Chapter XIII

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　Much has been said of the work of spies—said and written. Here is awoman in Paris sending forbidden messages on a marked coin. Men aretapped on the shoulder by a civil gentleman in a sack suit, and walkaway with him, never to be seen again.

　　But of one sort of spy nothing has been written and but little is known.Yet by him are battles won or lost. On the intelligence he bringsattacks are prepared for and counter-attacks launched. It is not alwaysthe airman, in these days of camouflage, who brings word of ammunitiontrains or of new batteries.

　　In the early days of the war the work of the secret service at the Frontwas of the gravest importance. There were fewer air machines, andobservation from the air was a new science. Also trench systems wereincomplete. Between them, known to a few, were breaks of solid land,guarded from behind. To one who knew, it was possible, though dangerousbeyond words, to cross the inundated country that lay between the BelgianFront and the German lines, and even with good luck to go farther.

　　Henri, for instance, on that night before had left the advanced trenchat the railway line, had crawled through the Belgian barbed wire, andhad advanced, standing motionless as each star shell burst overhead, andthen moving on quickly. The inundation was his greatest difficulty.Shallow in most places, it was full of hidden wire and crisscrossed withirrigation ditches. Once he stumbled into one, but he got out byswimming. Had he been laden with a rifle and equipment it might havebeen difficult.

　　He swore to himself as his feet touched ground again. For a star shellwas hanging overhead, and his efforts had sent wide and ever increasinglywidening circles over the placid surface of the lagoon. Let them lap tothe German outposts and he was lost.

　　Henri's method was peculiar to himself. Where there was dry terrain hedid as did the others, crouched and crept. But here in the salt marshes,where the sea had been called to Belgium's aid, he had evolved a systemof moving, neck deep in water, stopping under the white night lights,advancing in the darkness. There was no shelter. The country was flatas a hearth.

　　He would crawl out at last in the darkness and lie flat, as the dead lie.And then, inch by inch, he would work his way forward, by routes that heknew. Sometimes he went entirely through the German lines, andreconnoitered on the roads behind. They were shallow lines then, forthe inundation made the country almost untenable, and a charge in forcefrom the Belgians across was unlikely.

　　Henri knew his country well, as well as he loved it. In a farmhousebehind the German lines he sometimes doffed his wet gray-green uniformand put on the clothing of a Belgian peasant. Trust Henri then for beinga lout, a simple fellow who spoke only Flemish—but could hear in manytongues. Watch him standing at crossroads and marveling at big guns thatrumble by.

　　At first Henri had wished, having learned of an attack, to be among thosewho repelled it. Then one day his King had sent for him to come to thatlittle village which was now his capital city.

　　He had been sent in alone and had found the King at the table, writing.Henri bowed and waited. They were not unlike, these two men, only Henriwas younger and lighter, and where the King's eyes were gray Henri's wereblue. Such a queer setting for a king it was—a tawdry summer home,ill-heated and cheaply furnished. But by the presence of Belgium's manof all time it became royal.

　　So Henri bowed and waited, and soon the King got up and shook hands withhim. As a matter of fact they knew each other rather well, but toexplain more would be to tell that family name of Henri's which mustnever be known.

　　"Sit down," said the King gravely. And he got a box of cigars from themantelpiece and offered it. "I sent for you because I want to talk toyou. You are doing valuable work."

　　"I am glad you think it so, sire," said Henri rather unhappily, becausehe felt what was coming. "But I cannot do it all the time. There areintervals—"

　　An ordinary mortal may not interrupt a king, but a king may interruptanything, except perhaps a German bombardment.

　　"Intervals, of course. If there were not you would be done in a month."

　　"But I am a soldier. My place is—"

　　"Your place is where you are most useful."

　　Henri was getting nothing out of the cigar. He flung it away and got up.

　　"I want to fight too," he said stubbornly. "We need every man, and Iam—rather a good shot. I do this other because I can do it. I speaktheir infernal tongue. But it's dirty business at the best, sire." Heremembered to put in the sire, but rather ungraciously. Indeed he shotit out like a bullet.

　　"Dirty business!" said the King thoughtfully. "I see what you mean. Itis, of course. But—not so dirty as the things they have done, and aredoing."

　　He sat still and let Henri stamp up and down, because, as has been said,he knew the boy. And he had never been one to insist on deference,which was why he got so much of it. But at last he got up and whenHenri stood still, rather ashamed of himself, he put an arm over theboy's shoulders.

　　"I want you to do this thing, for me. And this thing only," he said."It is the work you do best. There are others who can fight, but—I donot know any one else who can do as you have done."

　　Henri promised. He would have promised to go out and drown himself inthe sea, just beyond the wind-swept little garden, for the tall graveman who stood before him. Then he bowed and went out, and the Kingwent back to his plain pine table and his work. That was the reason whySara Lee found him asleep on the floor by her kitchen stove that morning,and went back to her cold bed to lie awake and think. But no explanationcame to her.

　　The arrival of Marie roused Henri. The worst of the bombardment wasover, but there was far-away desultory firing. He listened carefullybefore, standing outside in the cold, he poured over his head andshoulders a pail of cold water. He was drying himself vigorously whenhe heard Sara Lee's voice in the kitchen.

　　The day began for Henri when first he saw the girl. It might be evening,but it was the beginning for him. So he went in when he had finishedhis toilet and bowed over her hand.

　　"You are cold, mademoiselle."

　　"I think I am nervous. There was an attack this morning."

　　"Yes?"

　　Marie had gone into the next room, and Sara Lee raised haggard eyesto his.

　　"Henri," she said desperately—it was the first time she had called himthat—"I have something to say to you, and it's not very pleasant."

　　"You are going home?" It was the worst thing he could think of. Butshe shook her head.

　　"You will think me most ungrateful and unkind."

　　"You? Kindness itself!"

　　"But this is different. It is not for myself. It is because I care agreat deal about—about—"

　　"Mademoiselle!"

　　"About your honor. And somehow this morning, when I found you hereasleep, and those poor fellows in the trenches fighting—"

　　Henri stared at her. So that was it! And he could never tell her. Hewas sworn to secrecy by every tradition and instinct of his work. Hecould never tell her, and she would go on thinking him a shirker and acoward. She would be grateful. She would be sweetness itself. Butdeep in her heart she would loathe him, as only women can hate for afailing they never forgive.

　　"But I have told you," he said rather wildly, "I am not idle. I docertain things—not much, but of a degree of importance."

　　"You do not fight."

　　In Sara Lee's defense many things may be urged—her ignorance of modernwarfare; the isolation of her lack of knowledge of the language; but,perhaps more than anything, a certain rigidity of standard thatcomprehended no halfway ground. Right was right and wrong was wrong toher in those days. Men were brave or were cowards. Henri was worthyor unworthy. And she felt that, for all his kindness to her, he wasunworthy.

　　He could have set himself right with a word, at that. But his pride washurt. He said nothing except, when she asked if he had minded what shesaid, to reply:

　　"I am sorry you feel as you do. I am not angry."

　　He went away, however, without breakfast. Sara Lee heard his car goingat its usual breakneck speed up the street, and went to the door. Shewould have called him back if she could, for his eyes haunted her. Buthe did not look back.