through the door

from where you sit your saddle."

The officer rode up close to the steps and looked into the schoolroom.

"Thank you, Monsieur. You see what they've done, I suppose?"

"No, I didn't understand."

"It is simple. The Esser cement works across the river built this

school two years ago. It's a German concern. While they were about it

they laid down a few cement gun platforms--with an eye to this very

moment which confronts us now."

He shrugged his shoulders:

"The Esser cement works over there are full of gun emplacements in

cement, masquerading as pits, retaining walls, foundations, and other

peaceful necessities. A British officer discovered all this only a few

days ago----"

"Captain Halkett!" exclaimed Warner, inspired.

The Hussar glanced at him, surprised and smiling.

"Yes, Monsieur. Are you acquainted with Captain Halkett?"

"Indeed, I am! And," he turned to the Sisters of Charity, "he is a good

friend of all of us."

"He is my friend, also," said the Hussar warmly. "He has told me about

Sais and how, masquerading as a quarry workman one evening, he

discovered gun platforms along the Recollette and among the quarries.

You understand they were very cunning, those Germans, and the cement

works and quarries of Herr Heinrich von Esser are all ready to turn

those hills yonder into a fortress. Which," he added, laughing, "we may

find very convenient."

Sister Eila, standing beside the horse's head, stroked it, looking up at

the officer out of grave eyes.

"Is Captain Halkett well?" she asked calmly.

"I think so, Sister. I saw him yesterday."

"If you see him again, would you say to him that Captain Gray is at the

Chateau des Oiseaux recovering from an accident?"

"Yes, I will tell him, Sister; but he must be around here somewhere----"

"Here!" exclaimed Warner.

"Why, yes. Our aeroplanes have just passed through. A British Bristol

biplane is among them in charge of a flight-lieutenant--Ferris, I think

his name is. Captain Halkett ought to be somewhere about. Possibly he

may be superintending the disembarkment and the erection of the sheds."

He pointed northwest, adding that he understood the sheds were to be

erected on the level stretch of fields beyond the school.

"However, I shall give him your message, Sister, if I meet him," he

said, saluted them ceremoniously in turn, cast another puzzled and

slightly suspicious glance at Asticot, and rode away.

"I should like to find Halkett," said Warner. "I certainly should like

to see him again. We had become friends, you see. Shall we walk back

that way across the fields, Sister Eila?"

Sister Eila turned to Sister Felicite. Her color was high, but she

spoke very calmly:

"Had I not better remain with you and help you close the school?"

Sister Felicite shook her head vigorously:

"I can attend to that if it becomes necessary. I shall not budge unless

I am called to field duty."

"But the children? Had I not better take some of them home?"

"There's time enough. If there is going to be any danger to them, I can

arrange all that."

Sister Eila hesitated, her lovely head lowered.

"If we could find Halkett on our way back," said Warner, "I think he

would be very glad to hear from us that Gray is alive."

Sister Eila nodded in silence; Warner made his adieux; the Sisters of

Charity consulted together a moment, then the American and Sister Eila

went out through the rear door and through the little garden. And at

their heels shuffled Asticot, furtively chewing a purloined apple.

*CHAPTER XXXI*

As they reached the plateau above the school and halted for a few

moments to look back across the valley of the Recollette, Warner began

to understand.

The cannonading in the north had ceased. On every road, in whichever

direction he looked, troops, artillery, and wagons were moving eastward.

This was no mere cavalry reconnoissance; it was a serious offensive

movement in force toward the east. Eastward and south lay the Vosges;

beyond, the lost provinces stretched away in green valleys toward the

Rhine.

There lay the objective of this movement which was based on the great

Barrier Forts from Verdun to Toul, from Toul to Nancy and Luneville,

southward to Epinal, to the great, grim citadel of Belfort.

This was no raid, no feint, no diversion made by a flying corps along

the frontier. A great screen of cavalry was brushing back every hostile

scout toward the mountains; the contact at the cement works was a mere

detail. Nor was this movement directed toward the north, where the

Grand Duchy was crawling alive with Prussians already battering at the

"Iron Gate of France."

No, the guns of Longwy were not calling these French horsemen north,

whatever was happening at Verdun or along the Moselle. Their helmets

were moving toward the east, toward the passes of the Vosges where

Alsace lay, and Lorraine. Metz, Strassburg, Colmar, Muelhausen,

beckoned from every tall tower, every gable, every spire. It was

invasion! Armed France was riding toward the rising sun.

Sister Eila's pale, intelligent face was lifted to the distant horizon;

her clear, exalted gaze made it plain to him that she, also, had begun

to understand.

As for Asticot, he was finishing the core of his apple and watching

details in the vast panorama out of his tiny mouse-eyes; and whether he

understood or cared to understand no man might say. For the minds of

little animals must remain inscrutable.

Near them, on the grassy plateau, soldiers were unloading portable sheds

in sections and erecting them; others were leveling hedges, felling

small, isolated trees, uprooting bushes, and clearing away a line of

wire pasture fencing.

Evidently this plateau was to be a base for some of the airmen operating

along the Vosges or possibly, also, north and east from Verdun.

As they moved forward he looked about for a British uniform, but saw

none. A soldier informed them that there were no British troops

attached to the army of General Pau as far as he knew; two or three

cavalry officers politely confirmed the statement, taking Warner to be

an Englishman.

It was not until, following the deeply trodden sheep-walk, they passed

the silver birch woods that they had any news of Halkett.

A squadron of hussars was already bivouacked there; their wagons were

coming across the fields from the Dreslin road; officers, men, and

horses had taken advantage of the woods to escape observation from

air-scouts; and three batteries of artillery were parked in the Foret de

Sais, where the cannoniers had already begun to cover everything with

green branches.

As they passed through the Foret de Sais, out of which a shepherd with

his shaggy dogs was driving his flock, they overtook an officer of

hussars on foot, sauntering along the same path, a lighted cigarette

between his white-gloved fingers.

He stepped aside into the bracken, courteously, in deference to Sister

Eila, and lifted his hand to his shako in salute. But when he caught

sight of Warner he stepped forward with a quick, boyish smile and held

out his hand.

"Do you remember me?--D'Aures? This is Monsieur Warner, is it not?"

They exchanged a handclasp; Warner presented him to Sister Eila.

"This is exceedingly nice," said the American cordially. "We--Sister

Eila and I--are returning to the Chateau. I hope you will come with

us."

"If I may venture to pay my respects----"

"You will be welcome, I know." He added, laughing: "Also, the ladies

will be most interested in the fate of their horses and their

automobiles."

The Vicomte d'Aures reddened, but laughed:

"The Countess was most gracious, most patriotic," he said. "But one

could expect nothing less from a De Moidrey. Nevertheless, I felt like

a bandit that evening. I left them only a basket wagon and a donkey."

"Which have been greatly appreciated, Monsieur," said Sister Eila,

smiling. And she told him about the removal of Captain Gray from the

school to the Chateau.

"Oh, by the way," exclaimed D'Aures, "we have a British aviator with

us--a friend of yours, Sister Eila, and of Mr. Warner."

"Halkett!"

"Yes, indeed. It appears that Captain Halkett has specialized in this

region, so he has been assigned to us. I have the honor of a personal

acquaintance with him."

"Where is he?" asked Warner.

"He is near here somewhere. His machine, a Bristol, is to be parked

with ours on the plateau yonder. I think they are erecting the hangars

now."

They entered the wicket of the lodge gate and advanced along the drive

toward the house.

Warner said:

"All this movement means the invasion of Alsace-Lorraine, I take it."

D'Aures nodded.

"Could you give me an idea of the situation as it stands, Captain?"

"I can only guess. Briefly, we are moving on Strassburg from the Donon

peaks to Chateau-Salins. As I understand it, our armies now stretch

from the Sambre to the Seine, from the Meuse to the Oise.

"I can tell you only what is gossiped about among cavalry officers. We

believe that we are leading a great counter-offensive movement; that it

is our General Joffre's strategy to drive the Germans out of upper

Alsace, block Metz and Strassburg, and, holding them there in our steel

pincers, let loose our army on their flank and rear."

"And Longwy? And this drive just north of us at Ausone?"

D'Aures smiled.

"Can you still hear the cannonade?"

They halted to listen; there was no longer that deadly rumor from the

north.

"Verdun and Toul are taking care of that raid, I think," said D'Aures

pleasantly. "It comes from Metz, of course. Verdun must look out for

the country between it and Longwy, too. That is not _our_ route. Ours

lies by Nancy toward Vic and Moyenvic, and through Altkirch to

Muelhausen, and _then_--" he laughed--"it does not become a Frenchman to

prophesy or boast. There were too many dreamers in 1870.

"I am telling merely the gossip of our camps. It is human to gossip

when the day's work is over. But for the rest--route step and plod

ahead!--That is what counts, not bragging or splendid dreams."

When they reached the terrace Warner fell back to speak to Asticot.

"I've arranged for you at the Golden Peach. Madame Arlon knows." He

handed Asticot a key. "There's plenty to do in my studio down there.

Get some wood and make cases for my canvases. Cover the _chassis_ with

_toile_ and prime them with white lead. Use an ivory palette knife and

let them have the sun when there is any and when there is no wind and

dust. That will keep you busy until I send for you. Do you

comprehend?"

"Yes, M'sieu'.... May I not walk behind M'sieu' when he takes the air?"

Warner scowled at him, but he looked so exactly like a shiftless,

disreputable and mongrel dog who timidly desires to linger, yet is

fearful of a kick, that the American laughed.

"A fine bargain I have in you!" he said. "You prefer rambling to work,

it appears!"

"I prefer the vicinity of M'sieu'," said Asticot naively.

"Go back to the inn and see if you can do an honest hour's work!"

retorted Warner; and he turned and rejoined Sister Eila, who had taken

D'Aures up the steps of the terrace.

It appeared that the ladies were on the north terrace. On the way

through the hall, Sister Eila excused herself and mounted the stairs for

a look-in on Gray. At the same moment, Peggy Brooks came out of the

billiard room, saw D'Aures, recognized him.

"Oh," she said, extending her hand, "I am so glad you have come back!

How is my Minerva runabout?"

"I'm sorry I don't know," he replied, blushing; "I didn't steal it for

myself, you see."

"You _didn't_ steal it! It's a gift. It's mine to give. I give it to

_you_! My sister took all the credit of giving away the horses and

cars. But I insist on your having my Minerva runabout. It's a charming

car. You'll fall in love with it if they let you drive it. Come out to

the terrace and speak to my sister and to my dearest friend, Philippa

Wildresse."

Warner, much amused to observe the capture of this young man, followed

them out to the south terrace.

He certainly was an ornamental young man of enchanting manners, and his

popularity was immediate.

To Warner Philippa came presently:

"Where have you been?" she asked. "And couldn't you have taken me?"

"Dear child, I was out before sunrise prowling about the hills with that

vagabond at my heels--Asticot."

"What did you see?"

"Uhlans on Vineyard Hill, across the Recollette. Wildresse was with

them."

"He!"

"Yes, the miserable spy! If he's not gone clear away some of D'Aures'

men had better try to round him up and get rid of him.... After that,

Sister Eila and I went to the school. More Uhlans came sniffing around,

but they cleared out in a hurry when our cavalry appeared. Our

artillery shelled the Germans out of the Esser quarries--you must have

heard the firing?"

"Yes. We all thought that the Germans had arrived. Poor Mr. Gray

looked so disgusted!"

"Philippa, Halkett is here somewhere."

"Oh!" she exclaimed happily.

"He's here with his machine--an aeroplane of sorts--Bristol, I believe.

No doubt he'll come up to the house when he has a chance. I suppose

Sister Eila has gone up to tell Gray."

They had strolled around to the eastern parapet and now stood looking

out over the tree tops.

"What has happened at Ausone?" she asked. "The cannon have stopped

firing."

"I saw Ausone burning from Vineyard Hill. It's all knocked to pieces,

Philippa. What I think has happened is this: troops from Verdun and

Toul--perhaps from Chalons--have entered Ausone in time to save the

fort. I suppose our infantry are intrenched along the Recollette and

that there is going to be more fighting in Ausone Forest, which must be

full of Germans."

"You don't think they'll come here?"

"I don't know. The army which you see below us everywhere in the valley

is probably on its way to invade Alsace. D'Aures thinks so. I suppose

this line will be defended. We shall hear more cannonading, I fancy.

Anyway, they are digging trenches to fall back on."

"Where?"

"Along the Recollette."

From where they were leaning on the stone balustrade, they could see

pontoons spanning the river. Across them troops and wagons were passing;

through every ford cavalry were splashing; the quarry bridge and road

were packed with motor trucks escorted by cavalry; and on the Sais

highway artillery was still passing toward Ausone.

Her cheeks framed by her hands, elbows on the parapet, Philippa gazed at

the moving host below. She wore a thin white gown; a scarf fell from

her shoulders; her thick, beautiful hair was full of ruddy gleams,

accenting the snowy neck and throat.

"If I set up my easel will you let me have a try at you?" he asked.

"Yes, but you've had no luncheon. I'll bring you something, and you can

arrange your canvas while I'm gone."

But they found Sister Eila had arranged for him to lunch with Gray, so

he sat with that battered and patient Englishman, chatting, watching the

troops in the valley from the open window, and lunching comfortably.

Sister Eila glanced in, smiled, then went lightly away toward the

eastern wing of the house, where fresh consignments of bandages were to

be sterilized and stored in Red Cross boxes--gauze rolls, plugs for

bullet wounds, body bandages, fracture bandages, arm slings, rolls of

unbleached muslin, of cotton, of gauze.

As she passed the open door of the chapel, she halted, faced the altar

and made her reverence. Then, crossing herself, she rose erect, turned

to continue her way, and encountered Halkett face to face.

A bright flush leaped to her cheeks; his own face reddened to his hair

under the bronze coat of tan.

"I am so glad to see you," she said steadily, offering her hand. "We

heard you were in Sais with your aeroplane. How did you happen to come

into the east wing? It must have been closed when you were here

before?"

"I have never before been in this house. I saw you cross the court as I

mounted the terrace steps." He tried to ease the constraint in his

voice. "I wanted to speak to you--first of anybody--in Sais.... Are

you well?"

"Perfectly. And you, Captain Halkett?"

"You seem thinner. You do not spare yourself."

"We scarcely have time to think of ourselves," she said, smiling. "I am

trying to fit up a little hospital here; Madame de Moidrey offers the

house."

"I understand that my friend, Captain Gray, is here?"

"Poor boy! I must not detain you any longer. You will desire to pay

your respects to Madame de Moidrey and her sister and to the beautiful

Miss Wildresse----"

"Philippa! Here?"

"You know her? Is she not lovely? I find her charming. And--so should

all young men," she added with a little laugh. "Therefore--I shall no

longer detain you, Captain Halkett----"

"May I--hope to see you again?"

"I hope so, indeed," she replied cheerfully. "Do you remain for a while

in Sais?"

"For a while, I think."

There fell a silence, which became a little strained. Sister Eila looked

up at him from lowered eyes; then her face went white and she laid her

hand flat against the chapel wall beside her, as though for support.

"Then--if I may hope to see you again--inspect your hospital,

perhaps----"

She nodded, still leaning on the chapel wall.

So he went away swiftly, very straight in his field uniform, and she saw

him cross the court, head erect, looking directly before him as though

he saw nothing.

An immense fatigue seemed to weight her; still supporting herself

against the wall, she turned and looked at the chapel door. Even on

that grey day the light within was golden from the old glass.

Into that mellow stillness crept Sister Eila, her young head drooping,

the metal crucifix swinging at her girdle from its rosary of wooden

beads.

The painted saints stared at her; the painted angels all stood watching

her; the Mother of God looked out from the manger, brooding,

preoccupied, wonder-eyed; but the Child at her breast was smiling.

Then down on her knees fell Sister Eila; her slim hands clasped, clung,

tightened, parted, and covered her face convulsively.

Very far away in the valley a trumpet spoke.

*CHAPTER XXXII*

Warner began the full-length portrait--which has now become famous under

the title "Philippa Passes"--in the main hall of the Chateau.

A clear light fell through the northern and eastern windows; from the

golden gloom above generations of De Moidreys looked down upon the fair

girl who stood in their great hall as tranquil and unconscious as though

born within the carved gray walls which they had built or added to in

years long dead.

He had chosen for the pose a moment when, as she was in the act of

passing in front of him, a word from him had checked her and caused her

to turn her head.

There he held her as she had paused, poised on the very edge of motion,

her enchanting head turned and the grey eyes meeting his.

Already on his canvas he had caught her; an odd sensation of cold,

clear-minded exaltation seemed to possess him as he worked--a calm,

strange certainty of himself and of the work in hand.

There was no hesitation, no doubt within him, only a sustained

excitement under unerring control. He knew what he wanted; he knew that

he was doing methodically what he wanted to do with every unhurried

brush stroke.

There was no halting, no searching, no checks; his mind had never been

so absolutely in control of his hand; his hand never so automatically

obedient, his intelligence never before so clear, so logical, so steady

under the incessant lightning of inspiration.

Conscious of the tremendous tension, he knew he was equal to it--knew

that no weakness of impulse or of sentiment could swerve him, unsteady

him, meddle with his brain or his nerves or his hand.

Nothing could stop him from doing what he had to do, nothing could

tamper with this newborn confidence which had suddenly possessed him

with its unlooked for magic.

He was painting Philippa as he had known her from the beginning; as he

had prophesied; as she had been revealed--a young girl with grey eyes

and chestnut hair, fine of limb, with the shadow of a smile on her

wistful lips, and "her soul as clean as a flame."

So certain was he of what he was about that to Philippa he seemed to

work very leisurely, wiping brush after brush with unhurried

deliberation, laying on stroke after stroke with that quiet decision

which accumulates and cooerdinates component parts into a result so

swiftly that an ensemble is born as though by magic.

A few great pictures are painted that way; myriads of bad ones. If he

thought of this it did not trouble him. Already, on his canvas, the

soul of a young girl was looking at him through those grey eyes; on the

fresh lips, scarce parted, hovered the shadow of a smile, virginal and

vague.

He felt the splendid tension; experienced the consciousness of

achievement, steeled every nerve, wiped his brushes with deliberation,

drew them across the edges of the colors needed, scarcely glancing at

his palette, laid on the brush stroke with the precision of finality.

From where he had slung his tall canvas between two ancient, high-backed

chairs as an improvised easel, he could see the northern terrace and the

people gathered there--Madame de Moidrey in animated conversation with

Halkett; Peggy knitting fitfully and looking over her clicking needles

at the youthful Vicomte d'Aures, who had pushed aside the tea table in

order to obtain an unobstructed view of this American girl who was

making his boyish head spin.

Beyond them, on a steamer chair, lay Gray. Sister Eila sat beside him

sewing. There was conversation between them and Madame de Moidrey and

Halkett--across and across, cat-cradle fashion--but it passed through

Peggy and D'Aures unheeded, as wireless in the upper air currents; and

the Countess glanced occasionally at her sister or let her eyes rest on

D'Aures now and then with a pleasant, preoccupied air, as though

considering other things than those which were passing under her pretty

nose.

From time to time Philippa came around to where Warner stood before his

canvas, and remained beside him in silence while he studied what he had

done.

Once he looked up questioningly; the girl took possession of his right

arm with both of hers and rested her cheek lightly against his shoulder.

No words could have praised or reassured him as eloquently. And he

understood that what he had done was, to her, worthy of all she believed

him to be--matchless, wonderful, and hers.

The light had failed a little in the early August sky, but the clouds

had cleared and the sun glittered in the west. There was light to work

by, yet.

He clothed his canvas in a mystery of cobweb shadow: behind her there

was a dull gleam of duller tapestry; delicate half-lights made the

picture vague, so that the "clean flame" of her seemed the source of all

light, its origin, making exquisite the clear, young eyes.

He knew that what he had painted was already a fit companion to be

placed among the matchless company looking down on them from the walls

through a delicate bloom of dust.

What he had done belonged here, as she herself belonged here between

these old-time walls and the ancient roof above. And every corridor,

every room, every terrace, would be the sweeter, the fresher, for her

lingering before she passed on her life's journey through an old and

worn-out world.

"Philippa passes," he said, thinking aloud.

She looked up, smiled.

"Only where you lead her, shall Philippa pass," she murmured.

"It is to be the title of your portrait.... Would you care to look at

it now? There is not so much more to do to it, I think...."

She came around and stood silently beside him.

"Is it you?" he asked.

"My other self.... I had not supposed you knew her--so deeply--so

intimately--more intimately than I myself seem to know her."

He laughed gently.

"Heart of a child," he said, half to himself.

"Heart of a man," she answered. "What have I done to deserve you? How

can you be so patient with me? ... You, a man already grown,

distinguished, ripe with wisdom.... I don't know why you should annoy

yourself with me.... It is too wonderful--why you should be my

friend--my friend----"

"There is something far more wonderful, Philippa--that you should be my

friend. Didn't you know it?"

She laughed.

"I wonder if you know what I would do for you? There is nothing you

could ask of me that I would not do----"

She ceased, her voice threatening unsteadiness, but her eyes were clear

and she was smiling.

"Words are idle things," she added calmly, "and not necessary, I think,

between you and me.... Only, sometimes I feel--a need of telling

you--of my devotion.... There have been lonely years--friendless--and a

heart sickens under eternal silence--needing an opportunity for

self-expression----"

"I know, dear."

"I know you do.... You are very kind to me."

"Philippa, I care more for you than I do for any living person!"

The lovely surprise in her face flushed her to her hair. She looked at

him out of confused, incredulous eyes, strove to smile, caught her

trembling lip between her teeth.

"Didn't you know it?" he said in a low voice.

She tried to answer, turned sharply and faced the windows with blurred

eyes that saw only a glimmering sheet of light there.

He stood motionless, looking at her, intent upon the sudden confusion in

his own brain, realizing it, trying to explain it, analyze it coolly,

calmly account for it.

If it were any emotion resembling love which was so utterly possessing

him, he chose to know it, to inform himself as to the real significance

of this loss of logical equilibrium, this mental inadequacy which began

to resemble a sort of chaos.

Was he in love with this girl? Was it love? Was this what it all had

meant--all, from the very beginning, through all its coincidences,

accidents, successive steps and stages?

And suddenly a terrible timidity seized him. Suppose she knew what he

was thinking about! What would she think? What would she do? Where

would her confidence go? What would become of her trust in him? What

would happen to her implicit faith in him?

Of one thing he was suddenly and absolutely certain; love had never

entered her mind, never lodged in her heart, never troubled that candid

gaze, never altered her fearless smile. With all her devotion to him,

all her passionate attachment of a child, never had anything as

deep--never had any emotion as profound as love disturbed the mystery of

depths where dwelt in virginal immaturity the soul of her, "clean as a

flame--"

As for himself--where he now stood--whither he was being led by

something which was not reason, not intention, he did not seem able to

understand.

The light in the room had become too uncertain to paint by; he released

his canvas and carried it away behind a tapestry, setting it slanting,

face to the stone wall.

The brushes, mediums, palette, he left on the palette table and pushed

it into a corner behind a sofa, where nobody was likely to fall over it

before he gave brushes and palette to Asticot to clean.

All the while Philippa stood looking out of the window over the tree

tops, her young heart and brain on fire with happiness and throbbing

with the wonder of her first innocent passion.

With it, for the first time, had come something she never before had

known with Warner--something indefinite, new, inexplicable--a vague

sense of shyness almost painful at instants--a consciousness of herself

that she had never known--a subtle, instinctive realization of her own

maturity which left a faintly delicious sensation in her breast.

Now, for the first time since she had known him, her instinct was not to

go to him, not to face him. She did not understand why--did not

question herself. From the window she looked out over the forest; she

heard him moving quietly about behind her; listened with an odd content

in his proximity, but with no desire to turn and join him--no wish to

move or stir from the spell which held her there in the enchanted

silence of a happiness so wonderful that sky and earth seemed to

understand and share it with her.

"Philippa?"

She turned slowly as in a dream.

It was perhaps as well that he had a record on canvas of what she had

been--of the young girl he had been painting in all her lovely

immaturity. Perhaps the girl who faced him now from the window was even

lovelier, but she was not the Philippa of "Philippa Passes."

Truly that Philippa had passed, vanished silently even as she had stood

there with her eyes on the window; faded, dissolved into thin shadow,

leaving, where she had stood, this slender, silent, deep-eyed girl

looking at him out of the new and subtle mystery which enveloped her.

He thought that it was he himself who saw her differently and with new

eyes; but she herself had changed. And, for the first time, as they

passed slowly toward the terrace together, he was conscious of a

freshness that seemed to cling to her like a fragrance--and of the

beauty of her as she moved beside him, not touching him, keeping clear

of contact, her head a trifle bent.

*CHAPTER XXXIII*

Warner, dressing for dinner, stood looking down from his window at the

Sais road. Halkett, in his smart but sober field uniform, sat sideways

on the window sill, chatting with his friend and surveying the lively

panorama below, where, through the fading light, endless columns of

motor lorries rolled ponderously eastward.

In every direction bicycle and motor cycle messengers were speeding,

north and south on the Sais road, west toward Dreslin by the mill,

eastward over cow-paths and sheepwalks, and across the pontoons, or by

the school highway and quarry bridge, southeast toward a road crowded

with motor lorries, and through that gap in the foothills which narrows

into the Pass of the Falcons.

Warner, leisurely buttoning his waistcoat, stood looking out of the

window at the scenes passing under the plateau, and listening with the

greatest interest to Halkett's comments on these preliminaries for a

campaign about to open.

"Then, in your opinion, it is invasion?" he said.

Halkett nodded:

"I can make nothing else of this movement, Warner. Our General, Pau, is

at Nancy. What you see down there is part of a perfectly complete and

coherent army, and it is certainly moving on the Vosges passes.

"Metz, Strassburg, Colmar, lie beyond; our alpinists are swarming around

the Donon. Under it lie the lowlands of Alsace and Lorraine.

"Already we have seized the pass of Saales; Thann and Danemarie are

menaced; the valley of the Bruche lies before us, Saarburg and the

railroad to Metz invite us.

"Does it not all seem very logical, Warner?"

"It sounds so."

"It is good strategy. The logic is sound logic. If we carry it

through, it will be applauded as brilliant strategy.

"The Germans want a decisive battle on French soil in the vicinity of

Rheims. If they beat us there, they pivot on Verdun, half-circle on the

Oise, and Paris lies before them. They have today a million men within

striking distance of the French frontier."

"Are we fully mobilized?"

"Our concentration is slower; we are massing between Bar-le-Duc and

Epinal. We have, so far, only seven _corps d'armee_ concentrated, and

twenty-one more on the march. But do you know what we have done

already?

"Listen; this isn't generally known yet, but we have taken the passes of

Bonhomme and Sainte Marie; _we have taken Muelhausen_----"

"_What!_"

"Yes, it's ours. More than that, we have entered Dinant. At

Mangiennes, Moncel, Lagarde, we drove the Germans. Our line of battle

stretches two hundred miles from a point opposite Tongres to Nancy. We

smashed the Germans at Altkirch and left them minus thirty thousand men!

"And this great counter-offensive which our General is planning is

already exercising such a pressure on their advance toward Brussels that

they have begun to detach entire army corps and send them post haste

into Alsace. What do you think of that, Warner?"

"Fine!" exclaimed the American. "It's simply splendid, Halkett. You

see, we here in the valley couldn't know anything about it. All we had

to go by was that the German guns were booming nearer and nearer, that

Ausone is in ruins, that Uhlans were riding the country as impudently as

though they were patrolling their own fatherland. I tell you, old chap,

it's a wonderful relief to me to hear from you what is really going on."

He turned to his mirror, lighted a cigarette, and began to fuss with his

tie.

Halkett said, grimly amused:

"Oh, yes, we all ought to feel immensely relieved by capturing a

mountain and a couple of unfortified German towns, even if there are

today in Europe seventeen million men under arms and seventeen million

more in reserve, all preparing to blow each other's heads off."

Warner came back slowly to the windows:

"It _is_ a ghastly situation, Halkett. The magnitude of the cataclysm

means nothing to us, so far. Nobody yet has comprehended it. I don't

think anybody ever really can--even when it's over and the whole

continent is underplowcd and fertilized with dead men from the Channel

to the Carpathians--no single mind of the twentieth century is ever

going to be able to grasp this universal horror in all its details. In

a hundred years, perhaps----" He shrugged, threw away his cigarette,

and picked up his evening coat to inspect it before decorating his

person with it.

Halkett said:

The scale of the whole business is paralyzing. Here's a single detail,

for example: Germany is in process of launching six huge armies into

France. The Crown Prince, the Grand Duke of Wuerttemberg, Generals von

Kluck, von Buelow, von Hausen, and von Heeringen command them.

"Three of them have not yet moved; three are on their juggernaut way

already--the Army of the Meuse, based at Cologne, is marching through

Belgium on a front thirty miles wide, its right flank brushing the Dutch

border at Vise, its left on Stavelot, its center enveloping the Liege

railroad.

"The Moselle army, based on Coblenz, has made a highway of the Grand

Duchy and is in Belgium. The Rhine army has its bases at Strassburg and

Mayence, and started very gayly to raise the devil on its own account,

but we've stung it in the flank already and it's squirming in

uncertainty.

"And that is the situation so far, old chap, as well as I can understand

it. And I understand it fairly well because of my position with this

French army. You don't quite understand how I happen to be here and what

I am doing, do you?"

"Not exactly. I know you have a Bristol aeroplane here and that you are

attached to the British Flying Corps."

"Oh, yes. In our service I am squadron commander, and Gray is wing

commander. But I have a flight-lieutenant yonder at the sheds and a

mechanic.

"As a matter of fact, Warner, I am the British Official Observer with

General Pau's army, and Gray, when he can get about, is to act with me.

That is what I am doing."

"You make no flights?"

"Oh, yes, we shall fly, Gray and I--not doing any range finding for the

artillery and not making ordinary raids with bombs. Observation is to

be our role. It's interesting, isn't it?"

"It's fascinating," said Warner, linking his arm in Halkett's as they

left the room.

"As a matter of fact," he added, "in spite of the horrors in Belgium,

the slaughter there and in Alsace, this war has not really begun."

Halkett turned a drawn and very grave face to him:

"Warner," he said, "this war will not really begin until next spring.

And there will be a million dead men under ground by that time."

Dinner that evening at the Chateau des Oiseaux was a most cheerful

function. The passing of an army for miles and miles through the

country around them was a relief and a reassurance which brought with it

a reaction of gayety slightly feverish at moments.

The Countess de Moidrey gave her arm to Gray, tall, slim, yellow-haired,

and most romantically pale: Captain the Vicomte d'Aures took out Peggy

Brooks--they turned to each other with the same impulse, as naturally as

two children coming together--and the words designating them to other

partners remained unspoken on Ethra's lips.

Philippa, in an enchanting gown of turquoise, looked up at the Countess,

flushed and expectant, but the elder woman, much amused, designated

Halkett, and the girl took the arm he offered with a faint smile at

Warner, as though to reassure him concerning matters temporarily beyond

her own control.

The Countess saw it, stood watching Warner, who had drawn Sister Eila's

arm through his own, and was taking her out--saw Halkett and Philippa

halt and draw aside to let them pass; saw the expression in Sister

Eila's face as her glance met Halkett's, wavered, and passed elsewhere.

Before she and Gray had moved to close the double file, the Cure of

Dreslin was unexpectedly announced, and she turned to receive him,

asking him to support Gray on the other side. Always Father Chalus was

a welcome guest at the Chateau; every house, humble or great, from

Dreslin to Sais, was honored when this dim-eyed old priest set foot

across the threshold.

The dinner was lively, gay at times, and always cheerful with the

excitement lent by the arrival of the army--an arrival verging closely

on the dramatic, with the echoes of the cannonade still heavy among the

northern forests, the evening sky still ruddy above Ausone, and the

August air tainted with the odor of burning.

Through the soft candlelight servants moved silently; the Countess, with

the old Cure on her right, devoted herself to him and to Gray.

As though utterly alone in the center of some vast solitude peopled only

by themselves, young D'Aures and Peggy Brooks remained conspicuously

absorbed in each other and equally oblivious to everything and everybody

else on earth.

"How is Ariadne?" inquired Halkett of Philippa,

"Poor dear! I have not seen her since she soiled a whisker in Jim's

ultramarine!"

Sister Eila's lowered eyes were lifted; she tried to smile at Halkett.

"I saw Ariadne the other day," she said. "The cat is quite comfortable

in the garden of the Golden Peach."

Halkett said lightly:

"Ariadne introduced me to Sister Eila. Do you remember, Sister?"

But Sister Eila had already turned to Warner, and perhaps she did not

hear.

Later Warner bent toward Philippa:

"You are enchanting in that filmy turquoise blue affair."

"Isn't it a darling? Peggy _would_ make me wear it. It's hers, of

course.... Do I please you?"

"Did you ever do anything else, Philippa?"

She colored, looked up at him confused, and laughed:

"Oh, yes," she said, "I have annoyed you too, sometimes. Do you

remember when I ran away from Ausone and told you about it in the meadow

by the river? Oh, you were very much annoyed! You need not deny it. I

realize now how much annoyed you must have been----"

"Thank God you did what you did," he said under his breath.

"What else could I do?"

"Nothing.... I must have been blind, there in Ausone, not to understand

you from the first moment. And I must have been crazy to have gone away

and left you there.... When I think of it, it makes me actually

ill----"

"Jim! You didn't know."

"I should have known. Any blockhead ought to have understood. That was

the time I should have heard the knocking of opportunity! I was deaf.

That was the time I should have caught a glimpse of that clean flame

burning. I seemed to know it was there--words are cheap!--but my eyes

were too dull to perceive a glimmer from it!"

"Jim! You saw a girl with painted lips and cheeks insulting the

sunlight. How could you divine----"

"I couldn't; I didn't. I was not keen enough, not fine enough. Yet,

that was the opportunity. That was the moment when I should have

comprehended you--when I should have stood by you--taken you, held you

against everybody, everything---- Good God! I went away, smug as any

Pharisee, and with a self-satisfied smile left you on the edge of

hell--smiling back at me out of those grey, undaunted eyes----"

"Please! You were wonderful every minute from the beginning--every

minute--all through it, Jim----"

"_You_ were! I know what I was. Halkett knows, too. I was not up to

the opportunity; I did not measure up to the chance that was offered me;

I was not broad enough, fine enough----"

"What are you saying!--When you know how I feel--how I regard you----"

"How can you regard me the way you say you do?"

"How can I help it?" She looked down at her glass, touched the slender

stem absently.

"Out of all the world," she said under her breath, "you alone held out a

comrade's hand. Does anything else matter? ... Think! You are

forgetting. Remember! Picture me where I was--as I was--only yesterday!

Look at me now--here, beside you.--here under this roof, among these

people--and the taste of their salt still keen in my mouth! Now, do you

understand what you have done for me--you alone? Now, do you understand

what I--feel--for you?--For you who mean not only life to me, but who

have made possible for me that life which follows death?"

Her cheeks flushed; she turned breathlessly toward him.

"I tell you," she whispered, "you have offered me Christ, as surely as

He has ever been offered at any communion since the Last Supper! ...

_That_ is what you have done for me!"

*CHAPTER XXXIV*

Dinner was ended.

Gray had retired to his room, persuaded by Madame de Moidrey, who bribed

him by promising to read to him when he was tired of talking shop to

Captain Halkett.

Sister Eila had returned to the east wing, which was convenient to her

business as well as to her devotions.

Also, she had need of Father Chalus, who had come all the way from

Dreslin on foot. For it was included in the duty of the parish priest

to confess both Sister Eila and Sister Felicite; only the sudden perils

and exigencies of home duties in Dreslin had detained him since the war

broke out.

He was old, lean, deeply worn in the service of the poor--a white-haired

man who looked out on the world through kindly blue eyes dimmed by

threescore years of smoky candlelight and the fine print of

breviaries--a priest devotedly loved in Dreslin, and by the household of

the Chateau, and by every inhabitant of the scattered farms composing

the little hamlet called Sais.

It appeared that Sister Eila had great need of Father Chalus, for they

had gone away together, into the eastern wing of the house. And the

Countess, noticing their departure, smiled to herself; for, like

everybody else, she was skeptical regarding the reality of any sins that

Sister Eila might have to confess.

The young Vicomte d'Aures had taken his leave with all the unspoiled,

unembarrassed, and boyish cordiality characteristic of his race; also he

departed in a state of mind so perfectly transparent to anybody who

cared to notice it that Madame de Moidrey retired to the billiard room

after his departure, looking very serious. She became more serious

still when Peggy did not appear from the southern terrace, whither she

had returned to mention something to Monsieur D'Aures which she had

apparently forgotten to say to him in the prolonged ceremony of

leavetaking.

When fifteen minutes elapsed and no Peggy appeared, Madame de Moidrey

rose from her chair, flushed and unsmiling. But before she had taken a

dozen steps toward the southern terrace her younger sister reappeared,

walking rapidly. When she caught sight of the Countess advancing, she

halted and gazed at her sister rather blankly.

"Well, Peggy?"

"Well?"

"I am not criticising you or that boy, but perhaps a little more

reticence--repose of manner--reserve----"

"Ethra," she said in an awed voice, "I am in love with D'Aures."

"_What!_"

"I am. It came."

"Good heavens, Peggy----"

"I know! I said 'good heavens,' too--I mean I thought it. I don't know

what I've been saying this evening----"

"When? Where?"

"Everywhere. Just now, on the terrace----"

"Peggy!"

"What?"

"You didn't say anything that could be----"

"Yes, I did. I think he knows I'm in love with him. I meant him to

know!"

"Peggy!"

"Oh, Ethra, I don't remember what I said.... And I think he cares for

me--I think we're in love with each other----"

The girl dropped into a chair and stared at her sister.

"I'm bewitched, I think. Ever since I saw him that first time it's been

so. I've thought of him all the time.... He says that it was so with

him, also----"'

"Oh, heavens, Peggy! Are you mad? Is he? You're acting like a pair of

crazy children----"

"We _are_ children. He's only a boy. But I know he's growing into the

only man who could ever mean anything to me.... He's writing to his

father now. I expect his father will write to you. Isn't it wonderful!"

Ethra de Moidrey gazed at her sister dizzily. The girl sat with her

face between her hands looking steadily at the carpet. After a moment

she glanced up.

"It's the way _you_ fell in love," she said under her breath.

Madame de Moidrey rose abruptly, as though a sudden shaft of pain had

pierced her. Then, walking over to her sister, she dropped one hand on

her dark head; stroked the thick, lustrous hair gently, absently; stood

very silent, gazing into space.

When Peggy stood up the Countess encircled her waist with one arm. They

walked together slowly toward the southern terrace.

A million stars had come out in the sky; there was a scent of lilies

lingering above the gardens. Sounds from distant bivouacs came to their

ears; no camp fires were visible, but the Recollette glittered like snow

in the white glare of searchlights.

"That boy," said Peggy, "--wherever he is riding out there in the

night--out there under the stars--that boy carries my heart with him....

I always thought that if it ever came it would come like this.... I

thought it would never come.... But it has."

Halkett, returning from a conference with Warner and Gray, came out on

the terrace to take his leave. They asked him to return when he could;

promised to visit the sheds and see the Bristol biplane.

Part way down the steps he turned and came back, asked permission to

leave his adieux with them for Sister Eila from whom he had not had an

opportunity to take his leave, turned again and went away into the

night, using his flashlight along the unfamiliar drive.

Ethra de Moidrey went into the house to keep her promise to Gray, and

found him tired but none the worse for his participation at dinner.

Philippa and Warner had come in to visit him; the Countess found the

book from which she had been reading to him since his arrival. He

turned on his pillow and looked at her, and she seated herself beside

the bed and opened the book on her knees.

"Do you remember where we left off?" she asked, smiling.

"I think it was where he was beginning to fall in love with her."

The Countess de Moidrey bent over the book. There was a slight color in

her cheeks.

"I had not noticed that he was falling in love," she observed, turning

the pages to find her place.

Philippa said to Warner:

"Could we walk down and see the searchlights? They are so wonderful on

the water."

"Probably the sentinels won't permit us outside our own gates," he

replied. "I know one thing; if you and I were not considered as part of

the family of the Chateau, the military police would make us clear out.

It's lucky I left the inn to come up here."

The Countess had begun reading in a low, soft voice, bending over her

book beside the little lamp at the bedside, where Gray lay watching her

under a hand that shaded his pallid face.

Something in her attitude and his, perhaps--or in her quiet

voice--seemed subtly, to Philippa, to exclude her and the man with her

from a silent entente too delicate, perhaps, to term an intimacy.

She touched Warner's arm, warily, not taking it into her possession as

had been her unembarrassed custom only yesterday--even that very day.

Together they went out into the corridor, down the stairway, and

presently discovered Peggy on the southern terrace gazing very earnestly

at the stars.

That the young girl was wrapped, enmeshed, in the magic of the great web

which Fate has been spinning since time began, they did not know.

Still stargazing, they left her and walked down the dark drive to the

lodge where, through the iron grille, they saw hussars _en vedette_

sitting their horses in the uncertain luster of the planets.

Overhead the dark foliage had begun to stir and sigh in the night

breeze; now and again a yellowing leaf fell, rustling slightly; and they

thought they could hear the Recollette among its rushes--the faintest

murmur--but were not sure.

He remembered her song, there in the river meadow:

Hussar en vedette

What do you see?--

And thought of the white shape on the bank--a true folk song, unfinished

in its eerie suggestion which the imagination of the listeners must

always finish.

Yet he said:

"_Was_ he killed--that _vedette_ on the Recollette, Philippa?"

She knew what he meant, smiled faintly:

"Does anybody see Death and live to say so?"

"Of course I knew," he said.

They turned back, walking slowly. He had drawn her arm through his, but

it rested there very lightly, scarcely in contact at all.

"What a fine fellow Halkett is!" he said.

"Your friends should be fine, Jim. Our friends ought to reflect our own

qualities and mirror our aspirations.... That was written in one of my

school-books," she added with that delicate honesty which characterized

her.

"You reflect my aspirations," he said, unsmiling.

"Oh, Jim! I? Do you imagine I believe that?"

"You might as well. It's true enough. You have just mirrored for me my

hopeless aspiration toward that perfect and transparent honesty which I

haven't attained, but which seems always to have been a part of you."

Sister Eila passed them in the starlight, her young head bent over the

rosary in her hands, moving slowly across the lawn.

Their passing on the drive did not seem to arouse her from her

meditation; she seated herself on a stone bench under a clump of yews;

and they moved on in silence.

As they reached the terrace a shot sounded down by the river; another

echoed it; the rattle of rifle fire ran along the valley from, north to

south; a rocket rose, flooding the hill beyond the quarry road with a

ghastly light.

Peggy Brooks, white as death, came over to Philippa and took her hands

into both of hers.

She had begun to learn what love meant, with the first blind shot in the

dark, and all the passion and fear within her was concentrated in

wondering where those leaden messengers of death had found their

billets.

She said in a ghost of a voice:

"Is there going to be a battle here?"

"Not now," replied Warner. "Probably it's nothing at all--some nervous

sentry waking up his equally nervous comrades.... What a horrible light

that rocket shed!"

The shots had died away; there was no more firing.

Vignier had come around; he was an old soldier, and Warner spoke to him.

"Perhaps a cow," he said with a shrug, "--the wind in the bushes--a

hedgehog rustling. Young soldiers are like that in the beginning. And

still, perhaps they have caught a prowler out there--an Uhlan, maybe, or

a spy. One never knows what to expect at night."

"Do you think that our valley will see any fighting, Vignier?"

"Does that not depend, Monsieur, on what is to happen beyond the Vosges?

They have dug line after line of trenches across the valley and the

plateau as far as Dreslin. Those are positions being prepared in

advance, to fall back upon in case of disaster in the east."

"I thought that was what this trench digging meant."

"That is what it means, Monsieur Warner. They tell me that our soldiers

are going to operate the cement works day and night to turn out material

for platforms and emplacements. I know that they have gone into our

western woods with loads of cement and crushed stone. The forest is

full of _fantassins_ and _chasseurs-a-pied_. It is certain that some

general will make our Chateau his headquarters _en passant_."

He had scarcely spoken when, far away in the darkness, a noise arose.

It came from the direction of the lodge gate, grew nearer, approaching

by the drive.

The Countess, reading to Gray, heard it, laid down her book to listen.

Gray listened too, raising himself on his pillows.

"Cavalry have entered the grounds," he said quietly.

"I shall have to go down," she said. At the door she paused: "Will you

remember where we left off, Captain Gray?"

"I shall remember. It is where he has completely fallen in love with

her."

The Countess de Moidrey met his calm gaze, sustained it for a moment,

then with a smile and a nod of adieu she turned and went out into the

corridor. As she descended the stairs she placed both hands against her

cheeks, which burned slightly.

The hall below was already crowded with officers of somebody's staff;

the pale blue tunics of chasseurs and hussars were conspicuous against

the darker dress of dragoons. The silver corselet of a colonel of

cuirassiers glittered in the lamplight; twisted gold arabesques

glimmered on crimson caps and sleeves; the ring of spur and hilt and the

clash of accouterments filled the house.

As the Countess set foot in the hall, a general officer wearing the

cross of the Legion came forward, his red cap, heavy with gold, in his

gloved hand.

"Countess," he said, bending over the hand which she smilingly extended,

"a thousand excuses could not begin to make amends for our

intrusion----"

"General, you honor my roof. Surely you must understand the happiness

that I experience in reminding you that the house of De Moidrey belongs

to France and to the humblest and highest of her defenders."

The General, whose clipped mustache and imperial were snow-white, and

whose firm, bronzed features denied his years, bent again over the

pretty hand that rested on his own.

Then, asking permission to name himself, in turn he presented the

members of his military family.

Included was a thin blond man of middle height, with a golden mustache

twisted up, cinder-blond hair, and conspicuous ears. He wore a monocle,

and was clothed in a green uniform. General of Division Delisle

presented him as Major-General Count Cassilis, the Russian Military

Observer attached to division headquarters.

For a few moments there was much bending of tight-waisted tunics in the

yellow lamplight, much jingling of spurs and sabers, compliments spoken

and implied with a gay smile and bow--all the graceful, easy formality

to be expected in such an extemporized gathering.

Peggy and Philippa appeared, followed by Warner; presentations were

effected; servants arranged chairs and brought trays set with bottles of

light wine and biscuits, preliminary to an improvised supper which was

now being prepared in the kitchen.

General Raoul Delisle had known Colonel de Moidrey; he and the Countess

formed the center of the brilliant little assembly where half a dozen

officers surrounded Peggy and Warner.

But the effect of Philippa on the Russian Military Observer, General

Count Cassilis, was curious to watch.

From the instant he laid eyes on her, he had continued to look at her;

and his inspection would have had all the insolence of a stare had he

not always averted his gaze when hers moved in his direction.

When he had been named to her, he had bowed suavely, and with

characteristic Russian ceremony and empressement; but the instant her

name was pronounced the Russian Observer had straightened himself like a

steel rod released from a hidden spring, and his fishy blue eyes widened

so that his monocle had fallen from its place to swing dangling across

the jeweled decorations on his breast.

And now he had managed to approach Philippa and slightly separate her

from the company, detaining her in conversation, more suave, more

amiably correct than ever.

Already in her inexperience with a world where such men are to be

expected, the girl found herself vaguely embarrassed, subtly on the

defensive--a defensive against something occult which somehow or other

seemed to menace her privacy and seemed to be meddling with the natural

reticence with which, instinctively, she protected herself from any

explanation of her past life.

Not that Count Cassilis had presumed to ask any direct question; she was

not even aware of any hint or innuendo; yet she was constantly finding

herself confronted with a slight difficulty in responding to his gay,

polite, and apparently impersonal remarks. Somehow, everything he said

seemed to involve some reference on her part to a past which now

concerned nobody excepting herself and the loyal friends who

comprehended it.

And, from the beginning, from the first moment when this man was

presented to her, and she had looked up with a smile to acknowledge the

introduction, she experienced an indefinite sensation of meeting

somebody whom she had seen somewhere years before--years and years ago.

As he conversed with her, standing there by the table with the lighted

lamp partly concealed by his gold-slashed shoulder, the vague impression

of something familiar but long forgotten came at moments, faded,

returned, only to disappear again.

And once, a far, pale flicker of memory played an odd trick on her, for

suddenly she seemed to remember a pair of thin, conspicuous ears like

his, and lamplight--or perhaps sunlight--shining behind them and turning

them a translucent red. It came and vanished like the faint memory of a

dream dreamed years and years ago. As she looked at Count Cassilis, the

smile died out in her eyes and on her lips, and the slightest feeling of

discomfort invaded her.

Toasts were offered, acknowledged, compliments said, glasses emptied.

The General of Division Delisle spoke diffidently of quarters for

himself and his military family, and was cordially reassured by the

Countess.

There was plenty of room for all. It was evident, too, that they had

ridden far and must be hungry. Servants were summoned, rooms in the east

wing thrown open to the air; the kitchen stirred up to increased

activity for the emergency; the officers piloted to the rooms assigned

them.

Down on the drive a shadowy escort of hussars waited until an orderly

appeared, shining, with his breast torch, the path to the stables.

Then three sky-guns jolted up out of the darkness and halted; a company

of infantry tramped by toward the garage; the horses of the staff were

led away by mounted gendarmes; and three big military touring cars,

their hoods and glass windows grey with dust, began to purr and pant and

crawl slowly after the infantry.

Everywhere sentries were being set, taking post on every terrace, every

path and road, and before the doorways of the great house.

A single candle burned in the chapel. Beside it sat Sister Eila, intent

on her breviary, her lips moving silently as she bent above it.

The fifth part of the breviary, Matins, Lauds, and the Little Office of

the Blessed Virgin, absorbed her.

The whole of the breviary services, the duty of publicly joining or of

privately reading aloud so as to utter with the lips every word, is

generally incumbent upon all members of religious orders.

But Sisters of Charity, forming as they do an _active_ religious order,

are excepted.

Nevertheless, they are always bound to some shorter substitute, such as

the Little Office, or to some similar office. And though the hours for

devotion are prescribed, the duties of mercy sometimes interrupt the

schedule which must then be carried out as circumstances of necessity

permit.

Philippa, entering the chapel, caught sight of Sister Eila, and knelt

without disturbing her.

The girl had experienced an odd, unaccustomed, and suddenly imperative

desire for the stillness of an altar, for its shelter; for that silent

security that reigns beneath the crucifix and invites the meditation of

the pure in heart.

How long she had been seated there in the shadows she did not know, but

presently she became aware of Sister Eila beside her, resting against

her as though fatigued.

The girl put her arm around Sister Eila's neck instinctively, and drew

the drooping head against her shoulder.

They had not known each other well.

That was the beginning.

*CHAPTER XXXV*

The growling and muttering of German guns in the north and northeast

awoke Warner in his bed.

Sunrise plated his walls and ceiling with gold; the morning air hummed

with indefinite sounds and rumors, the confusion and movement of many

people stirring.

He stood for a moment by his window looking down over the plateau and

across the valley of the Recollette.

Everywhere cavalry, infantry, artillery, baggage trains, automobiles,

bicycles, motor cycles were moving slowly eastward into the blazing eye

of the rising sun and vanishing within its blinding glory.

Two French aeroplanes had taken the air. They came soaring over the

valley from the plateau, filling the air with the high clatter of their

machinery; pale green ribbons of smoke fell from them, uncoiling like

thin strips of silk against the sky; flag signals were being exchanged

between officers gathered on the terrace below and a group of soldiers

at the head of the nearest pontoon across the river.

Poles supporting field telephone and telegraph wires stretched across

the lawn, running south toward the lodge gate. Another line ran east,

another west.

Parked on the lawn were a dozen big automobiles, the chauffeurs at the

wheels, the engines running. Behind these, soldier cyclists and motor

cyclists sat cross-legged by their machines, exchanging gossip with a

squadron of hussars drawn up on the other side of the drive.

There were no tents visible anywhere, but everywhere in the open

soldiers were erecting odd-looking skeleton shelters and covering them

with freshly cut green boughs from the woods. Under one of these an

automobile was already standing, and under others hussars stood to

horse.

Across the rolling country, stretching over valley and plateau, the face

of the green and golden earth was striped, as though some giant plow had

turned furrows at random here and there, some widely separated from the

rest, others parallel and within a few yards of one another. A few dark

figures appeared along these furrows of raw earth, moved about,

disappeared. It was evident that the trenches of these prepared

positions were still in process of construction, for carts were being

driven to and from them and men were visible working near some of them.

Warner had completed his toilet when a maid brought cafe-au-lait. He

ate, listening to the grumble of the northern cannonade and watching the

movement of the columns along dry roads, where unbroken walls of dust

marked every route, seen or unseen, across the vast green panorama.

He had finished breakfast and was lighting a cigarette in preparation

for descending to the terrace, when the noise of an altercation arose

directly under his window; and, looking out, he beheld Asticot in

dispute with the sentry stationed there, loudly insisting that he was a

servant of the establishment, and demanding free entry with every

symptom of virtuous indignation.

He was a sight; his face and hands were smeared with black--charcoal, it

looked like--his clothes were muddy and full of briers, his beloved

lovelocks, no longer plastered in demicurls over each cheekbone, dangled

dankly beside his large, wide ears.

Over his shoulder he carried a sack, and to this he clung while he

flourished his free hand in voluble and impassioned argument.

Warner spoke sharply from the window above:

"Asticot!"

The disheveled one looked up with a joyous exclamation of recognition;

the sentry also looked up.

"He's my servant," said Warner quietly. "Asticot! What do you want?"

"M'sieu' Warner, I have something for you and for Mademoiselle

Philippa----"

"Very well. Go to the harness room; make something approaching a

toilet, put on the clean suit I gave you, and report to me."

"'Fait, M'sieu'!"

The sentry scowled after him as he departed, and Asticot pulled a

hideous face at him and thrust his tongue into his cheek in derision.

Warner, immensely amused, reassured the soldier on guard, folded his

arms and leaned on the sill to watch the interminable columns of motor

lorries moving through the valley.

The scenes everywhere were so intensely interesting that he had not had

enough of them when Asticot reappeared, cleansed, reclothed, his hair

sleekly plastered, still lugging his sack and looking at the sentinel

with the sad air of outraged innocence bestowing forgiveness.

"Let him pass, please," said Warner from the window. After a few moments

a disgusted maid knocked, requesting enlightenment concerning "an

individual pretending to be a servant of Monsieur Warner."

"It's true, Babette," he said, laughing. "Show him up, if you please."

Asticot entered, cap in hand, bowed, scraped the carpet with a

propitiating and crablike shuffle of his right foot, and set the sack

upon the floor.

There always had been something about the young ruffian which inclined

Warner to mirth. He waited a moment to control the amusement which

twitched at his lips, then:

"Well, Asticot, where have you been and what is in this bundle?"

"M'sieu'--may I close the door? I thank M'sieu'.... One cannot be too

careful about being overheard in these miserable days of martial law."

"What? Have you been doing something you are ashamed of?"

"No; nothing that I am ashamed of," replied Asticot naively. "I have

been to Ausone."

"To Ausone!"

"M'sieu', figurez-vous!--It occurred to me last evening--_tiens!_ there

ought to be a few odds and ends to pick up in Ausone--a few miserable

_chiffons_ which nobody wants--little fragments of no value, you

understand--what with the bombardment and all those ruined houses----"

"You went _looting_!"

"M'sieu'!" he said in pained surprise. "It was nothing like _that_!

No! I said to myself, '_Tenez, mon vieux_, to rake over a pile of

rubbish is no crime in Paris. On peut ramasser des bouts d'cigares

comme ca. Eh, bien, quoi?' I said to myself, 'Asticot, en route!'

"So I borrowed a boat----"

"Borrowed? From whom?"

"I could not find any owner, M'sieu'. So, as I say, I offered myself a

boat, and I took the fishing pole which was in it, and I rowed boldly up

the river.

"I suppose, seeing the fishing pole, nobody stopped me. Besides, there

were a few freshly caught fish in the boat. These I held up, offering

to sell to the soldiers I saw--a precaution, M'sieu', which rendered my

voyage very easy."

"It's a wonder you did not get yourself shot!"

"It was dark enough after a while. And there are no troops beyond the

second mill; and no vedettes disturbed me.

"At the Impasse d'Alcyon I tied my boat. The alley and the square were

full of the poor people of Ausone, returning to look among the ruins for

what had been their homes. Me, I said I was looking for mine, also----"

Warner said:

"That is villainous, Asticot; do you know it?"

"M'sieu'! I journeyed there only for what was rightfully mine!"

"Yours! What do you mean?"

"_Tenez_, M'sieu'; that wicked traitor, Wildresse, employed me, did he

not? Bon! Would you believe it--never yet has he paid me what he owes

me! M'sieu', such trickery, such ingratitude is nauseating! Besides,

now that I know he has sold France, I would not touch his filthy money.

No!"

He scowled thoughtfully at space, shrugged, continued:

"The question nevertheless remained: _how_ was I to reimburse myself?

Tiens! An idea! I remembered that in the cellar of that cabaret my

friend, Squelette, and I had discovered a safe.

"That very night, after M'sieu' had escaped us, taking with him

M'amzelle Philippa, Squelette and I we drilled into that safe----"

"What!"

Asticot shrugged:

"Que voulez-vous! C'est la vie! Also, M'sieu' should trouble himself

to recollect that I had not become honest and God-fearing under the

merciless blows of M'sieu'. I was still full of evil in those days,

alas! not yet sufficiently remote----"

"Go on," said Warner, controlling his laughter.

"M'sieu', we got the safe door open, Squelette and I, but found no

opportunity to rummage. Then we were sent here, M'sieu' knows the

rest--the bombardment and all.... So last night I went back to the

cabaret--or what remains of it--four walls and a heap of brick. The

fire was out. The cabaret was ruined, but the cafe had not been

destroyed.

"And now, M'sieu', comes a real vein of luck. And what do you suppose!

Face to face in the dark I came upon a pioupiou on guard as I crawl

through the cafe door.

"And I thought his bayonet was in my bowels, M'sieu', when he turned his

breast torch on me. One makes short work of looters--not that I can

rightly be called that. No! But still I thought: 'Dieu! Je claque!

C'est fini!' When, 'Tiens!' exclaims my soldier. 'C'est mon vieux

co'pain! What dost thou do here, Asticot, smelling around these ruins?'

"M'sieu', I look, I expel a cry of joy, I embrace a friend! It is One

Eye--my comrade in the Battalion of Biribi! I am within the lines of a

Battalion of Africa!"

He licked his lips furtively, and leered at Warner.

"_Voyez-vous_, M'sieu', when old friends meet an affair is quickly

arranged. I file away at full speed; I gain the cellar, I flash the

safe, I pull some old sacks under me and sit down at my leisure. It was

most comfortable.

"Can M'sieu' see the tableau? Me, Asticot, seated before the open safe

of Wildresse, who has wronged me and my country, leisurely revenging

myself by knocking off the necks of his wine bottles and refreshing

myself while I examine the contents of the traitor's safe!"

He smirked, doubtless picturing to himself his recent exploit, with

himself, Asticot, as the heroic center of a deed which evidently gave

him exquisite satisfaction.

He reached for the sack on the floor, squatted down on the rug in front

of Warner's chair, untied the sack, and drew from it bundle after bundle

of papers.

"His!" he remarked. "All private. I think, M'sieu', that a few of

these will do away with any necessity for ceremony when we catch

Wildresse."

He passed the packages of papers to Warner, who laid them on the table,

looking very serious.

What Asticot did not extract from the sack he had already removed and

hidden in the straw under his blanket in the harness room--a bag of

Russian gold coins and a bag of French silver money.

Now, however, he produced a pillowcase. There were old, rusty stains on

it, and in the corner of it a heraldic device embroidered.

Asticot deftly untied it and dumped out of it upon the floor a strange

assortment of things--toys, and picture books in French, articles of

clothing, ribbons, tiny slippers, the crumpled frocks and stockings of a

little girl, and fragments of a little cloak of blue silk edged with

swansdown, and a little hat to match.

"What in the world----" began Warner, when Asticot opened one of the

picture books and silently displayed the name written there--"Philippa."

"M'sieu', because you are fond of M'amzelle, when I discovered her name

in these books I brought everything as I found it--tied up in this

pillowcase--toys, clothing, all, just as I discovered it in the

safe--thinking perhaps to please M'sieu', who is so kind to me----"

"You did right! What are those things--photographs? Give them to

me----"

"M'sieu', they are the pictures of a little child. To me they resemble

M'amzelle Philippa."

Warner examined the half-dozen photographs in amazement. They were more

or less faded, not sufficiently to prevent his recognizing in them the

child that Philippa had once been. He was absolutely certain that these

photographs represented Philippa somewhere between the ages of five and

seven.

One by one he studied them, then turned them over. On every one was

written "Philippa," and the age, "four," "five," "six," on the several

pictures. All were written in the same flowing feminine handwriting.

The name of the photographer was the same on every picture, except on

that one where the age "six" was written. That photograph had been

taken in the city of Sofia in Bulgaria. The others bore the name of a

photographer in the French city of Tours.

Asticot, squatting on the floor cross-legged, watched him in silence.

Finally Warner said:

"Thank you, Asticot. You have behaved with intelligence. I double your

wages."

"M'sieu' is contented with his Asticot, grateful and devoted?"

"Indeed, I am!"

"Will M'sieu' permit me to go now?"

"Certainly. Do they feed and lodge you properly at the inn?"

Asticot murmured that it was heavenly, and hastily took his departure,

burning with anxiety concerning the safety of the treasure he had

concealed under the straw and blanket in the harness room.

As for Warner, he was intensely interested, excited, and perplexed.

Here, apparently, in this old, stained pillowcase which Asticot had

found in the private safe of Wildresse, were the first clews to

Philippa's identity that anybody, excepting Wildresse, had ever heard

of.

These photographs were without doubt photographs of Philippa as a child,

two taken in Tours, one in Sofia.