Chapter XII

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　That morning there was a conference in the little house—Colonel Lilias,who had come in before for a mute but appreciative call on Sara Lee, andfor a cup of chocolate; Captain Tournay, Jean and Henri. It was heldround the little table in the salle à manger, after Marie had broughtcoffee and gone out.

　　"They had information undoubtedly," said the colonel. "The same thinghappened at Pervyse when an ammunition train went through. They had theplace, and what is more they had the time. Of course there are theairmen."

　　"It did not leave the main road until too late for observation from theair," Henri put in shortly.

　　"Yet any one who saw it waiting at the crossroads might have learned itsdestination. The drivers talk sometimes."

　　"But the word had to be carried across," said Captain Tournay. "That isthe point. My men report flashes of lights from the fields. We havefollowed them up and found no houses, no anything. In this flat countrya small light travels far."

　　"I shall try to learn to-night," Henri said. "It is, of course,possible that some one from over there—" He shrugged his shoulders.

　　"I think not." Colonel Lilias put a hand on Henri's shoulderaffectionately. "They have not your finesse, boy. And I doubt if, inall their army, they have so brave a man."

　　Henri flushed.

　　"There is a courage under fire, with their fellows round—that is onething. And a courage of attack—that is even more simple. But thebravest man is the one who works alone—the man to whom capture is deathwithout honor."

　　The meeting broke up. Jean and Henri went away in the car, and thoughsupplies came up regularly Sara Lee did not see the battered gray carfor four days. At the end of that time Henri came alone. Jean, he saidbriefly, was laid up for a little while with a flesh wound in hisshoulder. He would be well very soon. In the meantime here at last wasmutton. It had come from England, and he, Henri, had found it lyingforgotten and lonely and very sad and had brought it along.

　　After that Henri disappeared on foot. It was midafternoon and a sunnyday. Sara Lee saw him walking briskly across the fields and watched himout of sight. She spoke some French now, and she had gathered from René,who had no scruples about listening at a door, that Henri was the bravestman in the Belgian Army.

　　Until now Sara Lee had given small thought to Henri's occupation. Sheknew nothing of war, and the fact that Henri, while wearing a uniform,was unattached, had not greatly impressed her. Had she known theconstitution of a modern army she might have wondered over his freedom,his powerful car, his passes and maps. But his detachment had not seemedodd to her. Even his appearance during the bombardment in the uniformof a German lieutenant had meant nothing to her. She had never seen aGerman uniform.

　　That evening, however, when he returned she ventured a question. Theydined together, the two of them, for the first time at the little housealone. Always before Jean had made the third. And it was a real meal,for Sara Lee had sacrificed a bit of mutton from her soup, and Henri hadproduced from his pocket a few small and withered oranges.

　　"A gift!" he said gayly, and piled them in a precarious heap in thecenter of the table. On the exact top he placed a walnut.

　　"Now speak gently and walk softly," he said. "It is a work of art andnot to be lightly demolished."

　　He was alternately gay and silent during the meal, and more than onceSara Lee found his eyes on her, with something new and different in them.

　　"Just you and I together!" he said once. "It is very wonderful."

　　And again: "When you go back to him, shall you tell him of your goodfriend who has tried hard to serve you?"

　　"Of course I shall," said Sara Lee. "And he will write you, I know. Hewill be very grateful."

　　But it was she who was silent after that, because somehow it would behard to make Harvey understand. And as for his being grateful—

　　"Mademoiselle," said Henri later on, "would you object if I make asuggestion? You wear a very valuable ring. I think it is entirely safe,but—who can tell? And also it is not entirely kind to remind men whoare far from all they love that you—"

　　Sara Lee flushed and took off her ring.

　　"I am glad you told me," she said. And Henri did not explain that theBelgian soldiers would not recognize the ring as either a diamond or asymbol, but that to him it was close to torture.

　　It was when he insisted on carrying out the dishes, singing a littleFrench song as he did so, that Sara Lee decided to speak what was in hermind. He was in high spirits then.

　　"Mademoiselle," he said, "shall I show you something that the eye of noman has seen before, and that, when we have seen it, shall never be seenagain?"

　　On her interested consent he called in Marie and René, making a greatceremony of the matter, and sending Marie into hysterical giggling.

　　"Now see!" he said earnestly. "No eye before has ever seen or will again.Will you guess, mademoiselle? Or you, Marie? René?"

　　"A tear?" ventured Sara Lee.

　　"But—do I look like weeping?"

　　He did not, indeed. He stood, tall and young and smiling before them,and produced from his pocket the walnut.

　　"Perceive!" he said, breaking it open and showing the kernel. "Has humaneye ever before seen it?" He thrust it into Marie's open mouth. "Andit is gone! Voilà tout!"

　　It was that evening, while Sara Lee cut bandages and Henri rolled them,that she asked him what his work was. He looked rather surprised, androlled for a moment without replying. Then: "I am a man of all work,"he said. "What you call odd jobs."

　　"Then you don't do any fighting?"

　　"In the trenches—no. But now and then I have a little skirmish."

　　A sort of fear had been formulating itself in Sara Lee's mind. Thetrenches she could understand or was beginning to understand. But thisalternately joyous and silent idler, this soldier of no regiment and nodetail—was he playing a man's part in the war?

　　"Why don't you go into the trenches?" she asked with her usual directness."You say there are too few men. Yet—I can understand Monsieur Jean,because he has only one eye. But you!"

　　"I do something," he said, avoiding her eyes. "It is not a great deal.It is the thing I can do best. That is all."

　　He went away some time after that, leaving the little house full and busyjustifying its existence. The miller's son, who came daily to chat withMarie, was helping in the kitchen. By the warm stove, and only kept fromstanding over it by Marie's sharp orders, were as many men as could getnear. Each held a bowl of hot soup, and—that being a good day—apiece of bread. Tall soldiers and little ones, all dirty, all weary,almost all smiling, they peered over each other's shoulders, to catch,if might be, a glimpse of Marie's face.

　　When they came too close she poked an elbow into some hulking fellow andsent him back.

　　"Elbow-room, in the name of God," she would beg.

　　Over all the room hung the warm steam from the kettles, and a deliciousodor, and peace.

　　Sara Lee had never heard of the word morale. She would have beenastonished to have been told that she was helping the morale of anarmy. But she gave each night in that little house of mercy somethingthat nothing else could give—warmth and welcome, but above all a touchof home.

　　That night Henri did not come back. She stood by her table bandaging,washing small wounds, talking her bits of French, until one o'clock.Then, the last dressing done, she went to the kitchen. Marie was there,with Maurice, the miller's son.

　　"Has the captain returned?" she asked.

　　"Not yet, mademoiselle."

　　"Leave a warm fire," Sara Lee said. "He will probably come in later."

　　Maurice went away, with a civil good night. Sara Lee stood in thedoorway after he had gone, looking out. Farther along the line therewas a bombardment going on. She knew now what a bombardment meant andher brows contracted. Somewhere there in the trenches men were enduringthat, while Henri—

　　She said a little additional prayer that night, which was that sheshould have courage to say to him what she felt—that there were bigthings to do, and that it should not all be left to these smiling,ill-clad peasant soldiers.

　　At that moment Henri, in his gray-green uniform, was cutting wire beforea German trench, one of a party of German soldiers, who could not knowin the darkness that there had been a strange addition to their group.Cutting wire and learning many things which it was well that he shouldknow.

　　Now and then, in perfect German, he whispered a question. Always hereceived a reply. And stowed it away in his tenacious memory for thoseit most concerned.

　　At daylight he was asleep by Sara Lee's kitchen fire. And at daylightSara Lee was awakened by much firing, and putting on a dressing gown shewent out to see what was happening. René was in the street lookingtoward the poplar trees.

　　"An attack," he said briefly.

　　"You mean—the Germans?"

　　"Yes, mademoiselle."

　　She went back into the little ruined house, heavy-hearted. She knew nowwhat it meant, an attack. That night there would be ambulances in thestreet, and word would come up that certain men were gone—would neverseek warmth and shelter in her kitchen or beg like children for a secondbowl of soup.

　　On the kitchen floor by the dying fire Henri lay asleep.