“i gave—no matter what i gave—i win.”
the careful student will find in the back numbers of the deutsche rundschau, that excellent family magazine, the experiences of a german military doctor with the army of general von der tann. the story is one touched by that deep and occasionally maudlin spirit of sentimentality which finds a home in hearts that beat for the fatherland. its most thrilling page is the description of the finding, by the narrator, of the body of a general officer during a sharp night engagement, across which body was lying a wounded cavalry colonel, who had evidently devoted himself to the defence of his comrade in arms.
the reminiscent doctor makes good use of such compound words as “brother-love” and “though-superior-in-rank-yet-comrade-in-arms-and-companions-in-death-affectionate,” which linguistic facility enables the german writer to build up as he progresses in his narration words of a phenomenal calibre, and bowl the reader over, so to speak, at a long range. he finishes by mentioning that the general was named gilbert, a man of colossal engineering skill, while the wounded officer was the count lory de vasselot, grandson of one of napoleon's most dashing cavalry leaders. the doctor finishes right there, as the americans say, and quite forgets to note the fact that he himself picked up de vasselot under a spitting cross-fire, carried him into his own field hospital and there tended him. which omission proves that to find a brave and kind heart it is not necessary to consider what outer uniform may cover, or guttural tongue distinguish, the inner man.
lory was shot in two places again, and the doctors who attended him laughed when they saw the old wounds hardly yet healed. he would be lame for years, they said, perhaps for life. he had a bullet in his right shoulder and another had shattered his ankle. neither was dangerous, but his fighting days were done, at all events for this campaign.
“you will not fight against us again,” said the doctor, with a smile on his broad saxon features, and in execrable french, which was not improved by the scissors that he held between his lips.
“not in this war, perhaps,” answered the patient, hopefully.
again the tide of war moved on; and, daily, the cold increased. but its chill was nothing to that cold, slow death of hope that numbed all france. for it became momentarily more apparent that those at the head of affairs were incompetent—that the man upon whom hope had been placed was nothing but a talker, a man of words, an orator, a wind-bag. france, who has usually led the way in the world's progress, had entered upon that period of words—that age of talk—in which she still labours, and which must inevitably be the ruin of all her greatness.
for two weeks lory lay in the improvised german field hospital in that remote village, and made the astounding progress towards recovery which is the happy privilege of the light-hearted. it is said among soldiers that a foe is no longer a foe when he is down, and de vasselot found himself among friends.
the german doctor wrote a letter for him.
“it will be good practice for my french,” said the artless teuton, quite frankly. and the letter was sent, but never reached its destination. lory could learn no news, however. in war there are, not two, but three sides to a question. each combatant has one, and truth has the third, which she often locks up for ever in her quiet breast.
at last, one morning quite early, a horseman dismounted at the door of the house in the village street, where the hospital flag hung lazily in the still, frosty air “it is a civilian,” said an attendant, in astonishment, so rare was the sight of a plain coat at this time. there followed a conversation in muffled voices in the entrance hall; not a french conversation in many tones of voice—but a quiet teutonic talk as between germans and englishmen. then the door opened, and a man came into the room, removing a fur coat as he came. he was a tall, impassive man, well dressed, wearing a tweed suit and a single eye-glass. he might have been an englishman. he was, however, the baron de mélide, and his manner had that repose which belongs to the new aristocracy of france and to the shreds that remain, here and there, of the old.
“left my ambulance to subordinates,” he explained as he shook lory's hand. “humanity is an excellent quality, but one's friends come first. it has taken me some time to find you. have procured your parole for you. you are quite useless, they say,”—the baron eyed lory with a calm and experienced glance as he spoke—“so they release you on parole. they are not generous, but they have an enormous common sense.”
the doctor, who understood french, laughed good-naturedly, and the baron twisted his waxed moustache and looked slightly uncomfortable. he was conscious of having said the wrong thing as usual.
and all the while de vasselot was talking and laughing, and commenting on his friend's appearance and clothes, and goodness of heart—all in a breath, as was his manner. also he found time to ask a hundred questions which the stupid would take at least a week to answer, but his answer to each would be the right one.
it was during the great cold of the early days of january, that the baron and lory turned their backs on that bitter valley of the loire. they had a cross-journey to lyons, and there joined a main line train, in which they fell asleep to awake in the brilliant sunshine, amid the cool grey-greens, the bare rocks and dark cypresses of the south. after marseilles the journey became tedious again.
“heavens!” cried lory, impatiently, “what a delay! why need they stop at this little station at all?”
the baron made no reply just then. the train travelled five miles while he stared thoughtfully at the grey hills. it was six months since he had seen the vivacious lady who was supposed by this one-eyed world to rule him.
“after all,” he said at length, “fréjus is a little station.”
for the baron was a philosopher.
when at last they reached the quiet tree-grown station, where even to this day so few trains stop, and so insignificant a business is transacted, they found the baroness de mélide on the platform awaiting them. she was in black, as were all frenchwomen at this time. she gave an odd little laugh at the sight of her husband, and immediately held her lip between her teeth, as if she were afraid that her laugh might change to something else.
“ah!” she said, “how hungry you both look—and yet you must have lunched at toulon.”
she looked curiously from one drawn face to the other as the baron helped lory to descend.
“hungry,” she repeated with a reflective nod. “perhaps your precious france does not satisfy.”
and as she led the way to the carriage there was a gleam, almost fierce, of triumph in her eyes.
the arrival at the chateau was uneventful. mademoiselle brun said no word at all; but stood a little aside with folded hands and watched. denise, young and slim in her black dress, shook hands and said that she was afraid the travellers must be tired after their long journey.
“why should denise think that i was tired?” the baron inquired later, as he was opening his letters in the study.
“mon ami,” replied the baroness, “she did not think you were tired, and did not care whether you were or not.”
lory had the same room assigned to him that opened on to the verandah where heliotrope and roses and bougainvilliers contended for the mastery. outside his windows were placed the same table and long chair, and beside the last the other chair where denise had sat—which had been placed there by fate. the butler was, it appeared, a man of few ideas. he had arranged everything as before.
after his early coffee lory went to the verandah and lay down by that empty chair. it was a brilliant morning, with a light keen air which has not its equal all the world over. the sun was powerful enough to draw the scent from the pinewoods, and the sea-breeze swept it up towards the mountains. lory waited alone in the verandah all the morning. after luncheon the baron assisted him back to his long chair, and all the party came there and drank coffee. coffee was one of mademoiselle brun's solaces in life. “it makes existence bearable,” she said—“if it is hot enough.” but she finished her cup quickly and went away. the baron was full of business. he received a score of letters during the day. at any moment the preliminaries of peace might now be signed. he had not even time for a cigarette. the baroness sat for some minutes looking at lory, endeavouring to make him meet her shrewd eyes; but he was looking out over the plain of les arcs. denise had not sat down, but was standing rather restlessly at the edge of the verandah near the heliotrope which clambered up the supports. she had picked a piece of the delicate flower and was idly smelling it.
at last the baroness rose and walked away without any explanation at all. after a few minutes, which passed slowly in silence, denise turned and came slowly towards lory. the chair had never been occupied. she sat down and looked away from him. her face, still delicately sunburnt, was flushed. then she turned, and her eyes as they met his were stricken with fear.
“i did not understand,” she said. and she must have been referring to their conversation in that same spot months before. she was either profoundly ignorant of the world or profoundly indifferent to it. she ought, of course, to have made some safe remark about the weather. she ought to have distrusted lory. but he seemed to know her meaning without any difficulty.
“i think a great many people never understand, mademoiselle.”
“it has taken me a long time—nearly four months,” said denise, reflectively. “but i understood quite suddenly at bastia—when the soldiers passed the notary's office. i understood then what life is and what it is meant to be.”
lory looked up at her for a moment,
“that is because you are nearer heaven than i am,” he said.
“but it was you who taught me, not heaven,” said denise. “you said—well, you remember what you said, perhaps—and then immediately after you denied me the first thing i asked you. you knew what was right, and i did not. you have always known what was right, and have always done it. i see that now as i look back. so i have learnt my lesson, you see.” she concluded with a grave smile. life is full of gravity, but love is the gravest part of it.
“not from me,” persisted lory.
“yes, from you. suppose you had done what i asked you. suppose you had not gone to the war again, what would have become of our lives?”
“perhaps,” suggested lory, “we have both to learn from each other. perhaps it is a long lesson and will take all our lives. i think we are only beginning it. and perhaps i opened the book when i told you that i loved you, here in the verandah!”
denise turned and looked at him with a smile full of pity, and touched with that contempt which women sometimes bestow upon men for understanding so little of life.
“mon dieu!” she said, “i loved you long before that.”
the sun was setting behind the distant esterelles—those low and lonesome mountains clad from foot to summit in pine—when mademoiselle brun came out into the garden. she had to pass across the verandah, and instinctively turned to look towards that end of it where de vasselot had come a second time to lie in the sun and heal his wounds—a man who had fought a good fight.
denise was holding out a spray of heliotrope towards lory and he had taken, not the flower, but her hand: and thus without a word and unconsciously they told their whole story to mademoiselle.
the little old woman walked on without showing that she had seen and understood. she was not an expansive person.
she sat down at the corner of the lowest terrace and with blinking eyes stared across the great plain of les arcs, where north and south meet, where the palm tree and the pine grow side by side, towards the esterelles and the setting sun. the sky was clear, but for a few little puffs of cloud low down towards the west, like a flock of sheep ready to go home, waiting for the gate to open.
mademoiselle's thin lips were moving as if she were whispering to the god whom she served with such a remarkable paucity of words. it may have been that she was muttering a sort of grim nunc dimittis—she who had seen so many wars. “now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”
