At breakfast next morning Doggie searched the courtyard in vain for
the slim figure of the girl. Yesterday she had stood just outside the
kitchen door. To-day her office was usurped by a hefty cook with the
sleeves of his grey shirt rolled up and his collar open and vast and
tight-hitched braces unromantically strapped all over him. Doggie felt
a pang of disappointment and abused the tea. Mo Shendish stared, and
asked what was wrong with it.
"Rotten," said Doggie.
"You can't expect yer slap-up City A.B.C. shops in France," said Mo.
Doggie, who was beginning to acquire a sense of rueful humour, smiled
and was appeased.
It was only in the afternoon that he saw the girl again. She was
standing in the doorway of the house, with her hand on her bosom, as
though she had just come out to breathe fresh air, when Doggie and his
two friends emerged from the yard. As their eyes met, she greeted him
with her sad little smile. Emboldened, he stepped forward.
"_Bon jour, mademoiselle._"
"_Bon jour, monsieur._"
"I hope madame your aunt is better to-day."
She seemed to derive some dry amusement from his solicitude.
"Alas, no, monsieur."
"Was that why I had not the pleasure of seeing you this morning?"
"Where?"
"Yesterday you filled our tea-kettles."
"But, monsieur," she replied primly, "I am not the _vivandiere_ of
the regiment."
"That's a pity," laughed Doggie.
Then he became aware of the adjacent forms and staring eyes of Phineas
and Mo, who for the first time in their military career beheld him on
easy terms with a strange and prepossessing young woman. After a
second's thought he came to a diplomatic decision.
"Mademoiselle," said he, in his best Durdlebury manner, "may I dare to
present my two comrades, my best friends in the battalion, Monsieur
McPhail, Monsieur Shendish?"
She made them each a little formal bow, and then, somewhat
maliciously, addressing McPhail, as the bigger and the elder of the
two:
"I don't yet know the name of your friend."
Phineas put his great hand on Doggie's shoulder.
"James Marmaduke Trevor."
"Otherwise called Doggie, miss," said Mo.
She made a little graceful gesture of non-comprehension.
"_Non compree?_" asked Mo.
"No, monsieur."
Phineas explained, in his rasping and consciously translated French:
"It is a nickname of the regiment. Doggie."
The flushed and embarrassed subject of the discussion saw her lips
move silently to the word.
"But his name is Trevor. Monsieur Trevor," said Phineas.
She smiled again. And the strange thing about her smile was that it
was a matter of her lips and rarely of her eyes, which always
maintained the haunting sadness of their tragic depths.
"Monsieur Trevor," she repeated imitatively. "And yours, monsieur?"
"McPhail."
"Mac-Fele; _c'est assez difficile_. And yours?"
Mo guessed. "Shendish," said he.
She repeated that also, whereat Mo grinned fatuously, showing his
little yellow teeth beneath his scrubby red moustache.
"My friends call me Mo," said he.
She grasped his meaning. "Mo," she said; and she said it so funnily
and softly, and with ever so little a touch of quizzicality, that the
sentimental warrior roared with delight.
"You've got it right fust time, miss."
From her two steps' height of vantage, she looked down on the three
upturned British faces--and her eyes went calmly from one to the
other.
She turned to Doggie. "One would say, monsieur, that you were the
Three Musketeers."
"Possibly, mademoiselle," laughed Doggie. He had not felt so
light-hearted for many months. "But we lack a d'Artagnan."
"When you find him, bring him to me," said the girl.
"Mademoiselle," said Phineas gallantly, "we would not be such
imbeciles."
At that moment the voice of Toinette came from within.
"Ma'amselle Jeanne! Ma'amselle Jeanne!"
"_Oui, oui, j'y viens_," she cried. "_Bon soir, messieurs_," and she
was gone.
Doggie looked into the empty vestibule and smiled at the friendly
brandy cask. Provided it is pronounced correctly, so as to rhyme with
the English "Anne," it is a very pretty name. Doggie thought she
looked like Jeanne--a Jeanne d'Arc of this modern war.
"Yon's a very fascinating lassie," Phineas remarked soberly, as they
started on their stroll. "Did you happen to observe that all the time
she was talking so prettily she was looking at ghosts behind us?"
"Do you think so?" asked Doggie, startled.
"Man, I know it," replied Phineas.
"Ghosts be blowed!" cried Mo Shendish. "She's a bit of orl right, she is.
What I call class. Doesn't chuck 'erself at yer 'ead, like some of 'em,
and, on the other 'and, has none of yer blooming stand-orfishness. See
what I mean?" He clutched them each by an arm--he was between them.
"Look 'ere. How do you think I could pick up this blinking
lingo--quick?"
"Make violent love to Toinette and ask her to teach you. There's
nothing like it," said Doggie.
"Who's Toinette?"
"The nice old lady in the kitchen."
Mo flung his arm away. "Oh, go and boil yourself!" said he.
* * * * *
But the making of love to the old woman in the kitchen led to
possibilities of which Mo Shendish never dreamed. They never dawned on
Doggie until he found himself at it that evening.
It was dusk. The men were lounging and smoking about the courtyard.
Doggie, who had long since exchanged poor Taffy Jones's imperfect
penny whistle for a scientific musical instrument ordered from Bond
Street, was playing, with his sensitive skill, the airs they loved. He
had just finished "Annie Laurie"--"Man," Phineas used to declare,
"when Doggie Trevor plays 'Annie Laurie,' he has the power to take
your heart by the strings and drag it out through your eyes"--he had
just come to the end of this popular and gizzard-piercing tune and
received his meed of applause, when Toinette came out of the kitchen,
two great zinc crocks in her hands, and crossed to the pump in the
corner of the yard. Three or four would-be pumpers, among them Doggie,
went to her aid.
"All right, mother, we'll see to it," said one of them.
So they pumped and filled the crocks, and one man got hold of one and
Doggie got hold of another, and they carried them to the kitchen
steps.
"_Merci, monsieur_," said Toinette to the first; and he went away with
a friendly nod. But to Doggie she said, "_Entrez, monsieur_." And
monsieur carried the two crocks over the threshold and Toinette shut
the door behind him. And there, sitting over some needlework in a
corner of the kitchen by a lamp, sat Jeanne.
She looked up rather startled, frowned for the brief part of a second,
and regarded him inquiringly.
"I brought in monsieur to show him the photograph of _mon petiot_, the
comrade who sent me the snuff," explained Toinette, rummaging in a
cupboard.
"May I stay and look at it?" asked Doggie, buttoning up his tunic.
"_Mais parfaitement, monsieur_," said Jeanne. "It is Toinette's
kitchen."
"_Bien sur_," said the old woman, turning with the photograph, that
of a solid young infantryman. Doggie made polite remarks. Toinette put
on a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles and scanned the picture. Then
she handed it to Jeanne.
"Don't you think there is a great deal of resemblance?"
Jeanne directed a comparing glance at Doggie and smiled.
"Like two little soldiers in a pod," she said.
Toinette talked of her _petiot_ who was at St. Mihiel. It was far
away, very far. She sighed as though he were fighting remote in the
Caucasus.
Presently came the sharp ring of a bell. Jeanne put aside her work and
rose.
"It is my aunt who has awakened."
But Toinette was already at the door. "I will go up, Ma'amselle
Jeanne. Do not derange yourself."
She bustled away. Once more the pair found themselves alone together.
"If you don't continue your sewing, mademoiselle," said Doggie, "I
shall think that I am disturbing you, and must bid you good night."
Jeanne sat down and resumed her work. A sensation, more like laughter
than anything else, fluttered round Doggie's heart.
"_Voulez-vous vous asseoir, Monsieur--Trevor?_"
"_Vous etes bien aimable, Mademoiselle Jeanne_," said Doggie, sitting
down on a straight-backed chair by the oilcloth-covered kitchen table
which was between them.
"May I move the lamp slightly?" he asked, for it hid her from his
view.
He moved it somewhat to her left. It threw shadows over her features,
accentuating their appealing sadness. He watched her, and thought of
McPhail's words about the ghosts. He noted too, as the needle went in
and out of the fabric, that her hands, though roughened by coarse
work, were finely made, with long fingers and delicate wrists. He
broke a silence that grew embarrassing.
"You seem to have suffered greatly, Mademoiselle Jeanne," he said
softly.
Her lips quivered. "_Mais oui, monsieur._"
"Monsieur Trevor," he said.
She put her hands and needlework in her lap and looked at him full.
"And you too have suffered?"
"I? Oh no."
"But, yes. I have seen too much of it not to know. I see in the eyes.
Your two comrades to-day--they are good fellows--but they have not
suffered. You are different."
"Not a bit," he declared. "We're just little indistinguishable bits of
the conglomerate Tommy."
"And I, monsieur, have the honour to say that you are different."
This was very flattering. More--it was sweet unction, grateful to many
a bruise.
"How?" said he.
"You do not belong to their world. Your Tommies are wonderful in their
kindness and chivalry--until I met them I had never seen an Englishman
in my life--I had imbecile ideas--I thought they would be without
manners--_un peu insultants_. I found I could walk among them, without
fear, as if I were a princess. It is true."
"It is because you have the air of a princess," said Doggie; "a sad
little disguised princess of a fairy-tale, who is recognized by all
the wild boars and rabbits in the wood."
She glanced aside. "There isn't a woman in Frelus who is differently
treated. I am only an ignorant girl, half bourgeoise, half peasant,
monsieur, but I have my woman's knowledge--and I know there is a
difference between you and the others. You are a son of good family.
It is evident. You have a delicacy of mind and of feeling. You were
not born to be a soldier."
"Mademoiselle Jeanne," cried Doggie, "do I appear as bad as that? Do
you take me for an _embusque manque_?"
Now an _embusque_ is a slacker who lies in the safe ambush of a soft
job. And an _embusque manque_ is a slacker who fortuitously has
failed to win the fungus wreath of slackerdom.
She flushed deep red.
"_Je ne suis pas malhonnete, monsieur._"
Doggie spread himself elbow-wise over the table. The girl's visible
register of moods was fascinating.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle Jeanne. You are quite right. But it's not a
question of what I was born to be--but what I was trained to be. I
wasn't trained to be a soldier. But I do my best."
She looked at him waveringly.
"Forgive me, mademoiselle."
"But you flash out on the point of honour."
Doggie laughed. "Which shows that I have the essential of the
soldier."
Doggie's manner was not without charm. She relented.
"You know very well what I mean," she said rebukingly. "And you don't
deserve that I should tell it to you. It was my intention to say that
you have sacrificed many things to make yourself a simple soldier."
"Only a few idle habits," said Doggie.
"You joined, like the rest, as a volunteer."
"Of course."
"You abandoned everything to fight for your country?"
Under the spell of her dark eyes Doggie spoke according to Phineas
after the going West of Taffy Jones, "I think, Mademoiselle Jeanne, it
was rather to fight for my soul."
She resumed her sewing. "That's what I meant long ago," she remarked
with the first draw of the needle. "No one could fight for his soul
without passing through suffering." She went on sewing. Doggie,
shrinking from a reply that might have sounded fatuous, remained
silent; but he realized a wonderful faculty of comprehension in
Jeanne.
After awhile he said: "Where did you learn all your wisdom,
Mademoiselle Jeanne?"
"At the convent, I suppose. My father gave me a good education."
"An English poet has said, 'Knowledge comes, but Wisdom
lingers'"--Doggie had rather a fight to express the meaning exactly in
French--"You don't gather wisdom in convents."
"It is true. Since then I have seen many things."
She stared across the room, not at Doggie, and he thought again of the
ghosts.
"Tell me some of them, Mademoiselle Jeanne," he said in a low voice.
She shot a swift glance at him and met his honest brown eyes.
"I saw my father murdered in front of me," she said in a harsh voice.
"My God!" said Doggie.
"It was on the Retreat. We lived in Cambrai, my father and mother and
I. He was a lawyer. When we heard the Germans were coming, my father,
somewhat of an invalid, decided to fly. He had heard of what they had
already done in Belgium. We tried to go by train. _Pas moyen._ We took
to the road, with many others. We could not get a horse--we had
postponed our flight till too late. Only a handcart, with a few
necessaries and precious things. And we walked until we nearly died of
heat and dust and grief. For our hearts were very heavy, monsieur. The
roads, too, were full of the English in retreat. I shall not tell you
what I saw of the wounded by the roadside. I sometimes see them now in
my dreams. And we were helpless. We thought we would leave the main
roads, and at last we got lost and found ourselves in a little wood.
We sat down to rest and to eat. It was cool and pleasant, and I
laughed, to cheer my parents, for they knew how I loved to eat under
the freshness of the trees." She shivered. "I hope I shall never have
to eat a meal in a wood again. We had scarcely begun when a body of
cavalry, with strange pointed helmets, rode along the path and, seeing
us, halted. My mother, half dead with terror, cried out, '_Mon Dieu,
ce sont des Uhlans!_' The leader, I suppose an officer, called out
something in German. My father replied. I do not understand German, so
I did not know and shall never know what they said. But my father
protested in anger and stood in front of the horse making gestures.
And then the officer took out his revolver and shot him through the
heart, and he fell dead. And the murderer turned his horse's head
round and he laughed. He laughed, monsieur."
"Damn him!" said Doggie, in English. "Damn him!"
He gazed deep into Jeanne's dark tearless eyes. She continued in the
same even voice:
"My mother became mad. She was a peasant, a Bretonne, where the blood
is fierce, and she screamed and clung to the bridle of the horse. And
he rode her down and the horse trampled on her. Then he pointed at me,
who was supporting the body of my father, and three men dismounted.
But suddenly he heard something, gave an order, and the men mounted
again, and they all rode away laughing and jeering, and the last man,
in bad French, shouted at me a foul insult. And I was there, Monsieur
Trevor, with my father dead and my mother stunned and bruised and
bleeding."
Doggie, sensitive, quivered to the girl's tragedy: he said, with tense
face:
"God give me strength to kill every German I see!"
She nodded slowly. "No German is a human being. If I were God, I would
exterminate the accursed race like wolves."
"You are right," said Doggie. A short silence fell. He asked: "What
happened then?"
"_Mon Dieu_, I almost forget. I was overwhelmed with grief and horror.
Some hours afterwards a small body of English infantry came--many of
them had bloodstained bandages. An officer who spoke a little French
questioned me. I told him what had happened. He spoke with another
officer, and because I recognized the word 'Uhlans,' I knew they were
anxious about the patrol. They asked me the way to some place--I
forget where. But I was lost. They looked at a map. Meanwhile my
mother had recovered consciousness. I gave her a little wine from the
bottle we had opened for our repast. I happened to look at the officer
and saw him pass his tongue over his cracked lips. All the men had
thrown themselves down by the side of the road. I handed him the
bottle and the little tin cup. To my surprise, he did not drink. He
said: 'Mademoiselle, this is war, and we are all in very great peril.
My men are dying of thirst, and if you have any more of the wine, give
it to them and they will do their utmost to conduct your mother and
yourself to a place of safety.' Alas! there were only three bottles in
our little basket of provisions. Naturally I gave it all--together
with the food. He called a sergeant, who took the provisions and
distributed them, while I was tending my mother. But I noticed that
the two officers took neither bite nor sup. It was only afterwards,
Monsieur Trevor, that I realized I had seen your great English
gentlemen.... Then they dug a little grave, for my father.... It was
soon finished ... the danger was grave ... and some soldiers took a
rope and pulled the handcart, with my mother lying on top of our
little possessions, and I walked with them, until the whole of my life
was blotted out with fatigue. We got on to the Route Nationale again
and mingled again with the Retreat. And in the night, as we were still
marching, there was a halt. I went to my mother. She was cold,
monsieur, cold and stiff. She was dead."
She paused tragically. After a few moments she continued:
"I fainted. I do not know what happened till I recovered consciousness
at dawn. I found myself wrapped in one of our blankets, lying under
the handcart. It was the market-square of a little town. And there
were many--old men and women and children, refugees like me. I rose
and found a paper--a leaf torn from a notebook--fixed to the handcart.
It was from the officer, bidding me farewell. Military necessity
forced him to go on with his men--but he had kept his word, and
brought me to a place of safety.... That is how I first met the
English, Monsieur Trevor. They had carried me, I suppose, on the
handcart, all night, they who were broken with weariness. I owe them
my life and my reason."
"And your mother?"
"How should I know? _Elle est restee la-bas_," she replied simply.
She went on with her sewing. Doggie wondered how her hand could be so
steady. There was a long silence. What words, save vain imprecations
on the accursed race, were adequate? Presently her glance rested for a
second or two on his sensitive face.
"Why do you not smoke, Monsieur Trevor?"
"May I?"
"Of course. It calms the nerves. I ought not to have saddened you with
my griefs."
Doggie took out his pink packet and lit a cigarette.
"You are very understanding, Mademoiselle Jeanne. But it does a
selfish man like me good to be saddened by a story like yours. I have
not had much opportunity in my life of feeling for another's
suffering. And since the war--I am _abruti_."
"You? Do you think if I had not found you just the reverse, I should
have told you all this?"
"You have paid me a great compliment, Mademoiselle Jeanne." Then,
after awhile, he asked, "From the market-square of the little town you
found means to come here?"
"Alas, no!" she said, putting her work in her lap again. "I made my
way, with my handcart--it was easy--to our original destination, a
little farm belonging to the eldest brother of my father. The Farm of
La Folette. He lived there alone, a widower, with his farm-servants.
He had no children. We thought we were safe. Alas! news came that the
Germans were always advancing. We had time to fly. All the farm-hands
fled, except Pere Grigou, who loved him. But my uncle was obstinate.
To a Frenchman, the soil he possesses is his flesh and his blood. He
would die rather than leave it. And my uncle had the murder of my
father and mother on his brain. He told Pere Grigou to take me away,
but I stayed with him. It was Pere Grigou who forced us to hide. That
lasted two days. There was a well in the farm, and one night Pere
Grigou tied up my money and my mother's jewellery and my father's
papers, _enfin_, all the precious things we had, in a packet of
waterproof and sank it with a long string down the well, so that the
Germans could not find it. It was foolish, but he insisted. One day my
uncle and Pere Grigou went out of the little copse where we had been
hiding, in order to reconnoitre, for he thought the Germans might be
going away; and my uncle, who would not listen to me, took his gun.
Presently I heard a shot--and then another. You can guess what it
meant. And soon Pere Grigou came, white and shaking with terror. '_Il
en a tue un, et on l'a tue!_'"
"My God!" said Doggie again.
"It was terrible," she said. "But they were in their right."
"And then?"
"We lay hidden until it was dark--how they did not find us I don't
know--and then we escaped across country. I thought of coming here to
my Aunt Morin, which is not far from La Folette, but I reflected that
soon the Boches would be here also. And we went on. We got to a high
road--and once more I was among troops and refugees. I met some kind
folks in a carriage, a Monsieur and Madame Tarride, and they took me
in. And so I got to Paris, where I had the hospitality of a friend of
the Convent who was married."
"And Pere Grigou?"
"He insisted on going back to bury my uncle. Nothing could move him.
He had not parted from him all his life. They were foster-brothers.
Where he is now, who knows?" She paused, looked again at her ghosts,
and continued: "That is all, Monsieur Trevor. The Germans passed
through here and repassed on their retreat, and, as soon as it was
safe, I came to help my aunt, who was _souffrante_, and had lost her
son. Also because I could not live on charity on my friend, for,
_voyez-vous_, I was without a sou--all my money having been hidden in
the well by Pere Grigou."
Doggie leant his elbows on the table.
"And you have come through all that, Mademoiselle Jeanne, just as you
are----?"
"How, just as I am?"
"So gentle and kind and comprehending?"
Her cheek flushed. "I am not the only Frenchwoman who has passed
through such things and kept herself proud. But the struggle has been
very hard."
Doggie rose and clenched his fists and rubbed his head from front to
back in his old indecisive way, and began to swear incoherently in
English. She smiled sadly.
"_Ah, mon pauvre ami!_"
He wheeled round: "Why do you call me '_mon pauvre ami_'?"
"Because I see that you would like to help me and you can't."
"Jeanne," cried Doggie, bending half over the table which was between
them.
She rose too, startled, on quick defensive. He said, in reply to her
glance:
"Why shouldn't I call you Jeanne?"
"You haven't the right."
"What if I gain it?"
"How?"
"I don't know," said Doggie.
The door burst suddenly open and the anxious face of Mo Shendish
appeared.
"'Ere, you silly cuckoo, don't yer know you're on guard to-night?
You've just got about thirty seconds."
"Good lord!" cried Doggie, "I forgot. _Bon soir, mademoiselle. Service
militaire_," and he rushed out.
Mo lingered, with a grin, and jerked a backward thumb.
"If it weren't for old Mo, miss, I don't know what would happen to our
friend Doggie. I got to look after him like a baby, I 'ave. He's on to
relieve guard, and if old Mac--that's McPhail"--she nodded recognition
of the name--"and I hadn't remembered, miss, he'd 'ave been in what
yer might call a 'ole. Compree?"
"_Oui._ Yes," she said. "_Garde. Sentinelle._"
"Sentinel. Sentry. Right."
"He--was--late," she said, picking out her few English words from
memory.
"Yuss," grinned Mo.
"He--guard--house?"
"Bless you, miss, you talk English as well as I do," cried the
admiring Mo. "Yuss. When his turn comes, up and down in the street, by
the gate." He saw her puzzled look. "Roo. Port," said he.
"_Ah! oui, je comprends_," smiled Jeanne. "_Merci, monsieur, et bon
soir._"
"Good night, miss," said Mo.
Some time later he disturbed Phineas, by whose side he slept, from his
initial preparation for slumber.
"Mac! Is there any book I could learn this blinking lingo from?"
"Try Ovid--'Art of Love,'" replied Phineas sleepily.