1
It was half-past five on this, the sixth morning of the Herr Doktor's
stay at Valoise.
He leapt out of bed and had a cold plunge bath-a most peculiar,
un-German habit he had acquired during the months he had boarded with an
English family at Munich.
Then, when he was dressed, not before, he put on his spectacles and went
across to the window. On the first morning of his stay there, he had
been filled with a queer misgiving that perhaps when he looked out the
Red Cross barge would have drifted away-disappeared, fairy-wise, in the
night. That he now no longer feared, and on this lovely September
morning his eyes rested with a feeling of exultant ownership on the now
familiar scene before him. The trim, leafy mall just across the paved
road, the slowly flowing river gleaming in the bright morning sun, the
line of poplars above the opposite bank--and then in the centre, as it
were, of the placid landscape, the Red Cross barge ... they were his,
for ever--the harvest of his eyes, of his imagination, of his heart.
The Red Cross barge? The man standing at the window of this humble
French wine-shop told himself how good it was that now, to-day, that
work of mercy before him was the only reminder in Valoise that France
was at war. Till the day before there had been a hundred and five
spurred and booted reminders, but yesterday afternoon the Uhlans had
ridden off eagerly, exultantly, to join their main victorious army--that
army which was now engaged in pursuing the defeated English and the
retreating French.
The Herr Doktor, on this peaceful, sunny morning, quite forgot that he
himself was a constant reminder of the awful struggle, of the losing
fight now going on between those the women of Valoise had sent
forth--their husbands, sons, and lovers--and his countrymen.
But it was natural he should make this capital omission, for as he stood
there, looking out on a still unawakened world, the people of Valoise,
well disposed as he felt towards them, formed but a blurred background
to the one figure which now possessed all his waking, aye, and all his
dreaming thoughts. Not only did he now know, but he exulted in the
knowledge that, with his first vision-like sight of Jeanne Rouannes, had
come that 'love-at-once' of which some of his comrades had rhapsodised
in the now-so-distant-as-to-be-almost-forgotten pre-war time. Those
rhapsodies of long ago had left him unmoved, partly because as a student
he had adored, with a selfless, hopeless passion, a famous singer far
older than himself, and partly because, with the passing of years, he
had seen the springtide romance of youth almost invariably dulled down
into what would have been, to such a man as he knew himself to be,
unendurably dull domesticity.
Was this new, and at once rapturous and painful, absorption in another
human being the outcome of great, noble, war-provoked emotions? If so,
how amazing that a Frenchwoman should have compelled the flowering of
his soul, the awakening of both spirit and senses to what the union of a
man and woman may mean! But well content was he that it should be so.
This side of the great war--so futile from the point of view of happy,
prosperous France--would soon be at an end. That he had been confidently
assured, some three weeks ago, by a member of General von Kluck's own
able staff. Within a very short time of the German occupation of
Paris--some even believed within a few hours of the capitulation of the
city--peace would be signed with France. There would be bitterness among
certain sections of the French people--among the Chauvinists, for
instance, who still hankered after Alsace. But the Conquerors had
behaved so humanely and so wisely during their triumphant rush through
Northern France, that this very natural feeling would soon fade away,
while the love he, Max Keller, now bore Jeanne Rouannes was of the
eternal, enduring quality which compels its own fulfilment.... Already
in his dreams the Herr Doktor saw his house, his childhood's home, at
Weimar, beflowered and garlanded to receive a bride.
But these dreams were far more living and tangible to his imagination
during those waking hours when they two were apart, than when the Herr
Doktor was faced with the reality of his and Mademoiselle Rouannes'
necessarily formal relationship. More than once he had tried to engage
her in talk on 'safe' subjects--such subjects, for instance, as that of
the Great Revolution--but she had quietly eluded him, and he sometimes
had to face the fact that the only common ground on which they met each
day was that on which lay the wounded Frenchmen to whom she gave so much
anxious care. It was a ground on which the Herr Doktor spent all the
time he could. But unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, it was ground
which was being rapidly cleared, for thanks to his skill, to her care,
and no doubt to nature too, 'our wounded,' as he had once ventured to
call them to her, were now in full convalescence, almost fit, in fact,
to be taken off as prisoners to Germany. When that thought, that
knowledge, rose to the Herr Doktor's mind he always thrust it hurriedly
away. The despatch of prisoners is purely a military duty, and would in
this case be performed by whatever officer on whom it devolved; if no
one better offered, then on the Herr Lieutenant, Prince Egon von
Witgenstein.
Prince Egon? On this fine September morning, the Herr Doktor suddenly
found himself wondering whether it would not be advisable to move his
patient into the now empty Tournebride. The knowledge that the Prince
would soon be well enough to sit up on deck was not as agreeable to the
Herr Doktor as it ought to have been to a conscientious medical
attendant. True, Mademoiselle Rouannes never even asked him how his
noble patient was progressing, and once, when old Jacob had alluded to
the Uhlan officer, the Herr Doktor had overheard her exclaim, with a
strange touch of passion in her voice, 'I forbid you--I forbid you,
Jacob, to speak of that Prussian to me!' But Prince Egon did not share
her indifference, still less her--was it hatred? He was frankly
interested in his fair enemy, and very eager to make her acquaintance.
But the Herr Doktor was determined that this so uncalled-for and
undesirable-from-every-point-of-view desire of the Prince should not be
gratified.
* * * * *
There came a knock at the door; it was his _petit dejeuner_, and the
woman who brought it in smiled quite pleasantly. It was only the second
time she had smiled at her unbidden guest. It was curious how the
departure of those burly, good-natured Uhlans had affected the people of
Valoise! Within an hour of their going, windows had been unshuttered,
doors unbarred, and a stream of women, of children, and of old men the
Herr Doktor had not suspected of being in Valoise at all, had flowed
into the streets of the town....
He drank his coffee and ate his rolls with an excellent appetite, and
then he glanced at his chronometer. It was three minutes to six--time he
went across to the barge. For when six struck by the church tower
(which, according to his Baedeker, had been built by the English in the
now utterly departed days of their valour and military prowess, that is
in the thirteenth century) the Herr Doktor invariably met Mademoiselle
Rouannes by accident, either in the road, or, what was pleasanter still,
under the trees in the mall. When he saw her coming, gravely he would
stop and bow, and she would bend her head in greeting. It would have
been natural, and agreeable too, for them to linger a few moments; but
that he had soon found she would never do. Singularly reserved always
was she in her manner, and in vain did he persist in his attempts to
persuade her to engage in general beneficial-to-the-intellect and
pleasantly-agreeable-to-the-cultured-mind conversation.
Two cases, as we know, had been beyond human help when he had first
undertaken the care of the French wounded, but the third case, greatly
owing to his skill and untiring efforts, seemed likely to pull through.
Still, even so, the Herr Doktor and Mademoiselle Rouannes were very
anxious about this case, a boy of nineteen, a clever, well-mannered,
gentle boy of the peasant class, who had been shot through the lung.
What had touched the German surgeon's heart, what had made him
especially interested in this young soldier, were a few words which had
been uttered by the Red Cross nurse very early in their joint work of
mercy. '_Il est le seul soutien de sa vieille grand'mere._' Now,
curiously enough, he, Max Keller, was also 'the sole support of his old
grandmother,' a grand old woman of seventy-nine, now eating her heart
out in placid, cultured Weimar, while thanking God her boy was not in
the firing line.
* * * * *
The Herr Doktor went across the road to the grateful shade of the lime
trees. There he waited, his heart beating, his pulse throbbing, for what
seemed a long, long time. Every moment he hoped, nay, he expected
confidently, to see her hastening towards him, clad in the white dress
and wearing the medieval-looking cap, with its red cross in the centre,
which now seemed the most becoming head-dress in the world. Hastening
towards him? Nay, nay,--hastening towards the Red Cross barge.
But the minutes went slowly by, and Mademoiselle Rouannes did not come.
Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps she was already on the barge.
If so, he had indeed wasted precious moments....
As he hurried along the stone jetty he saw the stout figure of old
Therese on deck. That meant that her young mistress was below, in the
ward.
The Herr Doktor smiled pleasantly at the old woman, and she smiled back,
a broad genial smile of good fellowship. What a difference the departure
of those few countrymen of his yesterday had made, to be sure!
But when he hurried down to the French ward he at once knew, without
being told, that Mademoiselle Jeanne had not yet arrived. Old Therese
had done her best, but it was a very poor best, to make the men lying
there comfortable. Still, they all looked more cheerful than usual, and
the boy he now hoped to save, the boy for whom he had a very tender
corner in his kindly, sentimental soul, caught hold of his hand as he
went by, and asked huskily, 'Is it true that the Prussians are gone?
_Quel bonheur!_'
It struck half-past six, seven, then half-past seven.
The Herr Doktor went up again on to the deck. Therese was sitting there
sewing. 'And Mademoiselle?' he asked questioningly.
She shook her head. 'Mademoiselle was very unhappy last night. She
thinks her father is much worse. I myself can see no difference. But
something he said to her frightened her, and so she said she must stop
at home to-day, and nurse him.'
He felt absurdly surprised, absurdly annoyed, absurdly taken aback.
Had Mademoiselle Rouannes a right to leave the ambulance barge? He
doubted it--doubted it very much indeed. Of course he himself, being now
in command of the barge, could _order_ her to come. He was a Red Cross
doctor, and she a Red Cross nurse; he had, therefore, the absolute right
to dispose of her time and services. But, sighing, he dismissed the
thought. She was quite unlike any German girl he had ever seen. It would
not occur to her to be flattered, or even touched, by his imperious wish
for her presence.
As he stood there, wondering what he had better do, there flashed into
his mind the wording of a short note which it might become his duty to
write to her. The note would be written in English, and it would run
somewhat in this wise: 'Gracious Miss,'--or perhaps it would be better
to put plain 'Miss' in the French way--'If you your father can leave for
a short time, I should be glad if to the barge you come would. One of
your wounded is not so well.--Yours respectfully, MAX KELLER.'
There would be nothing offensive, nothing hectoring about such a
missive, and he thought, he felt sure, that it would bring her. But he
would not write that note yet. He would wait till he had seen his own
patient, Prince Egon. Luckily, there was no hurry as to that, and, still
secretly hoping she would come, he lingered on, up on deck.
The sun had gone behind a cloud. There was an autumnal chill in the
morning air. The waters of the slowly flowing river looked grey and
sullen. Suddenly the Herr Doktor felt oddly friendless, and alone.
'This morning felt I so foolishly cheerful, and this the natural
reaction is!' he exclaimed to himself.
He turned and walked down to Prince Egon's small quarters. Cautiously he
opened the narrow door, but his patient was awake and smiling.
What a contrast this curious little cabin presented, especially to-day,
to that containing the French wounded! Here everything was ship-shape,
even to a modest degree, luxurious. On an inlaid table, which had been
'commandeered' from an empty villa, were laid out gold-backed brushes,
and a number of pretty trifles. Above the table hung a circular mirror,
also commandeered, and there was a whiff of some sweet, pungent scent in
the air. How different, too, the white and pink yellow-haired youth
lying there from the small, dark, and now unshaved Frenchmen on the
other side. Old Jacob was kept too busy attending on the Prussian prince
to spare any time for his own countrymen.
The Herr Doktor looked at what had partly been his own handiwork--the
handiwork of which he had felt proud on the first evening of his
arrival at Valoise--with a feeling of dissatisfaction, almost of
disgust.
Over a basket-chair was carefully spread out a green-and-gold-silk
dressing-gown, in the Weimar surgeon's eyes a garment of almost Oriental
splendour.
'If you will allow of it, Herr Doktor, I propose to get up,' said Prince
Egon cheerfully. 'I feel wonderfully better to-day! It is extraordinary
what good this rest has done me. And then that old Jacob! An almost
perfect valet! What good fortune for me that he should be here! He has
already made me a delicious omelette this morning.'
'And your Highness was not afraid to eat it?' This was really a little
joke on the Herr Doktor's part. But his patient did not so accept it. An
extraordinary change came over the recumbent man's fair face; it became
livid, discomposed.
'God in heaven!' he cried. 'Do you suspect old Jacob, Herr Doktor?'
And then the older man burst into laughter. 'No, no,' he said
soothingly. 'I suspect nothing! Besides your Highness has made it very
much worth old Jacob's while to keep you alive.'
'Aye, aye! That's true.' The prince was reassured. 'As I was saying just
now, I feel so much better that, if you permit it, I propose to get up.
I will wear my dressing-gown, not my uniform, and I will go up on deck.
There I will sit and chat with the beautiful English-speaking Mamselle.
Jacob tells me that on her mother's side she is of noble birth, and
that, although her father is only a physician, she----'
The Herr Doktor put up his hand. 'I must now take your Highness'
temperature,' he said a little sharply. 'I doubt much if you are well
enough to go upstairs. A chill would be very serious in your Highness's
condition. As for the Red Cross Sister, she is not here to-day. Her
father is very ill.'
'Not here? But that is absurd!' The young man spoke with a touch of
imperious decision. 'You must send for her, my dear Herr Doktor; she
must be requisitioned!' He smiled--an insolent smile.
The other shook his head. A sudden passion of dislike, of contempt, for
his patient filled his heart. But all he said was--'Impossible! Her
father is very ill indeed.'
'Then I will not trouble to get up. I am very well where I am. It is
very comfortable here.'
Prince Egon spoke pettishly. He had looked forward to an amusing
flirtation with the Mamselle with whose manifold perfections old Jacob
sometimes entertained him.
The hours of the morning dragged wearily on. To the Herr Doktor it
seemed as if there had never been such a long, such an utterly
lacking-in-flavour, day as was this day. For the first time he talked to
the convalescent Frenchmen at some length of themselves. Not one of them
had been a soldier at the time the war broke out on that fateful 1st of
August, and yet it surprised him, and in a sense moved him, to see that
every one of them wished to go back and fight. Not one of them seemed
conscious that he was now a prisoner, and that, unless peace was made at
once, he would soon be in Germany....
2
At twelve o'clock the Herr Doktor walked up to the Tournebride. He had
thought it possible that he might meet Mademoiselle Rouannes in the
town--but it was in vain that he lingered on the way, and glanced up
each steep byway, and quiet, shady street.
While he was eating an excellent _dejeuner_ at a table spread under the
trees in the courtyard of the inn, he cleverly led Madame Blanc on to
the subject of Dr. Rouannes. She, too, seemed quite another woman now
that the Tournebride was her own again. To-day she was eager for a
gossip.
Yes, '_ce bon docteur_' was certainly seriously ill. He had looked so
well, so vigorous, when he had started, a month ago, for the Frontier.
It was there that a shell had exploded in the room where he was actually
performing a small operation on a man wounded during the dash into
Alsace. As he had been struck in the left leg, it was impossible for him
to go on with his work, and he had managed to get home. At first it had
been said that he would soon be all right again. But now it was rumoured
that he was dying! If that were indeed true, Dr. Rouannes would be a
great loss to Valoise, for he was an excellent doctor, much beloved in
the town. His daughter was thought rather proud--very good to '_les
pauvres_,' but unwilling to frequent the more well-to-do townsfolk.
This, no doubt, because her mother was '_une noble_.' Madame Blanc
smiled as she did not often smile now, as she recalled the marriage of
Dr. Rouannes. He had refused such excellent '_occasions_'--such rich
marriages when he was young and good-looking! Then, when he was
forty-six years of age, and a confirmed bachelor, he had suddenly
married Mademoiselle Jeanne de Bligniere, the younger of the two
daughters of the Count de Bligniere, a poor, proud old gentleman whom
he, the doctor, had attended, out of charity no doubt. Curious to
relate, this '_mariage etrange_' had been a very happy one, and this
though Madame Rouannes was very, very quiet, gentle, and pious too, in
fact rather like '_une bonne Soeur_.' She had been ill two years, and
Dr. Rouannes had brought many physicians from Paris to see her. It was
said that the chemist's bill alone had been a thousand francs! But the
poor lady had died all the same, and she, Madame Blanc, would never
forget Monsieur le Medecin's tragic, stricken face at the funeral.
It had been thought that he would surely marry again. But no, he had not
done so. At first Madame Rouannes' sister had come to take care of the
motherless little girl, but Mademoiselle de Bligniere had never liked
her brother-in-law, so she soon went back to Paris. Then for some time
Mademoiselle Jeanne had had '_une anglaise_.' It was only last winter,
while visiting her aunt in Paris, that she had learnt the Red Cross
work.
At last the Herr Doktor finished his delicious _dejeuner_ under the
yellowing chestnut trees in the great courtyard which now looked so
peaceful and so solitary, and he wondered, a little ashamed of the
materialism of the unspoken question, if Mademoiselle Rouannes knew
anything of the practical side of French cookery. And after he had had
his cup of coffee and smoked his pipe, he took his diary out of his
pocket. He had not opened the book for nearly a week.
Quickly he turned over the blank pages--and then a sudden wave of
emotion swept over him. To-day was the 2nd of September--Sedan Day! And
he had not remembered it! He thought of last year's Sedan Day, spent
with some dear old friends of his childhood, and his heart became
irradiated with a peculiar, tender radiance. Beautiful, culture-filled
Weimar! How he longed to show his dear homeland to his 'Geliebte'! Then
a less noble feeling, one of fierce exultation filled him. He visioned
the great hosts of the Fatherland, his brothers all, pressing forward
through this splendid, opulent land of France. Those great hosts must
now be close to the gates of Paris--nay, they were perchance in Paris
already, celebrating the great anniversary while preparing to play the
role of magnanimous conquerors....
Only yesterday had come news of wonderful doings--and he had scarcely
cared to hear them! Tidings of the invading army brought by two
officers in charge of an armoured motor-car. Tidings of victory of
course; and of one especial victory which they had felt peculiarly
pleasant and _ermutigend_, the defeat and complete encirclement, that
is, of the small British Expeditionary Force. The English, so had run
the tale, still turned now and again and fought, not without courage,
small rearguard actions, but they were not causing any real trouble.
Already Compiegne was evacuated, and Chantilly was ready for the
Kaiser's occupation. It was from the magnificent home of '_Le Grand
Conde_' that the War Lord intended to start for the entry of his
victorious army through the Arc de Triomphe, into Paris.
Of course the Herr Doktor had been quite pleased to hear all this
glorious news, but though he realised how inspiriting it was to know
that within a day and a half's march of Valoise pressed on the
relentless march on Paris, he had not really cared. Valoise had suddenly
become to him the one place in the world which mattered. The only place
where he wished to be--to stay....
He knew that the city of Paris, as apart from the rest of France, was
to pay a huge indemnity. Until that indemnity was paid, there was to be
an army of occupation, not only in the city, but in the surrounding
country. Of this army he, as a non-combatant, could easily obtain
permission to form part....
And then as he walked restlessly up and down the courtyard, there
suddenly rose on the still, warm air a long-drawn distant roar of sound.
Thunder? The Herr Doktor shook his head, and his heart began to beat a
little quicker. He knew what that sound portended, and he also
remembered enough to know that the action proceeding must be a long,
long way off.
Madame Blanc came out of her kitchen. '_On commence a se battre
la-bas._' There was an undertone of hope, of fierce joy--even of
boastfulness--in her voice.
He bent his head gravely. The expression on her face irritated him. Till
to-day he had thought her an excellent, homely woman. He could no longer
think her so, for there was an awful look of vengeful longing in her
eyes.
3
And during all that warm, early September afternoon, across the golden
haze thrown up by the river, there came from '_la-bas_' the rolling,
muttering roar that was so like thunder, that now and again the Herr
Doktor asked himself whether it might not be thunder after all? But
whatever this provenance, these sounds had a strange, electric effect on
the French wounded. They became restless and excited. Hitherto they had
stayed below; now, without asking the Herr Doktor's permission, two or
three pallid faces appeared above the stairway, and there was a look of
strained suspense, almost of hope, in the eyes which avoided looking
frankly into his face.
There was yet another curious change in all those young, wild-eyed
Frenchmen. They talked in low hoarse whispers the one with the other,
and once he heard a reference to _la nouvelle armee_, and then again to
_l'armee de Versailles_. Of what army, new or old, could they be
thinking? Brave but unready France had put every man for whom she had
proper arms and accoutrements into the field from the first day.
Prince Egon shared in the subdued excitement. 'It is pleasant to feel
that we are no longer away from the whirlpool!' he cried joyfully, and
this was his only remark during that intolerably long afternoon.
At six o'clock the sounds of firing ceased as suddenly as they had
begun. Four hours' desultory cannonade? It must have been a
long-drawn-out rearguard action.
The Herr Doktor was sitting up on deck, a pocket volume of Heine in his
hand. He read the verse--
_Im wunderschoenen Monat Mai
Als alle Knospen sprangen
Da ist in meinem Herzen
Die Liebe aufgegangen._
And then he looked up and gazed across the river. Strange, strange
indeed, that love should wait till now to blossom in his heart!
There came the sound, the now beloved, familiar sound of Her quick,
light footfalls on the jetty, and a moment later Mademoiselle Rouannes
walked on to the barge.
Leaping to his feet, he brought his heels together and bowed. But the
ceremonious words of inquiry he was about to utter concerning her
father's state were stayed on his lip, and the secret joy which had
flooded his whole being on seeing her was suddenly changed to concern,
even distress, so unlike did Jeanne Rouannes appear to his usual vision
of her. Her face was flushed, her eyelids reddened by much crying. The
look of composure, of dignity, which always aroused his willing
admiration, if also his aching sense of her aloofness from himself, was
gone, and now there was something appealing, as well as piteous and even
helpless, in the face into which he was gazing.
'I have come to ask you,' she said abruptly, and in English, 'if you
will give me a little of your small store of morphia or laudanum? My
father is now in constant pain--I fear he is far more ill than he will
admit is the case. I am very, very anxious about him.' She uttered the
words with quick, nervous haste, lowering her voice as she spoke.
Was it possible that she thought there could be any fear of his refusing
her request? Apparently there was, for, 'I know you do not like to
diminish your store of narcotics. But from what I understand a quite
small amount might lessen the pain my father is enduring.'
She had moved away from the middle of the deck, and they were standing,
side by side, on the river side of the barge. As she spoke she did not
look at the man by her side, instead she stared straight before her, and
he saw the tears well up into her tired eyes, and roll down her pale
cheeks.
'Would it not possible be,' he asked, 'for me your father to see?'
'No. That is quite impossible. But I thank you for thinking of doing
so.'
'But if you tell him that to the Red Cross,--that splendid,
so-entirely-neutral and internationally-universal institution--I too
belong? Surely would he then consent me to see?'
She shook her head. 'The truth is that--that----' She stopped, and he
said 'Yes?' interrogatively, encouragingly. 'The truth is that my poor
father had a most unfortunate experience with some German Red Cross
doctors!'
'With German doctors,' he repeated, discomfited. 'That very strange is.'
'Yes, it was strange--strange and most unfortunate, as matters now are;
for it makes me feel that I do not dare propose your visit to him.'
The Herr Doktor--or so it seemed to the girl standing by his side--fell
into an abstracted silence. She respected his mood for a few moments,
then she asked timidly, in a voice very different from that which he had
ever heard issue from her proud lips before, 'I suppose your medical
stores are at the Tournebride?'
He looked round eagerly. 'No,' he said quickly. 'I have them here, in
the motor ambulance, and what necessary is, go I at once to procure.
But, gracious miss! There has come to me a thought which I find most
illuminating, a thought which I you earnestly beg very carefully before
you it reject to consider. With my medical stores possess I naturally
operation overalls.'
He stopped for a moment, as if anxious to give himself time, then went
on hurriedly: 'Would it not possible be for me to put on an overall (it
covers entirely my 'feld-grau' uniform) and then an English doctor to
represent by the bedside of your honoured father? He surely would not
object an English or, better still, a Scotch colleague to see?'
'That,' she said, and drew a long breath, 'is very true.'
And as he gazed at her with an earnest, longing look of the inner
meaning of which she was, as he well knew, utterly unconscious, he saw
surprise and indecision give way to hope and relief.
'But are you willing to do that?' she asked.'Would it not be very--very
disagreeable for you to carry through such a--a----' Her English failed
her, and she uttered a word of which he was ignorant, and could only
guess the meaning--'to carry through such a _supercherie_? 'she said.
He answered eagerly, 'There is nothing I would not do'--and then he
checked himself, and substituted for what he had been going to say, the
words, 'for a French colleague. Absolutely easy will it be,' he went on
confidently. 'You will him tell that I very little French know--which
indeed the truth is.'
Even as he spoke, her woman's wit was hard at work. 'I will write my
father a note,' she said, 'and send it by Therese. Then he will not be
able to say "No" to me, and I on my side shall not have the pain of
speaking a lie to him face to face.'
The Herr Doktor's face relaxed into a smile; women, so he reflected,
were the same all the world over--in France as in Germany. He took out
of his breast pocket a neat letter-case, of which he had made no use
since his arrival in Valoise. Deferentially he handed it to her, and
then he had the pleasure of seeing her write a letter on his note-paper.
'Do you think that will do?' she said. And he read over slowly and
carefully the short, clear French phrases.
'MY DEAR FATHER,--An English doctor has joined the Red Cross barge.
I much desire that he should see thee. I will bring him with me in
an hour. As far as I can judge he is experienced.
'Thy
'JEANNE.'
'Most excellent, honoured miss! And only one little word not absolutely
true is!' He ventured a smile. She smiled back with the words, 'But it
is a very important word--"English"!' And then she wondered why his face
altered and stiffened into such frowning gravity; the English, after
all, were no more the Herr Doktor's enemies than were the French.
4
They sped along, two white, ghost-like figures, in the darkness. Every
light in the little town was already extinguished, or hidden behind high
walls and closely drawn curtains. Valoise only asked to be forgotten, to
be obliterated from the map, while the awful tide of war swayed and
swept on, within some twenty miles of the town, towards Paris.
Jeanne Rouannes walked as swiftly and unfalteringly as if it had been
broad daylight through the steep byways and up the roughly paved alleys
leading to the Haute Ville. But it seemed a long time ere they emerged
into a street, lighted by one twinkling lamp which swung suspended over
the centre of the highway.
'You are interested in the Revolution?' she said in English. 'Well,
thirty people were hung in this street, from where that lamp now swings,
a hundred and twenty years ago. That was the meaning of "a la
lanterne!"'
'Ach!' exclaimed the Herr Doktor, gazing upwards. 'That truly
informative is!' And while he uttered these words he was telling
himself--that secret self to whom each of us tells so many amazing,
unexpected, tragic and, yes, sometimes such delicious things--that this
was the first time she had ever spoken to him, of her own volition, on
any subject which lay quite outside her Red Cross work. That she had
done so made him feel exultant, absurdly happy. Soon, quite soon, every
barrier would surely be down between their two hearts....
She moved on a few steps, and then stopped in front of an aperture sunk
far back in the wall which ran to the right of the historic lantern.
'We have arrived,' she said, and turning the handle of the door, she
stepped back to allow him to pass through first.
He waited awkwardly for a moment. 'Won't you the way lead?' he asked;
and quickly she walked past him into a garden which in the darkness
seemed illimitable. Sweet pungent scents rose and mingled from each side
of the narrow flagged path, and to his moved and ardent imagination it
was as if Nature herself was offering the homage of her incense to the
French girl now leading him into the sanctuary of her home.
Suddenly he saw a small low house rise whitely before him; a door
opened, and a shaft of yellow light illumined the short, broad figure of
the old woman servant, Therese, for in her hand she held a lamp with a
gay Chinese shade over it.
Mademoiselle Rouannes called out, 'Here we are, Therese!' Then she
turned round to her companion. 'If you will kindly wait in my salon for
a moment, I will go and tell my father that you are here,' she said in a
low voice.
Her white figure melted into the darkness and he followed the servant
down a passage, and into what was evidently the only sitting-room of
the little house. Then Therese shut the door on him, and the Herr Doktor
began looking about him with eager curiosity.
The room was not gay and bright as he would have thought to find a young
Frenchwoman's salon. Rather was it simple and austere. The few pieces of
furniture were of the First Empire period, of mahogany and brass,
covered with bright green silk which with time had become dulled in
tint, and even frayed. In the middle of the room was a marble-topped
round table on which stood a lamp, fellow to that which old Therese had
held in her hand. On the round table lay several books, and a magazine,
the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' to which the Herr Doktor in the
now-so-far-away days of peace had been a subscriber.
He bent down and looked at the familiar orange cover. It bore the date
of August 1. Idly he looked at the table of contents: no prevision, no
suspicion even, of the coming cataclysm! He wondered whether the number
of August 15 had been published. He thought it unlikely.
He turned away from the table, and looked up and about him. Above a
narrow, straight settee hung two charming eighteenth-century
pastels--that of a young man in a blue and silver uniform, and that of a
slim, pale girl with powdered hair. She had a wistful and yet a proud
little face, and it pleased the Herr Doktor to trace in this portrait a
resemblance to Mademoiselle Rouannes.
At last the door opened, and he felt a slight shock of disappointment at
seeing that it was old Therese, and not her young mistress, who had come
for him. Stepping lightly, he followed her up a shallow staircase, and
so to a landing on the first floor.
Jeanne Rouannes was standing there, waiting for him. She had changed
from her white uniform into a black gown, and this change of dress
altered her strangely. It made her look younger, slenderer, paler, more
beautiful even than before in the Herr Doktor's eyes, for it intensified
her peculiar fairness, and deepened the fire in her blue eyes.
Perhaps something in his face showed his surprise, for she said in
English, and in a very low voice, 'I never wear my Red Cross dress when
I am with my father. It disturbs him--makes him remember----' and then,
without finishing her sentence, she pushed open a red-baize door, and
beckoned to him to follow her. As he did so, she put her finger to her
lips and whispered, 'Wait here a moment----'
From where he stood, just within the door, he could see only one half of
the room, and that half bare, save that the walls were lined with books
set on mahogany shelves. Standing at right angles across the one corner
visible from the door was a writing-table, covered with grey cloth. A
high screen to his left hid the rest of the room.
The Herr Doktor's heart began to beat quickly. He told himself that he
was about to enter into the very heart of her life--to take an amazing
step forward in his intimacy with her....
A word or two was whispered behind the screen, and then she came for
him. As together they walked forward into the room, she exclaimed, in
French of course, 'Papa, I bring you the kind----'
But the words were cut across by the leonine-looking, grey-haired man
sitting up in bed. 'Welcome!' cried Dr. Rouannes heartily. He stretched
out both his hands. 'Welcome, my dear colleague--nay, I should now say,
my dear ally! My daughter tells me that you speak French. Unhappily I do
not know your splendid language, but, as you see, Jeanne was taught
English. For some years after the death of my beloved wife, we had
living with us a charming person, our excellent Miss--Miss----'
'Miss Owen,' said Mademoiselle Rouannes quietly.
'Yes, yes, Miss Owen!' He waited a moment; then he looked up at his
daughter. 'My little girl,' he said, and there was a very tender,
caressing inflection in his resonant French voice, 'I will now ask you
to go downstairs while I confer with our friend.'
With a curiously impulsive gesture she clasped her hands together. 'But
no, father!' she exclaimed. 'Remember that I am your nurse! Surely you
will let me stay?' She looked beseechingly, not at her father, but at
the silent man now standing by her side.
'Mademoiselle your daughter is an excellent nurse,' observed the Herr
Doktor awkwardly.
The old man leant back on his pillow, wearily. He had hoped his English
colleague would be more expansive, and '_sympathique_.' Also, he had
thought to see an older man, one who would understand, without any need
for explanation, his point of view about his daughter.
'I only wish you to leave the room for five minutes, my child. One word
I _must_ say to Monsieur alone.'
She obeyed without further demur, and as the door closed behind her, the
Frenchman put out his hot, sinewy, right hand and seized the younger
man's.
'Not a word!' he exclaimed in a hurried whisper. 'Not a word, you
understand, of the truth for her! Gangrene has set in. There is nothing
to be done now--it's too late. Why I consented to see you was, first,
to procure for myself the pleasure of meeting an English confrere
(an honour as well as a very great pleasure, I assure you)--and
then with the hope that you were likely to know some--what shall I
say?--palliative--ay, that's the word!--to make things less painful for
her, as well as for me too, when comes the end.'
The Herr Doktor nodded his head understandingly.
'I tell you this,' went on the other quickly, 'because my daughter, as a
matter of fact, knows nothing of illness, nothing of wounds----' He
waited a moment. 'Perhaps you have a daughter--a child of your own?'
The Herr Doktor shook his head.
'Ah well, at your age I too was not married! More, like you, perhaps, I
intended not to marry. But, some day your heart will play you a
trick--wait till then, it's worth it--and you will come to realise how
carefully one tries to guard one's children, especially one's daughter,
from what is painful and disagreeable. I could not prevent Jeanne from
taking charge of this Red Cross barge. She belongs to the Secours aux
Blesses Militaires, and she has been through the course they give their
young girl members. But, naturally, I should not have allowed her to go
to a military hospital. A Red Cross barge is different. There are only
convalescents there--and old Jacob, whom you will have seen, gave me his
word that she should be sheltered from anything unpleasant or--or
unsuitable.' He waited a few moments, and then, in a very different
voice, added: 'But now, my dear colleague, we will consider my
case--otherwise she will be growing impatient.'
He drew down his bed-clothes, and an involuntary exclamation of concern,
of surprise, of regret escaped from the Herr Doktor's lips.
'Yes, you see how it is with me? One of those new-fangled injections at
the right moment might have stopped the mischief. On the other hand, it
might not.' He shrugged his shoulders, and exclaimed, 'Yes, there's
nothing to be done! But I want to know if your opinion coincides with
mine as to how much time I have left. That is important, for I have
arrangements to make. When I am gone, my daughter will have to find her
way to Paris, to her aunt, Mademoiselle de Bligniere.'
'To Paris?' The Herr Doktor could not keep the amazement he felt out of
his voice.
The old man looked up at him quickly. 'Yes, my dear colleague, to
Paris--why not?'
'But--but----' The Herr Doktor reddened, then very quietly, even
deprecatingly, he said, 'But, Monsieur le Docteur--the Germans? Will
they not in Paris be?'
'No,' said Dr. Rouannes confidently. 'They will be kept out of Paris. I
only wish she--aye, and I too--were in Paris now!'
There was a pause, a rather painful pause, between the two men.
'You do not believe what I say about Paris?' said Dr. Rouannes abruptly.
'No, I regret to say that I cannot your opinion share.' The Herr Doktor
forced himself to say the words.
'You do not know Joffre.' The old doctor looked up at him reflectively.
'Very few people know Joffre--I do. We were at school together. I saw
him not so very long ago. In fact just before I was wounded.' Then he
called out, 'Jeanne! Ma petite Jeanne!'
The door opened, and Mademoiselle Rouannes walked in, pale, composed,
but with lips quivering piteously.
'Do not look so anxious,' said her father quickly. 'As I have always
told you, there is no mystery about my condition--none at all! My
English colleague agrees with me that it's a very nasty wound. Well, you
know that already! I'm not as young as I was--that is against me; on the
other hand, I'm a very healthy man. You are not to trouble about me one
way or the other. Certain things which we are lacking this gentleman
will provide out of his stores. The English ambulance service is the
best in the world.'
And then the Herr Doktor made his one mistake. 'Nein, nein!' he
muttered. And then he felt his heart stand still.
But his new patient had not heard the protest. In a stronger, heartier
voice he exclaimed, 'Ah yes, that's right! I wondered when it was
coming----'
The door had opened, and Therese walked round the corner of the screen,
carrying a tray on which were three small glasses, a bottle of Malaga,
and some little dry cakes.
'Do you mind stopping a few minutes and having a talk with my father?'
Jeanne Rouannes spoke in English. 'It's very'--she hesitated for a word,
then found it--'it's very dull for him when I am away all day.'
Eagerly the Herr Doktor sat down.
'And now,' exclaimed the patient, 'we will forget illness and trouble!
We will talk of the glorious British Army, and of your ships--that
splendid navy which encircles and guards our shores. What would the
Little Corporal have said to all this, hein?' Then more seriously he
went on, 'I was put out of action almost at once, and that is why I saw
nothing of my British confreres. I regret to say that I did see
something of the German doctors'--the colour rushed into his face,
flamed over his broad forehead, and up to the roots of his white hair.
'Father!' said his daughter imploringly, 'Father, be calm!'
'I am calm--I am absolutely calm! But I must tell our friend of my
experience, if only because it will show him--it will show him----'
'Father!' she said again, 'why talk of it now? It will only excite you
unduly.'
'No, it does not excite me--not in the least! Our English friend here
will be interested--deeply interested--in my story. It is one which
should be published in'--he waited a moment, then brought out
triumphantly the name--'yes, the _Lancet_--it should be written in the
_Lancet_. Perhaps M. le Docteur will himself write it?'
He stopped short, and looked inquiringly at the man sitting by his
bedside.
'Most certainly will I it do, my dear confrere.' As he spoke the lying
words, Max Keller looked, not at the old man in bed, but at Mademoiselle
Jeanne, and there was a kindly, steady, reassuring expression in his
eyes.
She had grown scarlet with annoyance, with--was it fear? The Herr Doktor
longed to reassure her, to make her feel at ease. How little she
understood the self-control, the generosity, the masculine good sense of
the German character! As if he would or could mind anything which this
poor, old, prejudiced Frenchman, dying so bravely of a gangrenous wound,
was likely to say or think of the splendid surgeons now adorning the
German Medical Corps! Courteously he bent forward to hear what the man
in bed was saying.
'Yes, my dear confrere, what I am about to tell you deserves to be put
on record! But I will not take up much of your time--I will be brief,
very brief.'
He waited a moment, and then, with a curious change of tone, very
quietly Dr. Rouannes told his story. 'It was a few days before I was
wounded, between two of the early battles. Six of us had been sent to
hastily organise a field hospital'--a bitter look came into his face.
'As you know, for it is, alas! no secret, we were caught, thanks to our
fine Government, quite unprepared.... But to return to our muttons--we
of the Red Cross were being cordially entertained by one of our generals
and his staff, when one afternoon a number of our brave fellows came in
with a capture! Such fools were we, such quixotic fools--it is not yet
a month ago, but we have all changed by now--that we were angered when
we discovered that this capture consisted of four German ambulance
waggons, and of ten German doctors.'
The Herr Doktor moved uncomfortably in his chair; it creaked a little.
'Because we were such quixotic fools--and our general, Monsieur, shared
our folly and our quixotry--we invited these German confreres to join us
at dinner. We were sorry for them, we felt ashamed they had been
detained. We intended to send them away next day, back to their own
side. We were the more interested in them owing to the simple fact that,
like ourselves, they had not yet been in action--so far was clear, they
wore quite new uniforms and their equipment was superb. Ah, Monsieur,
their equipment made our mouths water! Another thing also filled us with
envy and, yes, a little shame. All ten of these medical gentlemen spoke
French, and excellent French too; but only one of us six spoke German!
Fortunately three or four of the officers attached to our General spoke
German too--not perhaps very well, but still sufficiently to
understand. Fortunately, very fortunately as it turned out, the one of
us doctors who could speak German was a very intelligent man. He was,
Monsieur, from Luxembourg, and some of his medical studies had actually
been carried out in Germany. Bref, he spoke German like a German.'
The old man waited a moment. 'Have patience with me,' he said quietly.
'It will not take you long to hear my story, but the preliminaries are
important.... Down we all sat to an excellent dinner. "One thing at
least we can show them," observed a friend to me. "Our cooking, at any
rate, is superior to theirs!" Our confrere, the man who spoke German,
did not say much, he remained curiously silent during the meal; but the
Germans talked a good deal with us other five. They proved pleasant, for
they were each and all cultivated men. Before we sat down we Frenchmen
arranged not to touch on anything controversial. But, as was natural
under the circumstances, we talked what you English call "shop"--we
talked, that is, in an impersonal, courteous manner of wounds, and of
the treatment of wounds; for from the day war had broken out we had
naturally all been reading up everything we could lay our hands on about
this terrible and fascinating subject.'
'You are getting tired, Father----'
Jeanne Rouannes came forward as she said the words, but the old man
raised his voice: 'No, I am not tired--not tired at all! They were ten
Germans to us five Frenchmen, for, as I have already told you, our
Luxembourg confrere hardly spoke at all. It was he, however, who towards
the end of dinner got up and left the room, and his absence, rather to
our surprise, seemed to make certain of our German confreres slightly
uneasy. More than one of them asked why he had thus absented himself....
They soon had an answer to their question, for at the end of perhaps ten
minutes he came back, and with him was the General. Our German guests
rose to their feet with perfect courtesy as the General walked forward.
He was pale, Monsieur--he was pale as you may be sure he never had been,
he never would be, in action. "Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "I have to
perform a disagreeable task! Your confrere here--if indeed he is your
confrere--is convinced that among you there are a proportion of men who
are not doctors, and who, to put it bluntly, know nothing of medicine.
He is convinced, gentlemen, that out of you ten men there are four spies
who have taken advantage of the Red Cross uniform to obtain information
useful to our enemies. I now ask him, and his five French confreres, to
constitute themselves into a court-martial; and you, gentlemen, will
each in turn submit yourself to a short cross-examination. You all speak
French so perfectly that it will be a very easy matter for you to answer
the simple questions which will be put to you."'
Dr. Rouannes drew a long breath.
'I do not mind confessing to you that I thought this proposal an
outrage! I had no doubt at all that the ten men before me were Red Cross
surgeons. I come, Monsieur, of a Bonapartist family. I can remember
1870--the foolish, senseless cry, "We are betrayed!" On this occasion I
felt as if that same ignoble cry was being raised again. "This
Luxembourg confrere is afraid. He is nervous. He has the spy mania!" I
exclaimed to myself. But I did notice--I could not help noticing--that
of the ten men standing before us two had turned horribly pale. But what
of that? Might not anyone turn pale when accused of so hateful and
loathly a thing as is that of which those men were being accused?'
He paused--it seemed a very long time to his two listeners.
'Well, my dear confrere--you will already have guessed the end of my
story! The two hours which followed the decree of our General were the
most painful of my life. But the Luxembourg doctor had made one mistake.
He had thought to find four spies--Monsieur, there were five. Exactly
half of these ten men wearing the Red Cross knew nothing of
medicine--nothing of surgery. The fifth man, he who had escaped
suspicion, was more intelligent than the others; he, at any rate, had
taken the trouble to make himself conversant with certain things which
are the ABC of our noble profession. Perchance he was the son of a
doctor--who knows? You will ask why we were so long as two hours? We
were two hours because we first took those whom our Luxembourg confrere
believed to be medical men. We put them through a very thorough
examination and they came out of it admirably. Then we took the others.
Ah, Monsieur, that did not take long! We knew the truth very, very
soon--almost within the first few moments. For the matter of that they
scarcely went to the trouble of denying what we suspected--only the one
of whom I have just spoken tried to deceive us. They were brave
men--that I will say frankly--those Prussian officers who had done so
dastardly a thing. Indeed, Monsieur, I do not mind admitting to you
that, in the end, I understood their point of view far more than I did
that of the five medical men who had lent themselves to so
unprofessional an act of treachery. As for the spies, they were working
for their country. I repeat, they were brave men. Not one of them
flinched. A confrere who had been attached to a medical mission in the
East said to me afterwards that to him they recalled fanatics. For the
matter of that, even the German surgeons were not aware of the enormity
of their crime. There seemed no shame among them--indeed, as one of them
put it to me quite plainly, each of them placed his Fatherland above his
sense of professional honour.'
And then at last the Herr Doktor spoke. 'You do not think any French Red
Cross surgeon would such a--a trick have practised?'
And Jeanne Rouannes, glancing at him quickly, and then averting her
eyes, saw that his usually pale face was red.
The old man stared at him, surprised. He lifted his shaggy white
eyebrows. 'I cannot answer for _every_ member of the French Army Medical
Corps,' he answered, with a touch of impatience. 'But I can answer for
it that you would not have found five men, nay, not three, willing to do
such a thing in concert. Had such a proposal been made to them, one and
all, I am quite convinced, would have refused. Further, I assert that no
French general would have dared to make to them so dishonourable a
proposal. The Red Cross, as you know, my dear confrere, is an
international institution; if it is to be used to cover, to serve
military operations, then'--he shrugged his shoulders expressively.
The Herr Doktor rose to his feet. 'Yes,' he said, 'I quite see it, and
from your point of view you have right--undoubted right!'
'And now, my dear father, I had better take the doctor downstairs. He
has to go back to the barge.'
Dr. Rouannes grasped his colleague's hand with both his. 'It has done me
great good to see you,' he said heartily. 'And I am sure you will be
able to alleviate the slight pain from which I now and again suffer. You
will remember all I have told you'--the old man looked up at him with a
touch of painful anxiety in his eyes, and, as he heard the door behind
the screen swing to behind his daughter--'You will help her to get to
Paris?' he muttered. 'It would not be safe for her to remain alone here.
There may be fierce fighting our way soon. You have doubtless heard of
our New Army?'
The Herr Doktor nodded. How piteous were these delusions of the
conquered! He answered in all sincerity, 'In every possible way, my dear
confrere, will I Mademoiselle Rouannes assist, when you no longer there
to help her are.'