All that it is necessary to know of Hilda's return letter to Peter ran as
follows:
"My Dear Boy,
"Your letter from Abbeville reached me the day before yesterday, and I
have thought about nothing else since. It is plain to me that it is no
use arguing with you and no good reproaching you, for once you get an
idea into your head nothing but bitter experience will drive it out. But,
Peter, you must see that so far as I am concerned you are asking me to
choose between you and your strange ideas and all that is familiar and
dear in my life. You can't honestly expect me to believe that my Church
and my parents and my teachers are all wrong, and that, to put it mildly,
the very strange people you appear to be meeting in France are all right.
My dear Peter, do try and look at it sensibly. The story you told me of
the death of Lieutenant Jenks was terrible--terrible; it brings the war
home in all its ghastly reality; but really, you know, it was his fault
and not yours, and still less the fault of the Church of England, that he
did not want you when he came to die. If a man lives without God, he can
hardly expect to find Him at the point of sudden death. What you say
about Christ, too, utterly bewilders me. Surely our Church's teachings in
the Catechism and the Prayer-Book is Christian teaching, isn't it?
Nothing is perfect on earth, and the Church is human, but our Church
is certainly the best I know of. It is liberal, active, moderate, and--I
don't like the word, but after all it is a good one--respectable. I don't
know much about these things, but surely you of all people don't want to
go shouting in the street like a Salvation Army Captain. I can't see that
that is more 'in touch with reality.' Peter, what do you mean? Are not
St. John's, and the Canon, and my people, and myself, real? Surely,
Peter, our love is real, isn't it? Oh, how can you doubt that?
"Darling boy, don't you think you are over-strained and over-worried? You
are in a strange country, among strange people, at a very peculiar time.
War always upsets everything and makes things abnormal. London, even,
isn't normal, but, as the Canon said the other day, a great many of the
things people do just now are due to reaction against strain and anxiety.
Can't you see this? Isn't there any clergyman you can go and talk to?
Your Presbyterian and other new friends and your visits to Roman Catholic
churches can't be any real help.
"Peter, dear, for my sake, do, _do_ try to see things like this. I _hate_
that bit in your letter about publicans and sinners. How can a clergyman
expect _them_ to help _him_? Surely you ought to avoid such people, not
seek their company. It is so like you to get hold of a text or two and
run it to death. It's not that I don't _trust_ you, but you are so easily
influenced, and you may equally easily go and do something that will
separate us and ruin your life. Peter, I hate to write like this, but I
can't help it...."
Peter let the sheets fall from his hands and stared out of the little
window. The gulls were screaming and fighting over some refuse in the
harbour, and he watched the beat of their wings, fascinated. If only he,
too, could catch the wind and be up and away like that!
He jumped up and paced up and down the floor restlessly, and he told
himself that Hilda was right and he was a cad and worse. Julie's kiss on
his lips burned there yet. That at any rate was wrong; by any standards
he had no right to behave so. How could he kiss her when he was pledged
to Hilda--Hilda to whom everyone had looked up, the capable, lady-like,
irreproachable Hilda, the Hilda to whom Park Lane and St. John's were
such admirable setting. And who was he, after all, to set aside all that
for which both those things stood?
And yet.... He sat down by the little table and groaned.
"What the dickens is the matter with you, padre?"
Peter started and looked round. In the doorway stood Pennell, regarding
him with amusement. "Here am I trying to read, and you pacing up and down
like a wild beast. What the devil's up?"
"The devil himself, that's what's up," said Peter savagely. "Look here,
Pen, come on down town and let's have a spree. I hate this place and this
infernal camp. It gets on my nerves. I must have a change. Will you come?
It's my do."
"I'm with you, old thing. I know what you feel like; I get like that
myself sometimes. It's a pleasure to see that you're so human. We'll go
down town and razzle-dazzle for once. I'm off duty till to-night. I ought
to sleep, I suppose, but I can't, so come away with you. I won't be a
second."
He disappeared. Peter stood for a moment, then slipped his tunic off and
put on another less distinctive of his office. He crossed to the desk,
unlocked it, and reached for a roll of notes, shoving them into his
pocket. Then he put on his cap, took a stick from the corner, and went
out into the passage. But there he remembered, and came quickly back.
He folded Hilda's letter and put it away in a drawer; then he went out
again. "Are you ready, Pennell?" he called.
The two of them left camp and set out across the docks. As they crossed a
bridge a one-horse cab came into the road from a side-street and turned
in their direction. "Come on," said Peter. "Anything is better than this
infernal walk over this _pavé_ always. Let's hop in."
They stopped the man, who asked where to drive to.
"Let's go to the Bretagne first and get a drink," said Pennell.
"Right," said Peter--"any old thing. Hôtel de la Bretagne," he called to
the driver.
They set off at some sort of a pace, and Pennell leaned back with a
laugh. "It's a funny old world, Graham," he said. "One does get fed-up at
times. Why sitting in a funeral show like this cab and having a drink in
a second-rate pub should be any amusement, I don't know. But it is.
You're infectious, my boy. I begin to feel like a rag myself. What shall
we do?"
"The great thing," said Peter judiciously, "is not to know what one is
going to do, but just to take anything that comes along. I remember at
the 'Varsity one never set out to rag anything definitely. You went out
and you saw a bobby and you took his hat, let us say. You cleared, and he
after you. Anything might happen then."
"I should think so," said Pennell.
"I remember once walking home with a couple of men, and one of them
suggested dousing all the street lamps in the road, which was a
residential one leading into town. There wasn't anything in it, but we
did it. One man put his back against a post, while the second went on to
the next post. Then the third man mounted the first man's back, shoved
out the light, jumped clear, and ran on past the next lamp-post to the
third. The first man jumped on No. 2's back and doused his lamp, and so
on. We did the street in a few minutes, and then a constable came into it
at the top. He probably thought he was drunk, then he spotted lights
going out, and like an ass he blew his whistle. We were round a corner in
no time, and then turned and ran back to see if we could offer
assistance!"
"Some gag!" chuckled Pennell; "but I hope you won't go on that sort
of racket to-night. It would be a little more serious if we were
caught.... Also, these blighted gendarmes would probably start firing,
or some other damned thing."
"They would," said Peter; "besides, that doesn't appeal to me now. I'm
getting too old, or else my tastes have become depraved."
The one-horse cab stopped with a jerk. "Hop out," said Peter. He settled
the score, and the two of them entered the hotel and passed through into
the private bar.
"What is it to be?" demanded Pennell.
"Cocktails to-day, old son," said Peter; "I want bucking up. What do you
say to martinis?"
The other agreed, and they moved over to the bar. A monstrously fat woman
stood behind it, like some bloated spider, and a thin, weedy-looking girl
assisted her. A couple of men were already there. It was too early for
official drinks, but the Bretagne knew no law.
They ordered their drinks, and stood there while madame compounded them
and put in the cherries. Another man came in, and Peter recognised the
Australian Ferrars, whom he had met before. He introduced Pennell and
called for another martini.
"So you frequent this poison-shop, do you?" said Ferrars.
"Not much," laughed Peter, "but it's convenient."
"It is, and it's a good sign when a man like you wants a drink. I'd
sooner listen to your sermons any day than some chaps' I know."
"Subject barred here," said Pennell. "But here's the very best to you,
Graham, for all that."
"Same here," said Ferrars, and put down his empty glass.
The talk became general. There was nothing whatever in it--mild chaffing,
a yarn or two, a guarded description by Peter of his motor drive from
Abbeville, and then more drinks. And so on. The atmosphere was warm and
genial, but Peter wondered inwardly why he liked it, and he did not like
it so much that Pennell's "Well, what about it? Let's go on, Graham,
shall we?" found him unready. The two said a general good-bye, promised
madame to look in again, and sauntered out.
They crossed the square in front of Travalini's, lingered at the
flower-stalls, refused the girls' pressure to buy, and strolled on.
"I'm sick of Travalini's," said Pennell. "Don't let's go in there."
"So am I," said Peter. "Let's stroll down towards the sea."
They turned down a side-street, and stood for a few minutes looking into
a picture and book shop. At that moment quick footsteps sounded on the
pavement, and Pennell glanced round.
Two girls passed them, obviously sisters. They were not flashily dressed
exactly, but there was something in their furs and their high-heeled,
high-laced boots that told its own story. "By Jove, that's a pretty
girl!" exclaimed Pennell; "let's follow them."
Peter laughed; he was reckless, but not utterly so. "If you like," he
said. "I'm on for any rag. We'll take them for a drink, but I stop at
that, mind, Pen."
"Sure thing," said Pennell. "But come on; we'll miss them."
They set out after the girls, who, after one glance back, walked on as if
they did not know they were being followed. But they walked slowly, and
it was easy for the two men to catch them up.
Peter slackened a few paces behind. "Look here, Pen," he said, "what the
deuce are we going to do? They'll expect more than a drink, you know."
"Oh no, they won't, not so early as this. It's all in the way of business
to them, too. Let's pass them first," he suggested, "and then slacken
down and wait for them to speak."
Peter acquiesced, feeling rather more than an ass, but the drinks had
gone slightly to his head. They executed their share of the maneuver,
Pennell looking at the girls and smiling as he did so. But the two
quickened their pace and passed the officers without a word.
"If you ask me, this is damned silly," said Peter. "Let's chuck it."
"No, no; wait a bit," said Pennell excitedly. "You'll see what they'll
do. It's really an amusing study in human nature. Look! I told you so.
They live there."
The girls had crossed the street, and were entering a house. One of them
unlocked the door, and they both disappeared. "There," said Peter, "that
finishes it. We've lost them."
"Have we?" said his companion. "Come on over."
They crossed the street and walked up to the door. It was open and
perhaps a foot ajar. Pennell pushed it wide and walked in. "Come on," he
said again. Peter followed reluctantly, but curious. He was seeing a new
side of life, he thought grimly.
Before them a flight of stairs led straight up to a landing, but there
was no sign of the girls. "What's next?" demanded Peter. "We'll be fired
out in two twos if nothing worse happens. Suppose they're decent girls
after all; what would you say?"
"I'd ask if Mlle. Lucienne lived here," said Pennell, "and apologise
profusely when I found she didn't. But you can't make a mistake in this
street, Graham. I'm going up. It's the obvious thing, and probably what
they wanted. Coming?"
He set off to mount the stairs, and Peter, reassured, followed him, at a
few paces. When he reached the top, Pennell was already entering an open
door.
"How do you do, ma chérie?" said one of the girls, smiling, and holding
out a hand.
Peter looked round curiously. The room was fairly decently furnished in a
foreign middle-class fashion, half bedroom, half sitting-room. One of the
girls sat on the arm of a big chair, the other was greeting his friend.
She was the one he had fancied, but a quick glance attracted Peter
to the other and elder. He was in for it now, and he was determined to
play up. He crossed the floor, and smiled down at the girl on the arm of
the chair.
"So you 'ave come," she said in broken English. "I told Lucienne that you
would not."
"Lucienne!" exclaimed Peter, and looked back at Pennell.
That traitor laughed, and seated himself on the edge of the bed, drawing
the other girl to him. "I'm awfully sorry, Graham," he said; "but I
couldn't help it. You wanted to see life, and you'd have shied off if I
hadn't played a game. I do just know this little girl, and jolly nice she
is too. Give me a kiss, Lulu."
The girl obeyed, her eyes sparkling. "It's not proper before monsieur,"
she said. "'E is--how do you say?--shocked?"
She seated herself on Pennell's knee, and, putting an arm round his neck,
kissed him again, looking across at Peter mischievously. "We show 'im
French kiss," she added to Pennell, and pouted out her lips to his.
"Well, now you 'ave come, what do you want?" demanded the girl on the arm
of Peter's chair. "Sit down," she said imperiously, patting the seat,
"and talk to me."
Peter laughed more lightly than he felt. "Well, I want a drink," he said,
at random. "Pen," he called across the room, "what about that drink?" The
girl by him reached over and touched a bell. As she did so, Peter saw the
curls that clustered on her neck and caught the perfume of her hair. It
was penetrating and peculiar, but not distasteful, and it did all that it
was meant to do. He bent, and kissed the back of her neck, still
marvelling at himself.
She straightened herself, smiling. "That is better. You aren't so cold as
you pretended, chérie. Now kiss me properly," and she held up her face.
Peter kissed her lips. Before he knew it, a pair of arms were thrown
about his neck, and he was being half-suffocated with kisses. He tore
himself away, disgusted and ashamed.
"No!" he cried sharply, but knowing that it was too late.
The girl threw herself back, laughing merrily, "Oh, you are funny!" she
said. "Lucienne, take your boy away; I want to talk to mine."
Before he could think of a remonstrance, it was done. Pennell and the
other girl got up from the bed where they had been whispering together,
and left the room. "Pennell!" called Peter, too late again, jumping up.
The girl ran round him, pushed the door to, locked it, and dropped the
key down the neck of her dress. "Voila!" she said gaily.
There came a knock on the door. "Non, non!" she cried in French. "Take
the wine to Mlle. Lucienne; I am busy."
Peter walked across the room to her. "Give me the key," he said, holding
out his hand, and changing his tactics. "Please do. I won't go till my
friend comes back. I promise."
The girl looked at him. "You promise? But you will 'ave to find it."
He smiled and nodded, and she walked deliberately to the bed, undid the
front of her costume, and slipped it off. Bare necked and armed, she
turned to him, holding open the front of her chemise. "Down there," she
said.
It was a strange moment and a strange thing, but a curious courage came
back to Peter in that second. Without hesitation, he put his hand down
and sought for the key against her warm body. He found it, and help it
up, smiling. Then he moved to the door, pushed the key in the keyhole,
and turned again to the girl. "There!" he said simply.
With a gesture of abandon, she threw herself on the bed, propping her
cheek on her hand and staring at him. He sat down where Pennell had sat,
but made no attempt to touch her, leaning, instead, back and away against
the iron bed-post. She pulled up her knees, flung her arms back, and
laughed. "And now, monsieur?" she said.
Peter had never felt so cool in his life. His thoughts raced, but
steadily, as if he had dived into cold, clear water. He smiled again,
unhesitatingly, but sadly. "Dear," he said deliberately, "listen to me. I
have cheated you by coming here to-day, though you shan't suffer for it.
I did not want anything, and I don't now. But I'm glad I've come, even
though you do not understand. I don't want to do a bit what my friend is
doing. I don't know why, but I don't. I'm engaged to a girl in England,
but it's not because of that. I'm a chaplain too--a curé, you know--in
the English Army; but it's not because of that."
"Protestant?" demanded the girl on the bed.
He nodded. "Ah, well," she said, "the Protestant ministers have wives.
They are men; it is different with priests. If your fiancée is wise, she
wouldn't mind if you love me a little. She is in England; I am here--is
it not so? You love me now; again, perhaps, once or twice. Then it is
finished. You do not tell your fiancée and she does not know. It is
no matter. Come on, chérie!"
She held out her hands and threw her head back on the pillow.
Peter smiled again. "You do not understand," he said. "And nor do I, but
I must be different from some men. I do not want to."
"Ah, well," she exclaimed brightly, sitting up, "another time! Give me my
dress, monsieur le curé."
He got up and handed it to her. "Tell me," he said, "do you like this
sort of life?"
She shrugged her white shoulders indifferently. "Sometimes," she
said--"sometimes not. There are good boys and bad boys. Some are rough,
cruel, mean; some are kind, and remember that it costs much to live
these days, and one must dress nicely. See," she said deliberately,
showing him, "it is lace, fine lace; I pay fifty francs in Paris!"
"I will give you that," said Peter, and he placed the note on the bed.
She stared at it and at him. "Oh, I love you!" she cried. "You are kind!
Ah, now, if I could but love you always!"
"Always?" he demanded.
"Yes, always, always, while you are here, in Le Havre. I would have no
other boy but you. Ah, if you would! You do not know how one tires of the
music-hall, the drinks, the smiles! I would do just all you please--be
gay, be solemn, talk, be silent, just as you please! Oh, if you would!"
Half in and half out of her dress, she stood there, pleading. Peter
looked closely at the little face with its rouge and powder.
"You hate that!" she exclaimed, with quick intuition. "See, it is gone. I
use it no more, only a leetle, leetle, for the night." And she ran across
to the basin, dipped a little sponge in water, passed it over her face,
and turned to him triumphantly.
Peter sighed. "Little girl," he said sadly, hardly knowing that he spoke.
"I cannot save myself: how can I save you?"
"Pouf!" she cried. "Save! What do you mean?" She drew herself up with an
absurd gesture. "You think me a bad girl? No, I am not bad; I go to
church. Le bon Dieu made us as we are; it is nécessaire."
They stood before each other, a strange pair, the product of a strange
age. God knows what the angels made of it. But at any rate Peter was
honest. He thought of Julie, and he would not cast a stone.
There came a light knock at the door. The girl disregarded it, and ran to
him. "You will come again?" she said in low tones. "Promise me that you
will! I will not ask you for anything; you can do as you please; but come
again! Do come again!"
Peter passed his hand over her hair. "I will come if I can," he said;
"but the Lord knows why."
The knock came again, a little louder. The girl smiled and held her face
up. "Kiss me," she demanded.
He complied, and she darted away, fumbling with her dress. "I come," she
called, and opened the door. Lucienne and Pennell came in, and the two
men exchanged glances. Then Pennell looked away. Lucienne glanced at them
and shrugged her shoulders. "Come, Graham," said Pennell; "let's get out!
Good-bye, you two."
The pair of them went down and out in silence. No one had seen them come,
and there was no one to see them go. Peter glanced at the number and made
a mental note of it, and they set off down the street.
Presently Pennell laughed, "I played you a dirty trick, Graham," he said,
"I'm sorry."
"You needn't be," said Peter; "I'm very glad I went."
"Why?" said Pennell curiously, glancing sideways at him. "You _are_ a
queer fellow, Graham." But there was a note of relief in his tone.
Peter said nothing, but walked on. "Where next?" demanded Pennell.
"It looks as if you are directing this outfit," said Peter; "I'm in your
hands."
"All right," said Pennell; "I know."
They took a street running parallel to the docks, and entered an American
bar. Peter glanced round curiously. "I've never been here before," he
said.
"Probably not," said Pennell. "It's not much at this time of the year,
but jolly cool in the summer. And you can get first-class cocktails. I
want something now; what's yours?"
"I'll leave it to you," said Peter.
He sat down at a little table rather in the corner and lit a cigarette.
The place was well lighted, and by means of mirrors, coloured-glass
ornaments, paper decorations, and a few palms, it looked in its own way
smart. Two or three officers were drinking at the bar, sitting on high
stools, and Pennell went up to give his order. He brought two glasses
to Peter's table and sat down. "What fools we are, padre!" he said. "I
sometimes think that the man who gets simply and definitely tight when he
feels he wants a breather is wiser than most of us. We drink till we're
excited, and then we drink to get over it. And I suppose the devil sits
and grins. Well, it's a weary world, and there isn't any good road out of
it. I sometimes wish I'd stopped a bullet earlier on in the day. And yet
I don't know. We do get some excitement. Let's go to a music-hall
to-night."
"What about dinner?"
"Oh, get a quiet one in a decent hotel. I'll have to clear out at
half-time if you don't mind."
"Not a bit," said Peter. "Half will be enough for me, I think. But let's
have dinner before we've had more of these things."
The bar was filling up. A few girls came and went. Pennell nodded to a
man or two, and finished his glass. And they went off to dinner.
The music-hall was not much of a show, but it glittered, and people
obviously enjoyed it. Peter watched the audience as much as the stage.
Quite respectable French families were there, and there was nothing done
that might not have been done on an English stage--perhaps less, but the
words were different. The women as well as the men screamed with
laughter, flushed of face, but an old fellow, with his wife and daughter,
obviously from the country, sat as stiffly as an English farmer through
it all. The daughter glanced once at the two officers, but then looked
away; she was well brought up. A half-caste Algerian, probably, came
on and danced really extraordinarily well, and a negro from the States,
equally ready in French and English, sang songs which the audience
demanded. He was entirely master, however, and, conscious of his power,
used it. No one in the place seemed to have heard of the colour-bar,
except a couple of Americans, who got up and walked out when the comedian
clasped a white girl round the waist in one of his songs. The negro made
some remark that Peter couldn't catch, and the place shook with laughter.
At half-time everyone flocked into a queer kind of semi-underground hall
whose walls were painted to represent a cave, dingy cork festoons and
"rocks" adding to the illusion. Here, at long tables, everyone drank
innocuous French beer, that was really quite cool and good. It was rather
like part of an English bank holiday. Everybody spoke to everybody else,
and there were no classes and distinctions. You could only get one glass
of beer, for the simple reason that there were too many drinking and too
few supplying the drinks for more in the time.
"I must go," said Pennell, "but don't you bother to come."
"Oh yes, I will," said Peter, and they got up together.
In the entrance-hall, however, a girl was apparently waiting for someone,
and as they passed Peter recognised her. "Louise!" he exclaimed.
She smiled and held out her hand. Peter took it, and Pennell after him.
"Do you go now?" she asked them. "The concert is not half finished."
"I've got to get back to work," said Pennell, "worse luck. It is la
guerre, you know!"
"Poor boy!" said she gaily. "And you?" turning to Peter.
Moved by an impulse, he shook his head. "No," he said, "I was only seeing
him home."
"Bien! See me home instead, then," said Louise.
"Nothing doing," said Peter, using a familiar phrase.
She laughed. "Bah! cannot a girl have friends without that, eh? You have
a fiancée, 'ave you not? Oh yes, I remember--I remember very well. Come!
I have done for to-day; I am tired. I will make you some coffee, and we
shall talk. Is it not so?"
Peter looked at Pennell. "Do you mind, Pen?" he asked. "I'd rather like
to."
"Not a scrap," said the other cheerfully; "wish I could come too. Ask me
another day, Louise, will you?"
She regarded him with her head a little on one side. "I do not know," she
said. "I do not think you would talk with me as he will. You like what
you can get from the girls of France now; but after, no more. Monsieur,
'e is different. He want not quite the same. Oh, I know! Allons."
Pennell shrugged his shoulders. "One for me," he said. "Well, good-night.
I hope you both enjoy yourselves."
In five minutes Peter and Louise were walking together down the street. A
few passers-by glanced at them, or especially at her, but she took no
notice, and Peter, in a little, felt the strangeness of it all much less.
He deliberately crossed once or twice to get between her and the road, as
he would have done with a lady, and moved slightly in front of her when
they encountered two drunken men. She chatted about nothing in
particular, and Peter thought to himself that he might almost have been
escorting Hilda home. But if Hilda had seen him!
She ushered him into her flat. It was cosy and nicely furnished, very
different from that of the afternoon. A photograph or two stood about in
silver frames, a few easy-chairs, a little table, a bookshelf, and a
cupboard. A fire was alight in the grate; Louise knelt down and poked it
into a flame.
"You shall have French coffee," she said. "And I have even lait for you."
She put a copper kettle on the fire, and busied herself with cups and
saucers. These she arranged on the little table, and drew it near the
fire. Then she offered him a cigarette from a gold case, and took one
herself. "Ah!" she said, sinking back into a chair. "Now we are, as you
say, comfy, is it not so? We can talk. Tell me how you like la France,
and what you do."
Peter tried, but failed rather miserably, and the shrewd French girl
noticed it easily enough. She all but interrupted him as he talked of
Abbeville and the raid. "Mon ami," she said, "you have something on your
mind. You do not want to talk of these things. Tell me."
Peter looked into the kindly keen eyes. "You are right, Louise," he said.
"This is a day of trouble for me."
She nodded. "Tell me," she said again. "But first, what is your name, mon
ami? It is hard to talk if one does not know even the name."
He hardly hesitated. It seemed natural to say it. "Peter," he said.
She smiled, rolling the "r." "Peterr. Well, Peterr, go on."
"I'll tell you about to-day first," he said, and, once launched, did so
easily. He told the little story well, and presently forgot the strange
surroundings. It was all but a confession, and surely one was never more
strangely made. And from the story he spoke of Julie, but concealed her
identity, and then he spoke of God. Louise hardly said a word. She poured
out coffee in the middle, but that was all. At last he finished.
"Louise," he said, "it comes to this: I've nothing left but Julie. It was
she restrained me this afternoon, I think. I'm mad for her; I want her
and nothing else. But with her, somehow, I lose everything else I possess
or ever thought I possessed." And he stopped abruptly, for she did not
know his business in life, and he had almost given it away.
When he had finished she slipped a hand into his, and said no word.
Suddenly she looked up. "Peterr, mon ami," she said, "listen to me. I
will tell you the story of Louise, of me. My father, he lived--oh, it
matters not; but he had some money, he was not poor. I went to a good
school, and I came home for the holidays. I had one sister older than
me. Presently I grew up; I learnt much; I noticed. I saw there were
terrible things, chez nous. My mother did not care, but I--I cared. I was
mad. I spoke to my sister: it was no good. I spoke to my father, and,
truly, I thought he would kill me. He beat me--ah, terrible--and I ran
from the house. I wept under the hedges: I said I would no more go 'ome.
I come to a big city. I found work in a big shop--much work, little
money--ah, how little! Then I met a friend: he persuade me, at last he
keep me--two months, three, or more; then comes the war. He is an
officer, and he goes. We kiss, we part--oui, he love me, that officer. I
pray for him: I think I nevair leave the church; but it is no good. He is
dead. Then I curse le bon Dieu. They know me in that place: I can do
nothing unless I will go to an 'otel--to be for the officers, you
understand? I say, Non. I sell my things and I come here. Here I do
well--you understand? I am careful; I have now my home. But this is what
I tell you, Peterr: one does wrong to curse le bon Dieu. He is wise--ah,
how wise!--it is not for me to say. And good--ah, Jesu! how good! You
think I do not know; I, how should I know? But I know. I do not
understand. For me, I am caught; I am like the bird in the cage. I cannot
get out. So I smile, I laugh--and I wait."
She ceased. Peter was strangely moved, and he pressed the hand he held
almost fiercely. The tragedy of her life seemed so great that he hardly
dare speak of his own. But: "What has it to do with me?" he demanded.
She gave a little laugh. "'Ow should I say?" she said. "But you think God
not remember you, and, Peterr, He remember all the time."
"And Julie?" quizzed Peter after a moment.
Louise shrugged her shoulders. "This love," she said, "it is one great
thing. For us women it is perhaps the only great thing, though your
English women are blind, are dead, they do not see. Julie, she is as us,
I think. She is French inside. La pauvre petite, she is French in the
heart."
"Well?" demanded Peter again.
"C'est tout, mon ami. But I am sorry for Julie."
"Louise," said Peter impulsively, "you're better than I--a thousand
times. I don't know how to thank you." And he lifted her hand to his
lips.
He hardly touched it. She sprang up, withdrawing it. "Ah, non, non,"
she cried. "You must not. You forget. It is easy for you, for you are
good--yes, so good. You think I did not notice in the street, but I see.
You treat me like a lady, and now you kiss my hand, the hand of the girl
of the street.... Non, non!" she protested vehemently, her eyes alight.
"I would kiss your feet!"
Outside, in the darkened street, Peter walked slowly home. At the gate of
the camp he met Arnold, returning from a visit to another mess. "Hullo!"
he called to Peter, "and where have you been?"
Peter looked at him for a moment without replying. "_I'm_ not sure, but
seeing for the first time a little of what Christ saw, Arnold, I think,"
he said at last, with a catch in his voice.