Chapter IX

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　While she was breakfasting the next morning there was a tap at the door,and thinking it the maid she called to her to come in.

　　But it was Jean, an anxious Jean, twisting his cap in his hands.

　　"You have had a message from the captain, mademoiselle?"

　　"No, Jean."

　　"He was to have returned during the night. He has not come,mademoiselle."

　　Sara Lee forgot her morning negligée in Jean's harassed face.

　　"But—where did he go?"

　　Jean shrugged his shoulders and did not reply.

　　"Are you worried about him?"

　　"I am anxious, mademoiselle. But I am often anxious; and—he alwaysreturns."

　　He smiled almost sheepishly. Sara Lee, who had no subtlety but a greatdeal of intuition, felt that there was a certain relief in the smile, asthough Jean, having had no message from his master, was pleased thatshe had none. Which was true enough, at that. Also she felt that Jean'sone eye was inspecting her closely, which was also true. A new factorhad come into Henri's life—by Jean's reasoning, a new and dangerousone. And there were dangers enough already.

　　Highly dangerous, Jean reflected in the back of his head as he backedout with a bow. A young girl unafraid of the morning sun and sittingat a little breakfast table as fresh as herself—that was a picture fora war-weary man.

　　Jean forgot for a moment his anxiety for Henri's safety in his fear forhis peace of mind. For a doubt had been removed. The girl was straight.Jean's one sophisticated eye had grasped that at once. A good girl,alone, and far from home! And Henri, like all soldiers, woman-hungryfor good women, for unpainted skins and clear eyes and the freshness andbloom of youth.

　　All there, behind that little breakfast table which might so pleasantlyhave been laid for two.

　　Jean took a walk that morning, and stood staring for twenty minutes intoa clock maker's window, full of clocks. After which he drew out hiswatch and looked at the time!

　　At two in the afternoon Sara Lee saw Henri's car come into the square.It was, if possible, more dilapidated than before, and he came like agray whirlwind, scattering people and dogs out of his way. Almostbefore he had had time to enter the hotel Sara Lee heard him in thehall, and the next moment he was bowing before her.

　　"I have been longer than I expected," he explained. "Have you beenquite comfortable?"

　　Sara Lee, however, was gazing at him with startled eyes. He was dirty,unshaven, and his eyes looked hollow and bloodshot. From his neck tohis heels he was smeared with mud, and his tidy tunic was torn intoragged holes.

　　"But you—you have been fighting!" she gasped.

　　"I? No, mademoiselle. There has been no battle." His eyes left herand traveled over the room. "They are doing everything for you? Theyare attentive?"

　　"Everything is splendid," said Sara Lee. "If you won't tell me how yougot into that condition, at least you can send your coat down to me tomend."

　　"My tunic!" He looked at it smilingly. "You would do that?"

　　"I am nearly frantic for something to do."

　　He smiled, and suddenly bending down he took her hand and kissed it.

　　"You are not only very beautiful, mademoiselle, but you are very good."

　　He went away then, and Sara Lee got out her sewing things. The tuniccame soon, carefully brushed and very ragged. But it was not Jean whobrought it; it was the Flemish boy.

　　And upstairs in a small room with two beds Sara Lee might have beensurprised to find Jean, the chauffeur, lying on one, while Henri shavedhimself beside the other. For Jean, of the ragged uniform and the patchover one eye, was a count of Belgium, and served Henri because he lovedhim. And because, too, he was no longer useful in that little armywhere lay his heart.

　　Sometime a book will be written about the Jeans of this war, the greatfriendships it has brought forth between men. And not the least of itsstories will be that of this Jean of the one eye. But its place is nothere.

　　And perhaps there will be a book about the Henris, also. But not for along time, and even then with care. For the heroes of one department ofan army in the field live and die unsung. Their bravest exploits areburied in secrecy. And that is as it must be. But it is a fine tale togo untold.

　　After he had bathed and shaved, Henri sat down at a tiny table and wrote.He drew a plan also, from a rough one before him. Then he took a matchand burned the original drawing until it was but charred black ashes.When he had finished Jean got up from the bed and put on his overcoat.

　　"To the King?" he said.

　　"To the King, old friend."

　　Jean took the letter and went out.

　　Down below, Sara Lee sat with Henri's ragged tunic on her lap andstitched carefully. Sometime, she reflected, she would be mending worngarments for another man, now far away. A little flood of tendernesscame over her. So helpless these men! There was so much to do for them!And soon, please God, she would be helping other tired and weary men,with food, and perhaps a word—when she had acquired some French—andperhaps a thread and needle.

　　She dined alone that night, as usual. Henri did not appear, though shehad sent what she suspected was his only tunic back to him neatly mendedat five o'clock. As a matter of fact Henri was sound asleep. He hadmeant to rest only for an hour a body that was crying aloud with fatigue.But Jean, coming in quietly, had found him sleeping like a child, andhad put his own blanket over him and left him. Henri slept until morning,when Jean, coming up from his vigil outside the American girl's door,found him waking and rested, and rang for coffee.

　　Jean sat down on the edge of his bed and put on his shoes and puttees.He was a taciturn man, but now he had something to say that he did notlike to say. And Henri knew it.

　　"What is it?" he asked, his arms under his head. "Come, let us have it!It is, of course, about the American lady."

　　"It is," Jean said bluntly. "You cannot mix women and war."

　　"And you think I am doing that?"

　　"I am not an idiot," Jean growled. "You do not know what you are doing.I do. She is young and lonely. You are young and not unattractive towomen. Already she turns pale when I so much as ask if she has heardfrom you."

　　"You asked her that?"

　　"You were gone much longer than—"

　　"And you thought I might send her word, and not you!" Henri's voice wasoffended. He lay back while the boy brought in the morning coffee androlls.

　　"Let me tell you something," he said when the boy had gone. "She isbetrothed to an American. She wears a betrothal ring. I am to her—theFrench language!"

　　But, though Henri laughed, Jean remained grave and brooding. For Henrihad not said what Sara Lee already was to him.

　　It was later in the morning that Henri broached the subject again. Theywere in the courtyard of an old house, working over the engine of the car.

　　"I think I have found a location for the young American lady," he said.

　　Jean hammered for a considerable time at a refractory rim.

　　"And where?" he asked at last.

　　Henri named the little town. Like Henri's family name, it must not betold. Too many things happened there, and perhaps it is even now Henri'sheadquarters. For that portion of the line has changed very little.

　　Jean fell to renewed hammering.

　　"If you will be silent I shall explain a plan," Henri said in a cautioustone. "She will make soup, with help which we shall find. And if comingin for refreshments a soldier shall leave a letter for me it is natural,is it not?"

　　"She will suspect, of course."

　　"I think not. And she reads no French. None whatever."

　　Yet Jean's suspicions were not entirely allayed. The plan had itsadvantages. It was important that Henri receive certain reports, andalready the hotel whispered that Henri was of the secret service. Itbrought him added deference, of course, but additional danger.

　　So Jean accepted the plan, but with reservation. And it was not longafterward that he said to Sara Lee, in French: "There is a spider onyour neck, mademoiselle."

　　But Sara Lee only said, "I'm sorry, Jean; you'll have to speak Englishto me for a while, I'm afraid."

　　And though he watched her for five minutes she did not put her handto her neck.

　　However, that was later on. That afternoon Henri spent an hour with theMinister of War. And at the end of that time he said: "Thank you, Baron.I think you will not regret it. America must learn the truth, and howbetter than through those friendly people who come to us to help?"

　　It is as well to state, however, that he left the Minister of War withthe undoubted impression that Miss Sara Lee Kennedy was a spinster ofuncertain years.

　　Sara Lee packed her own suitcase that afternoon, doing it rathernervously because Henri was standing in the room by the window waitingfor it. He had come in as matter-of-factly as Harvey had entered theparlor at Aunt Harriet's, except that he carried in his arms some sixtowels, a cake of soap and what looked suspiciously like two sheets.

　　"The house I have under consideration," he said, "has little torecommend it but the building, and even that—The occupants have goneaway, and—you are not a soldier."

　　Sara Lee eyed the bundle.

　　"I don't need sheets," she expostulated.

　　"There are but two. And Jean has placed blankets in the car. You musthave a pillow also."

　　He calmly took one of the hotel pillows from the bed.

　　"What else?" he asked calmly. "Cigarettes? But no, you do not smoke."

　　Sara Lee eyed him with something very like despair.

　　"Aren't you ever going to let me think for myself?"

　　"Would you have thought of these?" he demanded triumphantly. "You—youthink only of soup and tired soldiers. Some one must think of you."

　　And there was a touch of tenderness in his voice. Sara Lee felt it andtrembled slightly. He was so fine, and he must not think of her thatway. It was not real. It couldn't be. Men were lonely here, whereeverything was hard and cruel. They wanted some of the softness of life,and all of kindness and sweetness that she could give should be Henri's.But she must make it clear that there could never be anything more.

　　There was a tightness about her mouth as she folded the white frock.

　　"I know that garment," he said boyishly. "Do you remember the night youwore it? And how we wandered in the square and made the plan that hasbrought us together again?"

　　Sara Lee reached down into her suitcase and brought up Harvey's picture.

　　"I would like you to see this," she said a little breathlessly. "It isthe man I am to marry."

　　For a moment she thought Henri was not going to take it. But he came,rather slowly, and held out his hand for it. He went with it to thewindow and stood there for some time looking down at it.

　　"When are you going to marry him, mademoiselle?"

　　"As soon as I go back."

　　Sara Lee had expected some other comment, but he made none. He put thephotograph very quietly on the bed before her, and gathered up the linenand the pillow in his arms.

　　"I shall send for your luggage, mademoiselle. And you will find me atthe car outside, waiting."

　　And so it was that a very silent Henri sat with Jean going out to thatstrange land which was to be Sara Lee's home for many months. And avery silent Sara Lee, flanked with pillow and blankets, who sat backalone and tried to recall the tones of Harvey's voice.

　　And failed.