"By British efficiency. By proving to him that we are superior to him in every way. We"ll teach him that it doesn"t pay to be a wolf."
"And do you think he will like being transformed into a lamb, while you remain a lion?"
"I don"t suppose so, but we"ll give him his chance to try to become a lion too."
Jeanne shook her head. "No, monsieur, wolf he is and wolf he will remain. A wolf with venomous teeth. The civilized world must see that the teeth are always drawn."
"I"m speaking of fifty years hence," said the sergeant.
"And I of three hundred years hence."
"You"re mistaken, mademoiselle."
Jeanne shook her head. "No. I"m not mistaken. Tell me. Why do you want to become brother to the Boche?"
"I"m not going to be his brother till the war"s over," said the sergeant stolidly. "At present I am devoting all my faculties to killing as many of him as I can."
She smiled. "Sufficient for the day is the good thereof. Go on killing them, monsieur. The more you kill the fewer there will be for your children and your grandchildren to lie down with."
She left him and tried to puzzle out his philosophy. For the ordinary French philosophy of the war is very simple. They have no high-falutin, altruistic ideas of improving the Boche. They don"t care a tinker"s curse what happens to the unholy brood beyond the Rhine, so long as they are beaten, humiliated, subjected: so long as there is no chance of their ever deflowering again with their brutality the sacred soil of France. The French mind cannot conceive the idea of this beautiful brotherhood; but, on the contrary, rejects it as something loathsome, something bordering on spiritual defilement....
No; Jeanne could not accept the theory that we were waging war for the ultimate chastening and beatification of Germany. She preferred Doggie"s reason for fighting. For his soul. There was something which she could grip. And having gripped it, it was something around which her imagination could weave a web of n.o.ble fancy. After all, when she came to think of it, every one of the Allies must be fighting for his soul. For his soul"s sake had not her father died? Although she knew no word of German, it was obvious that the Uhlan officer had murdered him because he had refused to betray his country. And her uncle. To fight for his soul, had he not gone out with his heroic but futile sporting gun? And this pragmatical sergeant? What else had led him from his schoolroom to the battlefield? Why couldn"t he be honest about it, like Doggie?
She missed Doggie. He ought to be there, as she had often seen him un.o.bserved, talking with his friends or going about his military duties, or playing the flageolet with the magical touch of the musician. She knew far more of Doggie than he was aware of ... And at night she prayed for the little English soldier who was facing Death.
She had much time to think of him during the hours when she sat by the bedside of Aunt Morin, who talked incessantly of Francois-Marie who was killed on the Argonne, and Gaspard who, as a _territorial_, was no doubt defending Madagascar from invasion. And it was pleasant to think of him, because he was a new distraction from tragical memories. He seemed to lay the ghosts ... He was different from all the Englishmen she had met. The young officers who had helped her in her flight, had very much the same charm of breeding, very much the same intonation of voice; instinctively she knew him to be of the same social caste; but they, and the officers whom she saw about the street and in the courtyard, when duty called them there, had the military air of command. And this her little English soldier had not. Of course, he was only a private, and privates are trained to obedience. She knew that perfectly well. But why was he not commanding instead of obeying?
There was a reason for it. She had seen it in his eyes. She wished she had made him talk more about himself. Perhaps she had been unsympathetic and selfish. He a.s.sumed, she reflected, a certain _cranerie_ with his fellows--and _cranerie_ is "swagger" bereft of vulgarity--we have no word to connote its conception in a French mind--and she admired it; but her swift intuition pierced the a.s.sumption. She divined a world of hesitancies behind the Musketeer swing of the shoulders. He was so gentle, so sensitive, so quick to understand. And yet so proud. And yet again so unconfessedly dependent. Her woman"s protective instinct responded to a mute appeal.
"But, Ma"amselle Jeanne, you are wet through, you are perished with cold. What folly have you been committing?" Toinette scolded, when she returned after wishing Doggie the last "_bonne chance_."
"The folly of putting my Frenchwoman"s heart (_mon coeur de Francaise_) into the hands of a brave little soldier to fight with him in the trenches."
"_Mon Dieu, ma"amselle_, you had better go straight to bed, and I will bring you a _bon tilleul_, which will calm your nerves and produce a good perspiration."
So Toinette put Jeanne to bed and administered the infallible infusion of lime leaves, and Jeanne was never the worse for her adventure. But the next day she wondered a little why she had undertaken it. She had a vague idea that it paid a little debt of sympathy.
An evening or two afterwards Jeanne was sewing in the kitchen when Toinette, sitting in the arm-chair by the extinct fire, fished out of her pocket the little olive-wood box with the pansies and forget-me-nots on the lid, and took a long pinch of snuff. She did it with somewhat of an air which caused Jeanne to smile.
"_Dites donc_, Toinette, you are insupportable with your snuff-box.
One would say a marquise of the old school."
"Ah, Ma"amselle Jeanne," said the old woman, "you must not laugh at me. I was just thinking that, if anything happened to the _pet.i.t monsieur_, I couldn"t have the heart to go on putting his snuff up my old nose."
"Nothing will happen to him," said Jeanne.
The old woman sighed and re-engulfed the snuff-box. "Who knows? From one minute to another who knows whether the little ones who are dear to us are alive or dead?"
"And this _pet.i.t monsieur_ is dear to you, Toinette?" Jeanne asked, in her even voice, without looking up from her sewing.
"Since he resembles my _petiot_."
"He will come back," said Jeanne.
"I hope so," said the old woman mournfully.
In spite of manifold duties, Jeanne found the days curiously long. She slept badly. The tramp of the sentry below her window over the archway brought her no sense of comfort, as it had done for months before the coming of Doggie. All the less did it produce the queer little thrill of happiness which was hers when, looking down through the shutter slats she had identified in the darkness, on a change of guard, the little English soldier to whom she had spoken so intimately. And when he had challenged the rounds, she had recognized his voice.... If she had obeyed an imbecile and unmaidenly impulse, she would have drawn open the shutter and revealed herself. But apart from maidenly shrinkings, familiarity with war had made her realize the sacred duties of a sentry, and she had remained in discreet seclusion, awake until his spell was over. But now the rhythmical beat of the heavy boots kept her from sleeping and would have irritated her nerves intolerably had not her sound common sense told her that the stout fellow who wore them was protecting her from the Hun, together with a million or so of his fellow-countrymen.
She found herself counting the days to Doggie"s return.
"At last, it is to-morrow!" she said to Toinette.
"What is it to-morrow?" asked the old woman.
"The return of our regiment," replied Jeanne.
"That is good. We have a regiment now," said Toinette ironically.
The Midland company marched away--as so many had marched away before; but Jeanne did not go to the little embankment at the turn of the road to wish anyone good luck. She stood at the house door, as she had always done, to watch them pa.s.s in the darkness; for there is always something in the sight of men going into battle which gives you a lump in the throat. For Jeanne it had almost grown into a religious practice.
The sergeant had told her that the new-comers would arrive at dawn.
She slept a little; awoke with a start as day began to break; dressed swiftly, and went downstairs to wait. And then her ear caught the rumble and the tramp of the approaching battalion. Presently transport rolled by, and squads of men, haggard in the grey light, bending double under their packs, staggered along to their billets. And then came a rusty crew, among whom she recognized McPhail"s tall gaunt figure. She stood by the gateway, bareheaded, in her black dress and blue ap.r.o.n, defying the sharp morning air, and watched them pa.s.s through. She saw Mo Shendish, his eyes on the heels of the man in front. She recognized nearly all. But the man she looked for was not there.
He could not have pa.s.sed without her seeing him; but as soon as the gateway was clear, she ran into the courtyard and fled across it to cut off the men. There was no Doggie. Blank disappointment was succeeded by sudden terror.
Phineas saw her coming. He stumbled up to her, dropped his pack at her feet, and spread out both his hands. She lost sight of the horde of weary clay-covered men around her. She cried:
"Where is he?"
"I don"t know."
"He is dead?"
"No one knows."
"But you must know, you!" cried Jeanne, with a new fear in her eyes which Phineas could not bear to meet. "You promised to bring him back."
"It was not my fault," said Phineas. "He was out last night--no, the night before, this is morning--repairing barbed wire. I was not with him."
"_Mais, mon Dieu_, why not?"
"Because the duties of soldiers are arranged for them by their officers, mademoiselle."
"It is true. Pardon. But continue."
"A party went out to repair wire. It was quite dark. Suddenly a German rifle-shot gave the alarm. The enemy threw up star-sh.e.l.ls and the front trenches on each side opened fire. The wiring party, of course, lay flat on the ground. One of them was wounded. When it was all over--it didn"t last long--our men got back, bringing the wounded man."
"He is severely wounded? Speak," cried Jeanne.