Chapter XXX

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　On a wild night in January Sara Lee inaugurated a new branch of service.There had been a delay in sending up to the Front the men who had beenon rest, and an incessant bombardment held the troops prisoners in theirtrenches.

　　A field kitchen had been destroyed. The men were hungry, disheartened,wet through. They needed her, she felt. Even the little she could dowould help. All day she had made soup, and at evening Marie led fromits dilapidated stable the little horse that Henri had once brought up,trundling its cart behind it. The boiler of the cart was scoured, afire lighted in the fire box. Marie, a country girl, harnessed theshaggy little animal, but with tears of terror.

　　"You will be killed, mademoiselle," she protested, weeping.

　　"But I have gone before. Don't you remember the man whose wife wasEnglish, and how I wrote a letter for him before he died?"

　　"What will become of the house if you are killed?"

　　"Dear Marie," said Sara Lee, "that is all arranged for. You will sendto Poperinghe for your aunt, and she will come until Mrs. Cameron orsome one else can come from England. And you will stay on. Will youpromise that?"

　　Marie promised in a loud wail.

　　"Of course I shall come back," Sara Lee said, stirring her souppreparatory to pouring it out. "I shall be very careful."

　　"You will not come back, mademoiselle. You do not care to live, and tosuch—"

　　"Those are the ones who live on," said Sara Lee gravely, and poured outher soup.

　　She went quite alone. There was a great deal of noise, but no shellsfell near her. She led the little horse by its head, and its presencegave her comfort. It had a sense that she had not, too, for it kept heron the road.

　　In those still early days the Belgian trenches were quite accessiblefrom the rear. There were no long tunneled ways to traverse to reachthem. One went along through the darkness until the sound of men'svoices, the glare of charcoal in a bucket bored with holes, the flickerof a match, told of the buried army almost underfoot or huddled in itsflimsy shelters behind the railway embankment.

　　Beyond the lines a sentry stopped her, hailing her sharply.

　　"Qui vive?"

　　"It is I," she called through the rain. "I have brought some chocolateand some soup."

　　He lowered his bayonet.

　　"Pass, mademoiselle."

　　She went on, the rumbling of her little cart deadened by the Belgianguns.

　　Through the near-by trenches that night went the word that near theRepose of the Angels—which was but a hole in the ground and scarcelyreposeful—there was to be had hot soup and chocolate and cigarettes.A dozen or so at a time, the men were allowed to come. Officers broughttheir great capes to keep the girl dry. Boards appeared as if by magicfor her to stand on. The rain and the bombardment had both ceased, anda full moon made the lagoon across the embankment into a silver lake.

　　When the last soup had been dipped from the tall boiler, when the finaldrops of chocolate had oozed from the faucet, Sara Lee turned and wentback to the little house again. But before she went she stood a momentstaring across toward that land of the shadow on the other side, whereHenri had gone and had not returned.

　　Once, when the King had decorated her, she had wished that, whereverUncle James might be, on the other side, he could see what was happening.And now she wondered if Henri could know that she had come back, and wasagain looking after his men while she waited for that reunion he had sofirmly believed in.

　　Then she led the little horse back along the road.

　　At the poplar trees she turned and looked behind, toward the trenches.The grove was but a skeleton now, a strange and jagged thing of twistedbranches, as though it had died in agony. She stood there while thepony nuzzled her gently. If she called, would he come? But, then, allof life was one call now, for her. She went on slowly.

　　After that it was not unusual for her to go to the trenches, on suchnights as no men could come to the little house. Always she was joyouslywelcomed, and always on her way back she turned to send from the poplartrees that inarticulate aching call that she had come somehow tobelieve in.

　　January, wet and raw, went by; February, colder, with snow, was halfover. The men had ceased to watch for Henri over the parapet, and hisbrave deeds had become fireside tales, to be told at home, if everthere were to be homes again for them.

　　Then one night Henri came back—came as he had gone, out of the shadowsthat had swallowed him up; came without so much as the sound of asniper's rifle to herald him. A strange, thin Henri, close tostarvation, dripping water over everything from a German uniform, andvery close indeed to death before he called out.

　　There was wild excitement indeed. Bearded private soldiers, forgettingthat name and rank of his which must not be told, patted his thinshoulders. Officers who had lived through such horrors as also may notbe told, crowded about him and shook hands with him, and with each other.

　　It was as though from the graveyard back in the fields had come, aliveand smiling, some dearly beloved friend.

　　He would have told the story, but he was wet and weary.

　　"That can wait," they said, and led him, a motley band of officers andmen intermixed, for once forgetting all decorum, toward the village.They overtook the lines of men who had left the trenches and were movingwith their slow and weary gait up the road. The news spread through thecolumn. There were muffled cheers. Figures stepped out of the darknesswith hands out. Henri clasped as many as he could.

　　When with his escort he had passed the men they fell, almost withoutorders, into columns of four, and swung in behind him. There was noband, but from a thousand throats, yet cautiously until they passed thepoplar trees, there gradually swelled and grew a marching song.

　　Behind Henri a strange guard of honor—muddy, tired, torn, evenwounded—they marched and sang:

　　Trou là là, ça ne va guère;

　　Trou là là, çe ne va pas.