"You"ll see there"s a letter for you on the small table in the window there."
"Oh yes! Thank you."
"Your room is ready for you to-night."
"I"ve dined. I shall want nothing. Good-night."
Sophy walked over to the little table in the window, and for a few moments stood looking at the envelope which lay there, addressed to her in Lady Meg"s sprawling hand. The stately room in the Rue de Grenelle seemed filled with a picture which its walls had never seen; old words re-echoed in Sophy"s ears: "If I want you to go, I"ll put a hundred-pound note in an envelope and send it to you; upon which you"ll go, and no reasons given! Is it agreed?" As if from a long way off, she heard a servant-girl answer: "It sounds all right." She saw the old elm-trees at Morpingham, and heard the wind murmur in their boughs; Pindar chuckled, and Julia Robins"s eyes were wet with tears.
"And no reasons given!" It had sounded all right--before five years of intimacy and a life transformed. It sounded different now. Yet the agreement had been made between the strange lady and the eager girl. Nor were reasons hard to find. They stood out brutally plain. Having sent her prophet to the right about, Lady Meg wanted no more of her medium--her most disappointing medium. "They" would not speak through Sophy; perhaps Lady Meg did not now want them to speak at all.
Sophy tore the envelope right across its breadth and shook out the flimsy paper within. It was folded in four. She did not trouble to open it. Lady Meg was a woman of her word, and here was the hundred-pound note of the Bank of England--"upon which you"ll go, and no reasons given!" With a bitter smile she noticed that the note was soiled, the foldings old, the edges black where they were exposed. She had no doubt that all these years Lady Meg had carried it about, so as to be ready for the literal fulfilment of her bond.
"Upon which," said Sophy, "I go."
The bitter smile lasted perhaps a minute more; then the girl flung herself into a chair in a fit of tears as bitter. She had served--or failed to serve--Lady Meg"s mad purpose, and she was flung aside. Very likely she had grown hateful--she, the witness of insane whims now past and out of favor. The dismissal might not be unnatural; but, for all their bargain, the manner was inhuman. They had lived and eaten and drunk together for so long. Had there been no touch of affection, no softening of the heart? It seemed not--it seemed not. Sophy wept and wondered. "Oh, that I had never left you, Julia!" she cries in her letter, and no doubt cried now; for Julia had given her a friend"s love.
If Lady Meg had given her only what one spares for a dog--a kind word before he is banished, a friendly lament at parting!
Suddenly through the window came a boy"s shrill voice: "_Vive la guerre!_"
Sophy sprang to her feet, caught up the dirty note, and thrust it inside her glove. Without delay, seemingly without hesitation, she left the house, pa.s.sed swiftly along the street, and made for the Pont Royal. She was bound for the other bank and for the Boulevard des Italiens, where Casimir de Savres had his lodging. The stream of traffic set with her.
She heeded it not. The streets were full of excited groups, but there was no great tumult yet. Men were eagerly reading the latest editions of the papers. Sophy pushed on till she reached Casimir"s house. She was known there. Her coming caused surprise to the _concierge_--it was not the proper thing; but he made no difficulty. He showed her to Casimir"s sitting-room, but of Casimir he could give no information, save that he presumed he would return to sleep.
"I must wait--I must see him," she said; and, as the man left her, she went to the window, flung it open wide, and stood there, looking down into the great street.
The lights blazed now. Every seat at every _cafe_ was full. The newspapers did a great trade; a wave of infinite talk, infinite chaff, infinite laughter rose to her ears. A loud-voiced fellow was selling pictures of the King of Prussia--as he looks now, and as he will look!
The second sheet never failed of a great success. Bands of lads came by with flags and warlike shouts. Some cheered them, more laughed and chaffed. One broad-faced old man she distinguished in the _cafe_ opposite; he looked glum and sulky and kept arguing to his neighbor, wagging a fat forefinger at him repeatedly; the neighbor shrugged bored shoulders; after all, he had not made the war--it was the Emperor and those gentlemen at St. Cloud! As she watched, the stir grew greater, the bands of marching students more frequent and noisy, "_A Berlin!_" they cried now, amid the same mixture of applause and tolerant amus.e.m.e.nt. A party of girls paraded down the middle of the street, singing "_J"aime les militaires!_" The applause grew to thunder as they went by, and the laughter broke into one great crackle when the heroines had pa.s.sed.
She turned away with a start, conscious of a presence in the room.
Casimir came quickly across to her, throwing his helmet on the table as he pa.s.sed. He took her hands. "I know. Lady Meg wrote to me," he said.
"And you are here!"
"I have no other home now," she said.
With a light of joy in his eyes he kissed her lips.
"I come to you only when I"m in trouble!" she said, softly.
"It is well," he answered, and drew her with him back to the window.
Together they stood looking down.
"It is war, then?" she asked.
"Without doubt it"s war--without doubt," he answered, gravely. "And beyond that no man knows anything."
"And you?" she asked.
He took her hands again, both of hers in his. "My lady of the Red Star!"
he murmured, softly.
"And you?"
"You wouldn"t have it otherwise?"
"Heaven forbid! G.o.d go with you as my heart goes! When do you go?"
"I take the road in an hour for Strasburg. We are to be of MacMahon"s corps."
"In an hour?"
"Yes."
"Your preparations--are they made?"
"Yes."
"And you are free?"
"Yes."
"Then you"ve an hour to make me sure I love you!"
He answered as to a woman of his own stock.
"I have an hour now--and all the campaign," said he.
IV
THE PICTURE AND THE STAR
The letter which gives Julia Robins the history of that Sunday--so eventful alike for France and for Sophy--is the last word of hers from Paris. Julia attached importance to it, perhaps for its romantic flavor, perhaps because she fancied that danger threatened her friend. At any rate, she bestowed it with the care she gave to the later letters, and did not expose it to the hazards which destroyed most of its predecessors. It is dated from Marie Zerkovitch"s apartment in the Rue du Bac, and it ends: "I shall stay here, whatever happens--unless Casimir tells me to meet him in Berlin!"
The rash comprehensiveness of "whatever happens" was not for times like those, when neither man nor nation knew what fate an hour held; but for three weeks more she abode with Marie Zerkovitch. Marie was much disturbed in her mind. Zerkovitch had begun to send her ominous letters from the front--or as near thereto as he could get; the burden of them was that things looked bad for the French, and that her hold on Paris should be a loose one. He urged her to go home, where he would join her--for a visit at all events, very likely to stay. Marie began to talk of going home in a week or so; but she lingered on for the sake of being nearer the news of the war. So, amid the rumors of unreal victories and the tidings of reverses only too real, if not yet great, the two women waited.
Casimir had found time and opportunity to send Sophy some half-dozen notes (a.s.suming she preserved all she received). On the 5th of August, the eve of Wrth, he wrote at somewhat greater length: "It is night. I am off duty for an hour. I have been in the saddle full twelve hours, and I believe that, except the sentries and the outposts, I am the only man awake. We need to sleep. The Red Star, which shines everywhere for me, shines for all of us over our bivouac to-night. It must be that we fight to-morrow. Fritz is in front of us, and to-morrow he will come on.
The Marshal must stop him and spoil his game; if we don"t go forward now, we must go back. And we don"t mean going back. It will be the first big clash--and a big one, I think, it will be. Our fellows are in fine heart (I wish their boots were as good!), but those devils over there--well, they can fight, too, and Fritz can get every ounce out of them. I am thinking of glory and of you. Is it not one and the same thing? For, in that hour, I didn"t make you sure! I know it. Sophie, I"m hardly sorry for it. It seems sweet to have something left to do. Ah, but you"re hard, aren"t you? Shall I ever be sure of you? Even though I march into Berlin at the head of a regiment!
"I can say little more--the orderly waits for my letter. Yet I have so much, much more to say. All comes back to me in vivid s.n.a.t.c.hes. I am with you in the old house--or by the _Calvaire_ (you remember?); or again by the window; or while we walked back that Sunday night. I hear your voice--the low, full-charged voice. I see your eyes; the star glows anew for me. Adieu! I live for you always so long as I live. If I die, it will be in the thought of you, and they will kill no prouder man than Sophie"s lover. To have won your love (ah, by to-morrow night, yes!) and to die for France--would it be ill done for a short life? By my faith, no! I"ll make my bow to my ancestors without shame. "I, too, have done my part, messieurs!" say I, as I sit down with my forefathers. Sophie, adieu! You won"t forget? I don"t think you can quite forget. Your picture rides with me, your star shines ahead.
"CASIMIR."