"There is a short cut across that meadow," said the young girl,
raising a rounded, sun-tinted arm, bare to the shoulder.
"You are very kind," said I, looking at her steadily.
"And, after that, you will come to a thicket of white birches."
"Thank you, mademoiselle."
"And after that," she said, idly following with her blue eyes the
contour of her own lovely arm, "you must turn to the left, and there
you will cross a hill. You can see it from where we stand--"
She glanced at me over her outstretched arm. "You are not listening,"
she said.
I shifted a troubled gaze to the meadow which stretched out all
glittering with moist grasses and tufts of rain-drenched wild
flowers.
The girl's arm slowly fell to her side, she looked up at me again, I
felt her eyes on me for a moment, then she turned her head toward the
meadow.
A deadened report shook the summer air--the sound of a cannon fired
very far away, perhaps on the citadel of Strasbourg. It was so
distant, so indistinct, that here in this peaceful country it lingered
only as a vibration; the humming of the clover bees was louder.
Without turning my head I said: "It is difficult to believe that
there is war anywhere in the world--is it not, mademoiselle?"
"Not if one knows the world," she said, indifferently.
"Do you know it, my child?"
"Sufficiently," she said.
She had opened again the book which she had been reading when I first
noticed her.
From my saddle I saw that it was Molière. I examined her,
in detail, from the tips of her small wooden shoes to the scarlet
velvet-banded skirt, then slowly upward, noting the laced bodice of
velvet, the bright hair under the butterfly coiffe of Alsace, the
delicate outline of nose and brow and throat. The ensemble was
theatrical.
"Why do you tend turkeys?" I asked.
"Because it pleases me," she replied, raising her eyebrows in faint
displeasure.
"For that same reason you read Monsieur Molière?" I suggested.
"Doubtless, monsieur."
"Who are you?"
"Is a passport required in France?" she replied, languidly.
"Are you what you pretend to be, an Alsatian turkey tender?"
"Parbleu! There are my turkeys, monsieur."
"Of course, and there is your peasant dress and there are your wooden
shoes, and there also, mademoiselle, are your soft hands and your
accented speech and your plays of Molière."
"You are very wise for a hussar," she said.
"Perhaps," said I, "but I have asked you a question which remains
parried."
She balanced the hazel rod across her shoulders with a faintly
malicious smile.
"One might almost believe that you are not a hussar, but an officer
of the Imperial Police," she said.
"If you think that," said I, "you should answer my question the
sooner--unless you come from La Trappe. Do you?"
"Sometimes."
"Oh! And what do you do at the Château de la Trappe?"
"I tend poultry--sometimes," she replied.
"And at other times?"
"I do other things, monsieur."
"What things?"
"What things? Mon Dieu, I read a little, as you perceive, monsieur."
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"Oh, a mere nobody in such learned company," she said, shaking her
head with a mock humility that annoyed me intensely.
"Very well," said I, conscious every moment of her pleasure in my
discomfiture; "under the circumstances I am going to ask you to
accept my escort to La Trappe; for I think you are Mademoiselle Elven,
recently of the Odéon theatre."
At this her eyes widened and the smile on her face became less
genuine. "Indeed, I shall not go with you," she said.
"I'm afraid I'll have to insist," said I.
She still balanced her hazel rod across her shoulders, a smile curving
her mouth.
"Monsieur," she said, "do you ride through the world pressing every
peasant girl you meet with such ardent entreaties? Truly, your fashion
of wooing is not slow, but everybody knows that hussars are headlong
gentlemen--'Nothing is sacred from a hussar,'" she hummed,
deliberately, in a parody which made me writhe in my saddle.
"Mademoiselle," said I, taking off my forage-cap, "your ridicule is
not the most disagreeable incident that I expect to meet with to-day.
I am attempting to do my duty, and I must ask you to do yours."
"By taking a walk with you, beau monsieur?"
"I'm afraid so."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then," said I, amiably, "I shall be obliged to set you on my
horse." And I dismounted and went toward her.
"Set me on--on that horse?" she repeated, with a disturbed smile.
"Will you come on foot, then?"
"No, I will not!" she said, with a click of her teeth.
I looked at my watch--it lacked five minutes to one.
"In five minutes we are going to start," said I, cheerfully, and
stood waiting, twisting the gilt hilt-tassels of my sabre with nervous
fingers.
After a silence she said, very seriously, "Monsieur, would you dare
use violence toward me?"
"Oh, I shall not be very violent," I replied, laughing. I held the
opened watch in my hand so that she could see the dial if she chose.
"It is one o'clock," I said, closing the hunting-case with a snap.
She looked me steadily in the eyes.
"Will you come with me to La Trappe?"
She did not stir.
I stepped toward her; she gave me a breathless, defiant stare; then in
an instant I caught her up and swung her high into my saddle, before
either she or I knew exactly what had happened.
Fury flashed up in her eyes and was gone, leaving them almost blank
blue. As for me, amazed at what I had done, I stood at her stirrup,
breathing very fast, with jaws set and chin squared.
She was clever enough not to try to dismount, woman enough not to make
an awkward struggle or do anything ungraceful. In her face I read an
immense astonishment; fascination seemed to rivet her eyes on me,
following my every movement as I shortened one stirrup for her,
tightened the girths, and laid the bridle in her half-opened hand.
Then, in silence, I led the horse forward through the open gate out
into the wet meadow.
Wading knee-deep through soaking foliage, I piloted my horse with its
mute burden across the fields; and, after a few minutes a violent
desire to laugh seized me and persisted, but I bit my lip and called
up a few remaining sentiments of decency.
As for my turkey-girl, she sat stiffly in the saddle, with a firmness
and determination that proved her to be a stranger to horses. I
scarcely dared look at her, so fearful was I of laughing.
As we emerged from the meadow I heard the cannon sounding again at a
great distance, and this perhaps sobered me, for presently all desire
of laughter left me, and I turned into the road which led through the
birch thicket, anxious to accomplish my mission and have done with it
as soon as might be.
"Are we near La Trappe?" I asked, respectfully.
Had she pouted, or sulked, or burst into reproaches, I should have
cared little--in fact, an outburst might have relieved me.
But she answered me so sweetly, and, too, with such composure, that my
heart smote me for what I had done to her and what I was still to do.
"Would you rather walk?" I asked, looking up at her.
"No, thank you," she said, serenely.
So we went on. The spectacle of a cavalryman in full uniform leading a
cavalry horse on which was seated an Alsatian girl in bright peasant
costume appeared to astonish the few people we passed. One of these
foot-farers, a priest who was travelling in our direction, raised his
pallid visage to meet my eyes. Then he stole a glance at the girl in
the saddle, and I saw a tint of faded color settle under his
transparent skin.
The turkey-girl saluted the priest with a bright smile.
"Fortune of war, father," she said, gayly. "Behold! Alsace in
chains."
"Is she a prisoner?" said the priest, turning directly on me. Of all
the masks called faces, never had I set eyes on such a deathly one,
nor on such pale eyes, all silvery surface without depth enough for a
spark of light to make them seem alive.
"What do you mean by a prisoner, father?" I asked.
"I mean a prisoner," he said, doggedly.
"When the church cross-examines the government, the towers of Notre
Dame shake," I said, pleasantly. "I mean no discourtesy, father; it
is a proverb in Paris."
"There is another proverb," observed the turkey-girl, placidly.
"Once a little inhabitant of hell stole the key to paradise. His
punishment was dreadful. They locked him in."
I looked up at her, perplexed and irritated, conscious that she was
ridiculing me, but unable to comprehend just how. And my irritation
increased when the priest said, calmly, "Can I aid you, my child?"
She shook her head with a cool smile.
"I am quite safe under the escort of an officer of the Imperial--"
"Wait!" I said, hastily, but she continued, "of the Imperial
Military Police."
Above all things I had not wanted it known that the Imperial Police
were moving in this affair at La Trappe, and now this little fool had
babbled to a strange priest--of all people in the world!
"What have the police to do with this harmless child?" demanded the
priest, turning on me so suddenly that I involuntarily took a step
backward.
"Is this the confessional, father?" I replied, sharply. "Go your way
in peace, and leave to the police what alone concerns the police."
"Render unto Cæsar," said the girl, quietly. "Good-bye, father."
Turning to look again at the priest, I was amazed to find him close to
me, too close for a man with such eyes in his head, for a man who
moved so swiftly and softly, and, in spite of me, a nervous movement
of my hand left me with my fingers on the butt of my pistol.
"What the devil is all this?" I blurted out. "Stand aside, father.
Do you think the Holy Inquisition is back in France? Stand aside then!
I salute your cloth!"
And I passed on ahead, one hand on the horse's neck, the other
touching the visor of my scarlet forage-cap. Once I looked back. The
priest was standing where I had passed him.
We met a dozen people in all, I think, some of them peasants, one or
two of the better class--a country doctor and a notary among them.
None appeared to know my turkey-girl, nor did she even glance at them;
moreover, all answered my inquiries civilly enough, directing me to La
Trappe, and professing ignorance as to its inhabitants.
"Why do all the people I meet carry bundles?" I demanded of the
notary.
"Mon Dieu, monsieur, they are too near the frontier to take risks,"
he replied, blinking through his silver-rimmed spectacles at my
turkey-girl.
"You mean to say they are running away from their village of
Trois-Feuilles?" I asked.
"Exactly," he said. "War is a rude guest for poor folk."
Disgusted with the cowardice of the hamlet of Trois-Feuilles, I passed
on without noticing the man's sneer. In a moment, however, he repassed
me swiftly, going in the same direction as were we, toward La Trappe.
"Wait a bit!" I called out. "What is your business in that
direction, monsieur the notary?"
He looked around, muttered indistinctly about having forgotten
something, and started on ahead of us, but at a sharp "Stop!" from me
he halted quickly enough.
"Your road lies the other way," I observed, and, as he began to
protest, I cut him short.
"You change your direction too quickly to suit me," I said. "Come,
my friend the weather-cock, turn your nose east and follow it or I may
ask you some questions that might frighten you."
And so I left him also staring after us, and I had half a mind to go
back and examine his portfolio to see what a snipe-faced notary might
be carrying about with him.
When I looked up at my turkey-girl, she was sitting more easily in the
saddle, head bent thoughtfully.
"You see, mademoiselle, I take no chances of not finding my friends
at home," I said.
"What friends, monsieur?"
"My friends at La Trappe."
"Oh! And ... you think that the notary we passed might have desired
to prepare them for your visit, monsieur?"
"Possibly. The notary of Trois-Feuilles and the Château de la Trappe
may not be unknown to each other. Perhaps even mademoiselle the
turkey-girl may number the learned Trappists among her friends."
"Perhaps," she said.
Walking on along the muddy road beside her, arm resting on my horse's
neck, I thought over again of the chances of catching Buckhurst, and
they seemed slim, especially as after my visit the house at La Trappe
would be vacant and the colony scattered, or at least out of French
jurisdiction, and probably settled across the Belgian frontier.
Of course, if the government ordered the expulsion of these people,
the people must go; but I for one found the order a foolish one,
because it removed a bait that might attract Buckhurst back where we
stood a chance of trapping him.
But in a foreign country he could visit his friends freely, and
whatever movement he might ultimately contemplate against the French
government could easily be directed from that paradise of anarchists,
Belgium, without the necessity of his exposing himself to any
considerable danger.
I was sorry that affairs had taken this turn.
A little breeze began blowing; the scarlet skirt of my turkey-girl
fluttered above her wooden shoes, and on her head the silk bow
quivered like a butterfly on a golden blossom.
"They say when the Lord fashioned the first maid of Alsace half the
angels cried themselves ill with jealousy," said I, looking up at
her.
"And the other half, monsieur?"
"The sterner half started for Alsace in a body. They were controlled
with difficulty, mademoiselle. That is why St. Peter was given a key
to lock them in, not to lock us poor devils out."
After a silence she said, musing: "It is a curious thing, but you
speak as though you had seen better days."
"No," I said, "I have never seen better days. I am slowly rising in
the world. Last year I was a lieutenant; I am now inspector."
"I meant," she said, scornfully, "that you had been well-born--a
gentleman."
"Are gentlemen scarce in the Imperial Military Police?"
"It is not a profession that honors a man."
"Of all people in the world," said I, "the police would be the most
gratified to believe that this violent world needs no police."
"Monsieur, there is another remedy for violence."
"And what may that remedy be, mademoiselle?"
"Non-resistance--absolute non-resistance," said the girl, earnestly,
bending her pretty head toward me.
"That is not human nature," I said, laughing.
"Is the justification of human nature our aim in this world?"
"Nor is it possible for mankind to submit to violence," I added.
"I believe otherwise," she said, gravely.
As we mounted the hill along a sandy road, bordered with pines and
with cool, green thickets of broom and gorse, I looked up at her and
said: "In spite of your theories, mademoiselle, you yourself refused
to accompany me."
"But I did not resist your violence," she replied, smiling.
After a moment's silence I said: "For a disciple of a stern and
colorless creed, you are very human. I am sorry that you believe it
necessary to reform the world."
She said, thoughtfully: "There is nothing joyless in my creed--above
all, nothing stern. If it be fanaticism to desire for all the world
that liberty of thought and speech and deed which I, for one, have
assumed, then I am, perhaps, a fanatic. If it be fanaticism to detest
violence and to deplore all resistance to violence, I am a very
guilty woman, monsieur, and deserve ill of the Emperor's Military
Police."
This she said with that faintly ironical smile hovering sometimes in
her eyes, sometimes on her lips, so that it was hard to face her and
feel quite comfortable.
I began, finally, an elaborate and logical argument, forgetting that
women reason only with their hearts, and she listened courteously. To
meet her eyes when I was speaking interrupted my train of thought, and
often I was constrained to look out across the hills at the heavy,
solid flanks of the mountains, which seemed to steady my logic and
bring rebellious thought and wandering wisdom to obedience.
I explained my theory of the acceptance of three things--human nature,
the past, and the present. Given these, the solution of future
problems must be a different solution from that which she proposed.
At moments the solemn absurdity of it all came over me--the
turkey-girl, with her golden head bent, her butterfly coiffe
a-flutter, discussing ethics with an irresponsible fly-by-night, who
happened at that period of his career to carry a commission in the
Imperial Police.
The lazy roadside butterflies flew up in clouds before the
slow-stepping horse; the hill rabbits, rising to their hindquarters,
wrinkled their whiskered noses at us; from every thicket speckled
hedge-birds peered at us as we went our way solemnly deciding those
eternal questions already ancient when the Talmud branded woman with
the name of Lilith.
At length, as we reached the summit of the sandy hill, "There is La
Trappe, monsieur," said my turkey-girl, and once more stretched out
her lovely arm.
There appeared to be nothing mysterious about the house or its
surroundings; indeed, a sunnier and more peaceful spot would be hard
to find in that land of hills, ravines, and rocky woodlands, outposts
of those cloudy summits soaring skyward in the south.
The house itself was visible through gates of wrought iron, swinging
wide between pillars of stone, where an avenue stretched away under
trees to a granite terrace, glittering in the sun. And under the
terrace a quiet pool lay reflecting tier on tier of stone steps which
mounted to the bright esplanade above.
There was no porter at the gate to welcome me or to warn me back; the
wet road lay straight in front, barred only by sunbeams.
"May we enter?" I asked, politely.
She did not answer, and I led the horse down that silent avenue of
trees towards the terrace and the glassy pool which mirrored the steps
of stone.
Masses of scarlet geraniums, beds of living coals, glowed above the
terrace. As we drew nearer, the water caught the blaze of color,
reflecting the splendor in subdued tints of smothered flame. And
always, in the pool, I saw the terrace steps, reversed, leading down
into depths of sombre fire.
"And here we dismount," said I, and offered my aid.
She laid her hands on my shoulders; I swung her to the ground, where
her sabots clicked and her silver neck-chains jingled in the silence.
I looked around. How intensely still was everything--the leaves, the
water! The silent blue peaks on the horizon seemed to be watching me;
the trees around me were so motionless that they also appeared to be
listening with every leaf.
This quarter of the world was too noiseless for me; there might have
been a bird-note, a breeze to whisper, a minute stirring of unseen
life--but there was not.
"Is that house empty?" I asked, turning brusquely on my companion.
"The Countess de Vassart will give you your answer," she replied.
"Kindly announce me, then," I said, grimly, and together we mounted
the broad flight of steps to the esplanade, above which rose the gray
mansion of La Trappe.