In the village of Frelus life went on as before. The same men, though
a different regiment, filled its streets and its houses; for by what
signs could the inhabitants distinguish one horde of English
infantrymen from another? Once a Highland battalion had been billeted
on them, and for the first day or so they derived some excitement from
the novelty of the costume; the historic Franco-Scottish tradition
still lingered, and they welcomed the old allies of France with
especial kindliness; but they found that the habits and customs of the
men in kilts were identical, in their French eyes, with those of the
men in trousers. It is true the Scotch had bagpipes. The village
turned out to listen to them in whole-eyed and whole-eared wonder. And
the memory of the skirling music remained indelible. Otherwise there
was little difference. And when a Midland regiment succeeded a South
Coast regiment, where was the difference at all? They might be the
same men.
Jeanne, standing by the kitchen door, watching the familiar scene in
the courtyard, could scarcely believe there had been a change. Now and
again she caught herself wondering why she could not pick out any one
of her Three Musketeers. There were two or three soldiers, as usual,
helping Toinette with her crocks at the well. There she was, herself,
moving among them, as courteously treated as though she were a
princess. Perhaps these men, whom she heard had come from
manufacturing centres, were a trifle rougher in their manners than her
late guests; but the intention of civility and rude chivalry was no
less sincere. They came and asked for odds and ends very politely. To
all intents and purposes they were the same set of men. Why was not
Doggie among them? It seemed very strange.
After a while she made some sort of an acquaintance with a sergeant
who had a few words of French and appeared anxious to improve his
knowledge of the language. He explained that he had been a teacher in
what corresponded to the French _Ecoles Normales_. He came from
Birmingham, which he gave her to understand was a glorified Lille. She
found him very earnest, very self-centred in his worship of
efficiency. As he had striven for his class of boys, so now was he
striving for his platoon of men. In a dogmatic way he expounded to her
ideals severely practical. In their few casual conversations he
interested her. The English, from the first terrible day of their
association with her, had commanded her deep admiration. But until
lately--in the most recent past--her sex, her national aloofness and
her ignorance of English, had restrained her from familiar talk with
the British Army. But now she keenly desired to understand this
strange, imperturbable, kindly race. She put many questions to the
sergeant--always at the kitchen door, in full view of the courtyard,
for she never thought of admitting him into the house--and his
answers, even when he managed to make himself intelligible, puzzled
her exceedingly. One of his remarks led her to ask for what he was
fighting, beyond his apparently fixed idea of the efficiency of the
men under his control. What was the spiritual idea at the back of him?
"The democratization of the world and the universal brotherhood of
mankind."
"When the British Lion shall lie down with the German Lamb?"
He flashed a suspicious glance. Strenuous schoolmasters in primary
schools have little time for the cultivation of a sense of humour.
"Something of the sort must be the ultimate result of the war."
"But in the meantime you have got to change the German wolf into the
_petit mouton_. How are you going to do it?"
"By British efficiency. By proving to him that we are superior to him
in every way. We'll teach him that it doesn't pay to be a wolf."
"And do you think he will like being transformed into a lamb, while
you remain a lion?"
"I don't suppose so, but we'll give him his chance to try to become a
lion too."
Jeanne shook her head. "No, monsieur, wolf he is and wolf he will
remain. A wolf with venomous teeth. The civilized world must see that
the teeth are always drawn."
"I'm speaking of fifty years hence," said the sergeant.
"And I of three hundred years hence."
"You're mistaken, mademoiselle."
Jeanne shook her head. "No. I'm not mistaken. Tell me. Why do you want
to become brother to the Boche?"
"I'm not going to be his brother till the war's over," said the
sergeant stolidly. "At present I am devoting all my faculties to
killing as many of him as I can."
She smiled. "Sufficient for the day is the good thereof. Go on killing
them, monsieur. The more you kill the fewer there will be for your
children and your grandchildren to lie down with."
She left him and tried to puzzle out his philosophy. For the ordinary
French philosophy of the war is very simple. They have no
high-falutin, altruistic ideas of improving the Boche. They don't care
a tinker's curse what happens to the unholy brood beyond the Rhine, so
long as they are beaten, humiliated, subjected: so long as there is no
chance of their ever deflowering again with their brutality the sacred
soil of France. The French mind cannot conceive the idea of this
beautiful brotherhood; but, on the contrary, rejects it as something
loathsome, something bordering on spiritual defilement....
No; Jeanne could not accept the theory that we were waging war for the
ultimate chastening and beatification of Germany. She preferred
Doggie's reason for fighting. For his soul. There was something which
she could grip. And having gripped it, it was something around which
her imagination could weave a web of noble fancy. After all, when she
came to think of it, every one of the Allies must be fighting for his
soul. For his soul's sake had not her father died? Although she knew
no word of German, it was obvious that the Uhlan officer had murdered
him because he had refused to betray his country. And her uncle. To
fight for his soul, had he not gone out with his heroic but futile
sporting gun? And this pragmatical sergeant? What else had led him
from his schoolroom to the battlefield? Why couldn't he be honest
about it, like Doggie?
She missed Doggie. He ought to be there, as she had often seen him
unobserved, talking with his friends or going about his military
duties, or playing the flageolet with the magical touch of the
musician. She knew far more of Doggie than he was aware of ... And at
night she prayed for the little English soldier who was facing Death.
She had much time to think of him during the hours when she sat by the
bedside of Aunt Morin, who talked incessantly of Francois-Marie who
was killed on the Argonne, and Gaspard who, as a _territorial_, was no
doubt defending Madagascar from invasion. And it was pleasant to think
of him, because he was a new distraction from tragical memories. He
seemed to lay the ghosts ... He was different from all the Englishmen
she had met. The young officers who had helped her in her flight, had
very much the same charm of breeding, very much the same intonation of
voice; instinctively she knew him to be of the same social caste; but
they, and the officers whom she saw about the street and in the
courtyard, when duty called them there, had the military air of
command. And this her little English soldier had not. Of course, he
was only a private, and privates are trained to obedience. She knew
that perfectly well. But why was he not commanding instead of obeying?
There was a reason for it. She had seen it in his eyes. She wished she
had made him talk more about himself. Perhaps she had been
unsympathetic and selfish. He assumed, she reflected, a certain
_cranerie_ with his fellows--and _cranerie_ is "swagger" bereft of
vulgarity--we have no word to connote its conception in a French
mind--and she admired it; but her swift intuition pierced the
assumption. She divined a world of hesitancies behind the Musketeer
swing of the shoulders. He was so gentle, so sensitive, so quick to
understand. And yet so proud. And yet again so unconfessedly
dependent. Her woman's protective instinct responded to a mute appeal.
"But, Ma'amselle Jeanne, you are wet through, you are perished with
cold. What folly have you been committing?" Toinette scolded, when she
returned after wishing Doggie the last "_bonne chance_."
"The folly of putting my Frenchwoman's heart (_mon coeur de
Francaise_) into the hands of a brave little soldier to fight with
him in the trenches."
"_Mon Dieu, ma'amselle_, you had better go straight to bed, and I will
bring you a _bon tilleul_, which will calm your nerves and produce a
good perspiration."
So Toinette put Jeanne to bed and administered the infallible infusion
of lime leaves, and Jeanne was never the worse for her adventure. But
the next day she wondered a little why she had undertaken it. She had
a vague idea that it paid a little debt of sympathy.
An evening or two afterwards Jeanne was sewing in the kitchen when
Toinette, sitting in the arm-chair by the extinct fire, fished out of
her pocket the little olive-wood box with the pansies and
forget-me-nots on the lid, and took a long pinch of snuff. She did it
with somewhat of an air which caused Jeanne to smile.
"_Dites donc_, Toinette, you are insupportable with your snuff-box.
One would say a marquise of the old school."
"Ah, Ma'amselle Jeanne," said the old woman, "you must not laugh at
me. I was just thinking that, if anything happened to the _petit
monsieur_, I couldn't have the heart to go on putting his snuff up my
old nose."
"Nothing will happen to him," said Jeanne.
The old woman sighed and re-engulfed the snuff-box. "Who knows? From
one minute to another who knows whether the little ones who are dear
to us are alive or dead?"
"And this _petit monsieur_ is dear to you, Toinette?" Jeanne asked, in
her even voice, without looking up from her sewing.
"Since he resembles my _petiot_."
"He will come back," said Jeanne.
"I hope so," said the old woman mournfully.
In spite of manifold duties, Jeanne found the days curiously long. She
slept badly. The tramp of the sentry below her window over the archway
brought her no sense of comfort, as it had done for months before the
coming of Doggie. All the less did it produce the queer little thrill
of happiness which was hers when, looking down through the shutter
slats she had identified in the darkness, on a change of guard, the
little English soldier to whom she had spoken so intimately. And when
he had challenged the rounds, she had recognized his voice.... If she
had obeyed an imbecile and unmaidenly impulse, she would have drawn
open the shutter and revealed herself. But apart from maidenly
shrinkings, familiarity with war had made her realize the sacred
duties of a sentry, and she had remained in discreet seclusion, awake
until his spell was over. But now the rhythmical beat of the heavy
boots kept her from sleeping and would have irritated her nerves
intolerably had not her sound common sense told her that the stout
fellow who wore them was protecting her from the Hun, together with a
million or so of his fellow-countrymen.
She found herself counting the days to Doggie's return.
"At last, it is to-morrow!" she said to Toinette.
"What is it to-morrow?" asked the old woman.
"The return of our regiment," replied Jeanne.
"That is good. We have a regiment now," said Toinette ironically.
The Midland company marched away--as so many had marched away before;
but Jeanne did not go to the little embankment at the turn of the road
to wish anyone good luck. She stood at the house door, as she had
always done, to watch them pass in the darkness; for there is always
something in the sight of men going into battle which gives you a lump
in the throat. For Jeanne it had almost grown into a religious
practice.
The sergeant had told her that the new-comers would arrive at dawn.
She slept a little; awoke with a start as day began to break; dressed
swiftly, and went downstairs to wait. And then her ear caught the
rumble and the tramp of the approaching battalion. Presently transport
rolled by, and squads of men, haggard in the grey light, bending
double under their packs, staggered along to their billets. And then
came a rusty crew, among whom she recognized McPhail's tall gaunt
figure. She stood by the gateway, bareheaded, in her black dress and
blue apron, defying the sharp morning air, and watched them pass
through. She saw Mo Shendish, his eyes on the heels of the man in
front. She recognized nearly all. But the man she looked for was not
there.
He could not have passed without her seeing him; but as soon as the
gateway was clear, she ran into the courtyard and fled across it to
cut off the men. There was no Doggie. Blank disappointment was
succeeded by sudden terror.
Phineas saw her coming. He stumbled up to her, dropped his pack at her
feet, and spread out both his hands. She lost sight of the horde of
weary clay-covered men around her. She cried:
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"He is dead?"
"No one knows."
"But you must know, you!" cried Jeanne, with a new fear in her eyes
which Phineas could not bear to meet. "You promised to bring him
back."
"It was not my fault," said Phineas. "He was out last night--no, the
night before, this is morning--repairing barbed wire. I was not with
him."
"_Mais, mon Dieu_, why not?"
"Because the duties of soldiers are arranged for them by their
officers, mademoiselle."
"It is true. Pardon. But continue."
"A party went out to repair wire. It was quite dark. Suddenly a German
rifle-shot gave the alarm. The enemy threw up star-shells and the
front trenches on each side opened fire. The wiring party, of course,
lay flat on the ground. One of them was wounded. When it was all
over--it didn't last long--our men got back, bringing the wounded
man."
"He is severely wounded? Speak," cried Jeanne.
"The wounded man was not Doggie. Doggie went out with the party, but
he did not come back. That's why I said no one knows where he is."
She stiffened. "He is lying out there. He is dead."
"Shendish and I and Corporal Wilson over there, who was with the
party, got permission to go out and search. We searched all round
where the repair had been going on. But we could not find him."
"_Merci!_ I ought not to have reproached you," she said steadily.
"_C'est un grand malheur._"
"You are right. Life for me is no longer of much value."
She looked at him in her penetrating way.
"I believe you," she said. "For the moment, _au revoir_. You must be
worn out with fatigue."
She left him and walked through the straggling men, who made
respectful way for her. All knew of her friendship with Doggie Trevor
and all realized the nature of this interview. They liked Doggie
because he was good-natured and plucky, and never complained and would
play the whistle on march as long as breath enough remained in his
body. As his uncle, the Dean, had said, breed told. In a curious,
half-grudging way they recognized the fact. They laughed at his
singular inefficiency in the multitudinous arts of the handy-man,
proficiency in which is expected from the modern private, but they
knew that he would go on till he dropped. And knowing that, they saved
him from many a reprimand which his absurd efforts in the arts
aforesaid would have brought upon him. And now that Doggie was gone,
they deplored his loss. But so many had gone. So many had been
deplored. Human nature is only capable of a certain amount of
deploring while retaining its sanity. The men let the pale French
girl, who was Doggie Trevor's friend, pass by in respectful
silence--and that, for them, was their final tribute to Doggie Trevor.
Jeanne passed into the kitchen. Toinette drew a sharp breath at the
sight of her face.
"_Quoi? Il n'est pas la?_"
"No," said Jeanne. "He is wounded." It was impossible to explain to
Toinette.
"Badly?"
"They don't know."
"_Oh, la, la!_" sighed Toinette. "That always happens. That is what
I told you."
"We have no time to think of such things," said Jeanne.
The regimental cooks came up for the hot water, and soon the hungry,
weary, nerve-racked men were served with the morning meal. And Jeanne
stood in the courtyard in front of the kitchen door and helped with
the filling of the tea-kettles, as though no little English soldier
called "Dog-gie" had ever existed in the regiment.
The first pale shaft of sunlight fell upon the kitchen side of the
courtyard, and in it Jeanne stood illuminated. It touched the shades
of gold in her dark brown hair, and lit up her pale face and great
unsmiling eyes. But her lips smiled valiantly.
"What do yer think, Mac," said Mo Shendish, squatting on the
flagstones, "do you think she was really sweet on him?"
"Man," replied Phineas, similarly engaged, "all I know is that she has
added him to her collection of ghosts. It's not an over-braw company
for a lassie to live with."
And then, soon afterwards, the trench-broken men stumbled into the
barn to sleep, and all was quiet again, and Jeanne went about her
daily tasks with the familiar hand of death once more closing icily
around her heart.