Part 4

The electrical atmosphere of the next three months saved Madeleine’s life. No spirit, however sick, could have failed to respond to such exciting treatment.

Lacaze, the steeple-jack, the lion, welcomed the War with flashing eyes. From the moment the storm broke, his one idea was to kill. When the time came, he fought with twice the ardour with which he had reduced high places. He soon became sergeant; he was worth ten ordinary men. In all his pride, however, he never forgot how once his heels had ached. Besides, his wife’s dismissal of Dudoy had made him frown. . . .

Before he left for the battle he had arranged everything.

In reply to the questions which every soldier is asked, he stated that he was unmarried, and gave the name of Madame José Beer (_née_ Tuyte) as that of his next-of-kin.

Then he visited the trull and told her her new estate.

José was flattered, but curious. Lacaze enlightened her.

“Now, if I should be killed, the news will come to you.”

“I shall mourn,” said José.

“As you please,” said Lacaze. “But burn the paper at once and keep your mouth shut. Tell no one. You know, I fear, that Madeleine is very stuck up.” He sighed. “It is no good mincing matters. Her pride has caused me much grief. You and I are not good enough. She would, I think, like to be free. If she were free. . . .” He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. “There is a young officer somewhere. They correspond. . . .”

“The jade!” raged José. “The jade! The graceless minx! Trust me.” Her voice vibrated. “She shall never be free. Never!” Here she became maudlin. “But, Pierre dear, I shall not receive the news. It is not to be thought of . . .”

“Perhaps not,” said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. “But remember my words. I trust you to see justice done.”

“Never fear,” cried José, her pig eyes gleaming. . . .

Finally, the steeple-jack spoke with his wife.

He chose their last night together.

It was a stifling evening: such air as found its way into their apartment seemed to be stale: odours of neighbouring kitchens rose up stagnant. Out of the roar of the traffic continual cries of newsvendors stood as syrens out of a gale.

Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged upon a settee, smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots.

My lady finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her work and turned it about. After a moment she rose and crossed to her husband.

“Is that what you want, Pierre? It does not look very well, but I think it will wear. If it is right, I will do the other shoulder.”

Lacaze examined the shirt.

This was a cotton affair of green and grey stripes. Over one shoulder strips of fine linen had been laid, by way of a pad. These had been quilted beautifully.

“But this is charming,” he said, putting his head on one side. “Ah, me, what it is to be loved! If René could only see this he would jump into the Seine. You know I shall be chaffed—devilishly. No one will ever believe that this was the work of a wife. Never mind. I am content. Now I shall be cool these hot days, yet my shoulders will not be sore.” He peered at the linen. “Where did you find this stuff?”

“I cut up a chemise.”

“Sweeter and sweeter,” he crowed. “The soldier goes off to the war with his girl on his shoulder. My dear, you are getting quite gay. How did you think of such a charming conceit?”

“I did not,” said Madeleine coldly. “I had nothing else.”

“Use nothing else,” said Lacaze. “But always have a new shirt—I have six—with just the same delicate straps awaiting the day I return. For I shall return, sweeting. Never fear that I shan’t.” His voice rang out boldly. “Never fear, madame. Nothing will happen to me. I shall always come back.” He caught her arm in his hand and smiled up into her eyes. “Do you hear, my beautiful wife? Do you realize that? Poor Pierre will always return. Jean may lie out in the mud. What can be collected of Jacques may be dumped in a grave. René may writhe out his life with a bullet inside. But poor old Pierre, your husband, will always return.” He let go her arm and sank back in his seat. “Now, is that not good news? That widowhood is not for you? Believe me, my dear, you are a lucky woman. . . . Of course I may not always come back to you. We poor soldiers are so easily led. . . . . But I shall not be killed. You see. And in the end you will triumph, and I—shall—come—back. . . .”

So soon as Madame Lacaze could find her voice, she asked her smiling husband what money she was to have to maintain herself and the apartment.

His reply was definite.

“The apartment is given up and the furniture sold. I have done that to-day. You will lodge with the Marats and go out to work. I have been wondering what you could do, my sweet, but you have shown me. If you sew hard, you will make quite a lot of money.”

Madeleine walked to the window and picked up the remains of her chemise. The garment tugged at her thoughts. She let them go. . . .

In an instant she was at Ruffec, stepping the cool, quiet streets. There was old Monsieur Laffargue, the doctor, getting down from his gig. Now he was smiling broadly and rallying her about her cheeks. ‘You must do something,’ he said. She could hear his jolly old voice. ‘Something. I don’t know what. No one will ever believe there’s no paint there.’ She passed on smiling. . . . A voice called from a window. Madame Durand, of course, the postman’s wife. ‘Madeleine, Madeleine, my sister has had a son. A great fat rogue, they say, four kilos at birth. Is it not wonderful?’ Madeleine rejoiced with her, and went her way. Then Père Fréchou stopped her, to give her five great peaches—two for each of her eyes and one for her pretty red lips . . . She came to the Rue de l’Image, all decked with the evening sun. The awnings of the little shops made it absurdly narrow, like a toy street. And there, striding into the sunlight, came René Dudoy. His healthy young face lighted up. ‘I was on my way, Madeleine, to tell you how lucky I am. The _patron_ has been given the order for three mantelpieces in stone at the Château St. Pol, and I am to do the work and to put them in.’ ‘Oh, René, I am so glad—so awfully glad. Go on and tell Jean and Jacques. Or stay—go home and get Marie and bring her to supper with us. See what Père Fréchou has given me. Did ever you see such beauties? We’ll eat them to-night in your honour. There’s plenty of cream.’ René’s face was a picture. Madeleine passed on thoughtfully. . . . At the draper’s she laid out her money—some thirty-two francs—not without much hesitation and plucking at stuffs. Madame Bidart was kindness itself, and made her a price. Indeed, the old lady refused to sell her the linen she chose. It was not good enough, she declared. Now this was superb—fit for a king’s daughter. ‘But I am not a king’s daughter,’ protested Madeleine, laughing. ‘You are an angel from heaven,’ said Madame Bidart. ‘I tell you——’

“How long will you be?” said Lacaze yawning luxuriously. “I mean, it is getting late, and I must be up at five.”

“A quarter of an hour,” said his wife, and bent to her work.

The night was stifling.

* * * * *

Madeleine’s younger brother was killed that fateful August. Ere September was old, Jean had been taken prisoner. Of René, no news reached her.

For the matter of that, she heard naught of Lacaze, either. He had not told her his regiment. He never wrote. The man might have been dead . . . might have. . . .

He came to see her at last, one dark December morning. . . .

When he went back, he took a shirt with him.

Twice more he came to see her, and each time took back a shirt. He swore by these garments—called them his mascots, his charms—declared he could never be killed while she sat on his shoulders. . . .

The idea stuck.

Madeleine began to believe her linen was preserving his life.

She tried to be grateful.

Two shirts remained to be strapped. Setting to work one Sunday, she found her chemise was gone. She had used all its stuff. Her impulse, of course, was to purchase a piece of fresh linen. Without a thought she would have done so, but for his idle words. As it was. . . .

The temptation was frightful.

Why should she cut up her own clothes? Besides, faith put in mascots was vain—heathenish. What could they profit a man? Supposing they could. . . . Supposing there was some curious guardian virtue in linen she wore. . . . Well, _what—if—there—was_?

She thrust the shirt away and went for a walk.

The next morning she bought some new linen. . . .

She came back from Mass a week later and cut up another chemise.

The third winter of the War stole upon a frantic world, stumbling and striking. Lacaze did not come. He had not returned since April—April of 1916. Madeleine began to wonder . . . wonder why he did not appear.

When the New Year was in, she went to the War Office.

She did not get far.

“You are his wife?” said the clerk.

“Yes.”

“What is his regiment?”

“I do not know. He has never told me.”

“Show me a letter of his.”

“I have none. He never writes.”

“Nor you to him?”

“Never. He was sergeant, I think.”

Two shoulders were shrugged.

“So are many. You are sure you are married?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, Madame, he is safe. No news is good news. You would have heard, certainly. There is no doubt about it. Calm yourself, Madame. He will come back.”

But Lacaze did not come.

Again, in June, she went to the War Office.

She saw the same clerk. He asked the same questions, shrugged the same shoulders, gave her the same reply. . . .

That Autumn her orders fell off. People, I suppose, were beginning to sew for themselves. Madeleine could hardly find work for two days a week. The Marats—the people she lodged with—saw what was coming, and, meeting her trouble half-way, diverted it from their path. In a word, they gave her notice. This, thanks to their foresight, they were able to do without any compunction at all. It would not have been nice to turn out a soldier’s wife—possibly ‘relict’—because she could not pay her way. As it was, they could look the world in the face. They did so defiantly. They also cancelled, with sighs, their subscription to an orphanage on the ground that they had lost a valuable paying guest. . . . .

Madeleine entered the service of an English officer’s wife.

Early in 1918 she received a letter from Jean.

_Dearest Madeleine_,

_I have come back alive out of death. I have been a prisoner, you know, for nearly four years. Now I have been exchanged—because I am useless to France. I am rather run down, you see, and my right arm is gone. But take heart, dearest. I can do nothing just yet, and the Army has sent me home, but old Monsieur Laffargue says I shall be as strong as ever in ten or twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back some time. Do you know he is blind? . ._

Blind. . . .

Those gentle grey eyes sightless. . . . Those strong brown fingers picking and feeling their way. . . .

Madeleine was at the War Office within the half-hour.

The clerk she had seen was gone, and another attended to her case. This was a kindly fellow, who had dried many eyes.

He heard her out gravely. Then—

“Madame, be happy. Absolutely your husband is safe. Take it from me. He has not even a scratch. Always the wife hears at once. That he has not been to see you is easily explained. Ten to one he is in the East—Salonica, making fat Bulgars perspire. He wrote and told you, of course, but the letter was sunk. These Germans! Madame, believe and be happy. Your husband is safe. I tell you he will come back.”

Madeleine stole out of the building as she would have stolen out of a dock. She had committed a crime, and had been given judgment.

She would have given anything to go to Ruffec . . . anything—except the one thing she had. This was her self-respect. If she went to Ruffec, if once she saw those strong brown fingers groping their pitiful way, the flesh might spoil the spirit of its only hoard. And that meant poverty she could not face. She was a good girl.

* * * * *

Eighteen months had gone by, when Lady Joan Satinwood told her French maid that it was her determined intention to winter in France.

“We shall go down by car, Madeleine—the Major and I, and you and the chauffeur. It’ll be great fun, and I expect you’ll be thrilled to see your country again.”

“Yes, madame.”

“I suppose you’ve—you’ve no news?”

“Of my husband? No, madame.”

“I’m sorry. But don’t despair. Remember my cousin, Sir George. And he was reported ‘killed.’ Two and a half years afterwards, Madeleine, he came walking in. . . .”

“Yes, madame.”

When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel, some three weeks later, that they were to go by Poitiers she felt very faint. . . .

Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, just forty-one miles.

“_Et de Poitiers?_ . . . . After we ’ave lef’ Poitiers? . . .”

“Angoulême,” said the chauffeur, thumbing his itinerary. “That’s right. Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep Angoulême. Nex’ day—Barbézieux, Bordeaux. Sleep Bor—— ’Elp!”

He dropped his paper and caught his companion as she swayed. Then he carried her into the saloon and sought for a stewardess. . . .

Later that day he recounted his experience to a friend.

“I arst ’er if she was a good sailor, too,” he concluded aggrievedly.

Four days later, as they were entering Poitiers, a brake-rod snapped. No resultant damage was done, but the car was stopped at a garage that Terry—the chauffeur—might see if an adjustment could be made. By good fortune, it could.

The car was backed over a pit, and Terry got out of his coat and into his overalls. He was a good chauffeur. Where his car was concerned, he fancied his own fingers more than a hireling’s.

The Major got out and went strolling. Lady Joan stayed in the car. Madeleine stood in the garage, translating for Terry.

Half an hour’s work, and the connection was made.

Terry heaved himself out of the pit and called for waste.

The mechanics stared.

“Cotton waste,” said the chauffeur. “Comprenny? Pour wiper the hands.”

Madeleine smiled and asked for a rag.

A mechanic went shuffling. A moment later he returned with a rectangular cardboard box.

“_Voilà_,” he said.

“Wot’s this?” said Terry, staring. “Dog biscuits?”

The mechanic pointed to the label.

Essuyages Aseptisés

“We use nothing else,” he explained. “They are all manner of rags, quite clean and sterilized. This boxful will last a long time.”

The chauffeur asked the price, ripped open the box, and pulled out the first piece of stuff. Madeleine took the box from him and stowed it away in the car.

When she returned, Terry had wiped his hands and was looking curiously at his duster.

“’Ere’s a present from Flanders all right,” he said slowly. “See? That’s where some pore bloke stopped one.”

Madeleine peered at the stuff.

This was the left breast of what had been a man’s shirt. Immediately over the heart there was a rough hole. The cotton thereabouts was all stained to a dull brown, so that the green and grey stripes were indistinguishable. The shoulder was gone, but hanging from the top of the fragment was a strip of quilted linen.

* * * * *

Let me quote from Lady Joan’s letter, dated some five days later and written from St. Jean-de-Luz.

. . . _I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible document. Poor girl! The shock was frightful. As luck would have it, the very next town on our route—a place called Ruffec—was her old home. Her brother was there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she’ll ever come back to me, I haven’t the faintest idea. . . ._

Again let me quote from a letter her ladyship wrote when two months had gone by.

_P.S.—You remember Madeleine? I’ve just had a note from her saying she’s married again! No wonder France is recovering more quickly than England. Most English girls would still be upon slops. However, that’s her affair. But isn’t it just my luck? She was a perfect maid._

Which was a true saying.

* * * * *

Two years later Lacaze alighted at Ruffec from the Paris train.

The man was changed terribly. Five years in the German mines had left their mark. He had been broken down.

His hair was grisled, his broad, square shoulders were bowed, his carriage mean. None would have known the shrunken shambling figure for that of the mighty steeple-jack. His countenance, however, was unmistakable. This was ravaged, too, but the old faint smile still hung about those merciless lips, and the old insolent scorn still smouldered in the big black eyes.

Lacaze pulled his hat over his face and stood waiting till such travellers as had also alighted should have left the platform.

A horn brayed, and the train began to move.

“Good-bye!” cried a voice. “Good-bye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if he remembers Fernand Didier, and say I was sorry I had no time to visit him. Good-bye!”

The train gathered speed and rumbled out of the station.

Lacaze moved towards the gates thoughtfully.

Half an hour later he darkened the creamery’s hatch.

René looked up from his work. He was making a basket.

“Enter, monsieur,” he said. “And sit down, please. My wife will be back in a moment, and then she will serve you.”

Slowly Lacaze came in, looking down on the ground.

“You are married, then?” he said quietly.

The other stared.

“Yes,” he said, “monsieur. Why not?”

“No reason at all,” said Lacaze, smiling. “And how is your wife?”

René returned to his work.

“She is very well, thank you.”

“I am glad of that,” said Lacaze. “Very glad.”

René Dudoy looked up.

“Monsieur’s interest is unusually kind. Would it be indiscreet to ask why?”

Lacaze gave a short laugh.

“I know her,” he said. “She was a friend of mine. But I thought that she married Lacaze—Lacaze, the steeple-jack.”

“She did,” said Dudoy. “But he was killed in the War. And, after, she married me. But, monsieur, tell me your name. If you are a friend of hers, you must have been mine also.”

“I was,” said Lacaze softly, his chin on his chest. “I knew you well.” The other set down his basket and rose to his feet. “We were both at her wedding. You sent her roses, I think. And I sent her—violets.”

“Not violets,” said René. “You must have sent something else. You forget. Lacaze sent her violets.”

In a flash Lacaze had stepped forward and pulled off his hat.

“Your servant,” he breathed, smiling.

Dudoy wrinkled his brow.

“I cannot think who you are,” he said. “Do tell me your name.” The other’s smile faded into a stare. “There are times, you know, when one misses one’s sight terribly.” Lacaze started. “When Madeleine’s here, I can see. We share her beautiful eyes.” He threw back his curly head. “Then, if you offered me sight, I would not take it. My blindness is a bond between us which those who have eyes of their own can never know. But—when she leaves me, then sometimes the old darkness returns—that awful darkness which, when she came to me, Madeleine did away . . . And now, I pray you, monsieur, tell me your name.”

Lacaze turned his head and stared into the sunlit street.

Then—

“I am Fernand Didier,” he said. “And—and I must go, or I shall miss my train.”

He pulled his hat over his eyes and blundered out of the shop.

René cried to him to stay.

“Fernand! Fernand!”

Lacaze took no notice.

Ten minutes later he was clear of the town.

KATHARINE

KATHARINE

Dreamily, Mrs. Festival regarded the ceiling.

“I frequently wonder,” she said, “what possessed me to marry you.”

“My beauty of soul,” said her husband pleasantly. “You were all dazzled.”

“I think,” continued his wife, “it was out of pity. You know. When you see people laughing at someone, and the someone joins in, never dreaming that they’re the object of the mirth, one feels sorry for them.”

Captain Giles Festival swallowed before replying.

Then—

“I know,” he said. “Like when we were dining with the Mascots, and you kept talking about soap.”

Katharine Festival flushed.

The reminiscence was not one which she cherished.

Lady Mascot’s father and soft soap had been mutually constructive.

At length—

“I might have known,” she observed, “that you wouldn’t appreciate it. Gratitude is not among your attributes.”

“If you mean,” said Giles, “that I don’t feel impelled to fall down and worship you for taking my name—in vain, you’re perfectly right. I gave you a blinkin’ good chance, and you blinkin’ well took it.”

Katharine drew in her breath.

“Do you imagine,” she demanded, “that the chance you were kind enough to give me was the only chance I had?”

“If,” said her husband, “I imagined anything, I should imagine you considered it the best. If one can only have one strawberry, one doesn’t deliberately take a bad one, does one? Not even out of pity?”

“No,” said Katharine sweetly. “Only by mistake.”

There was a pregnant silence.

Then—

“Sold,” murmured Giles, “the very deuce of a pup—by Mistake, out of Pity. No flowers, by request.”

“Let me at once admit,” said Katharine coldly, “that I did not select you for your good taste.”

“‘Select’?” cried her husband. “‘Select’?” He laughed wildly. Then he covered his eyes. “Oh, give me strength.”

“I suppose you consider that you selected me.”

“I did. In a weak moment——”

“Are you,” said Katharine shakily, “are you going to say you were blind?”

“I am not,” said Giles. “I was not blind. I was—well—er—just nicely.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” said his wife hotly. “I was blind. I thought I was accepting a gentleman. I find I accepted a——”

“I know,” said Giles mercilessly. “I know, teacher. A foul and loathsome worm.”

“No,” said his wife calmly. “Just an ordinary cad.”

Captain Festival rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Then he extended his arms and, after yawning luxuriously, interlaced his fingers and placed his hands behind his head.

“My dear,” he observed, “be reasonable.” Katharine closed her eyes with an expression of unutterable contempt. “All this, just because I ventured to suggest that, if Beatrice had time to do it, she might take charge of my linen.”

“Have you ever heard of meiosis?” said Mrs. Festival. “It means the opposite of exaggeration.”

“I repeat,” said Giles, “that that was the humble suggestion at which you took offence. I mayn’t have put it in those words, but——”

“You didn’t,” said Katharine. “You put it much more vividly. You said that the condition of your wardrobe was enough to make a beachcomber burst into tears——”

“So it is.”

“—and that, if I hadn’t got the moral courage to order ‘a lazy sweep of a lady’s maid to pull up her rotten socks,’ I could ‘blinkin’ well finance her’ myself. You added that you’d given up a valet, so that I could have more money ‘to blow upon my back,’ and that my interpretation of my marriage vows was funny without being vulgar.”

Her husband swallowed.

“I was referring,” he said doggedly, “to your promise to cherish me.”

“You promised the same.”

“Yes, but I keep it, Kate. I do cherish you. I’m always cherishing you. Only yesterday afternoon—seventeen blinkin’ quid for a hat worth eighteen pence . . . and not a murmur.”

Katharine inspired audibly, raising her eyes to heaven.

“When,” she rejoined, “when you start recounting your virtues, I want to break something. Doesn’t it ever occur to you that that’s my job?”

“Frequently,” said Giles. “But you never do it.”

“You never give me a chance.”

With a supreme effort her husband controlled his voice.

“Look here,” he said fiercely. “Do you think it was—er—decent of me to give you that hat, or not?”

“Oh, you can have the beastly hat,” said Katharine.

“Wouldn’t suit me,” said Giles mournfully. “Do you think——”

“I’ll never wear it,” declared his wife. “Never. I—I hate it.”

“Well, let’s take it back. They might allow us eighteen——”

“And why should I be overcome with gratitude just because——”