Part 17

All that day those of the regiment not required for outposts laboured hard at the new entrenchments on the high, western edge of the ravine--a long, long line of delving men. Ranges were marked out; reserves of ammunition, food and water carried up. The energising source of all this activity, the colonel, laboured also, without haste and without rest. His brain worked quickly, coolly, definite in its decisions. She, his companion, unobtrusively at hand when required for information or material of defence, vanished unnoticed when her presence might become importunate. She quenched her personality, transfused, she felt, her life-force into him as he worked, an emotionless intellect. With his chefs-de-bataillon he elaborated plans of defence; nothing was left to chance; nothing could be misunderstood. Personally he supervised, corrected, the siting of the trenches, the emplacements of the mitrailleuses. In the afternoon he rode over to the colonel of the adjoining regiment, concerted arrangements. From the général de brigade he obtained the promise of a battery in support on the morrow.

But he was uneasy. Patrols sent out had failed to get into touch with the covering cavalry. The distant artillery roll was nearer. There had been one inexplicable burst of fire some miles away to the right. As night fell he ordered the new trenches to be manned with the bulk of his force, leaving outposts and grand'garde on the plateau above the ravine and down the valley. One company only he retained near the château.

That evening he sat again in the salon of his hostess. All was quiet. The dog snored in front of the hearth. At his request the countess seated herself at the piano, played dreamily with bowed head. The soft harmonies that awoke under her fingers seemed only to make the silence musical.

Suddenly a shot re-echoed loud along the valley; another and another followed. There was a burst of rapid, irregular fire, indefinitely prolonged. The colonel rushed to a window, flung it open, listened. The outposts down the valley were being driven in.

His companion had risen, stood by the piano with tense features. There was a loud hurried knock on the door. She ran to open it. A Zouave entered, breathing heavily from swift exertion. Saluting, he handed a message to the colonel. It was from the commander of the grand'garde on the edge of the ravine above. He reported that his advanced posts were in contact with the enemy, were retiring. For one moment the colonel stood by the window, listening to the rapid clatter of the rifles, deciding which was the heavier attack.

He wrote an order to the officer above. The messenger disappeared. The countess was holding out his fez and his revolver. One wild embrace and he sprang out of the room, dashed through the adjoining salons, out into the night.

In the courtyard he found the reserve company assembled, awaiting his orders. He gave them, quickly, succinctly. The company fell into fours, doubled out of the courtyard into the darkness to form a screen across the valley behind which the men above could seek safety. From the widening ravine the rifle fire swelled in intensity, was a continuous loud re-echoing clatter. Above, sharp definite reports rang out, were rapidly multiplied. It was the grand'garde--_feu à volonté_. He glanced to the other wall of the ravine and smiled in a grim satisfaction. His orders were being obeyed. The long line of trenches he knew to be there lay in silence and darkness.

Above him there was one fierce paroxysm of fire and then the reports diminished, sprang from lower levels. He saw quick flashes of light among the trees. Wounded men limped and hobbled past him in the darkness. The outpost was retiring into the valley. A bullet cracked close to him. He turned, suddenly conscious of companionship. The countess was standing at his side, her pale dress luminous in the night. The dog growled angrily in front of her.

"Pauline!" His voice was almost a shriek of alarm for her. "Pauline! For the love of God, come with me--now--there is yet time! I cannot leave you!"

She grasped his hand, as a friend would.

"No, _cher_--I stay--as a pledge for your victorious return!"

The last men of the outpost were running past them. Overhead the bullets cracked viciously, phutting against the walls.

"I implore you! There may be heavy fighting!"

"No, mon ami. I stay." Her voice was quite decided. "I have cellars." She pressed his hand, then, with a quick movement, flung herself into his arms, was one with him for a brief second. He unloosed her embrace.

"Go, then," he said, his voice trembling. "Quickly. God be with you!"

"And with you, my beloved! Take the dog with you--he will tell me where you are." She bent down to the animal, whispered to him, pointed to the colonel. Heavy volleys crashed out of the trees above. She sprang back into the house.

The dog at his heels, the colonel raced after the last of his men. They turned to spit livid spurts of flame at the dark wall of the ravine. In a few moments they were clambering up a steep path through the wood on the other side.

Half an hour later the Germans felt the long line of trenches on the lip of the ravine, attacked, and were heavily repulsed.

* * * * *

At dawn the colonel reconnoitred the situation from his position on the height. In front of him the enemy, abandoning the valley in which lay so many of his dead, had entrenched himself along the opposite edge of the ravine. Vicious little bursts of rifle fire at scattered parties or individuals who hazarded themselves for a moment out of cover betokened the vigilance of both sides, and on both sides the many spadefuls of earth tossed in the air showed that the work of strengthening the positions was proceeding feverishly. So far no artillery had entered into the fray, but at any moment the first shell from one party or the other might come whining across the gulf. To the right of the Zouaves another battalion had established contact, was maintaining itself. To the left, at the head of the ravine, where they joined with the next regiment, a fierce fight was proceeding--attack and counter-attack which finally left the positions unchanged. Far to right and left the crackle of rifle fire swelled and continued. Mingled with it came the rapid detonations of field-guns, their reports ever nearer. The battle was developing all along the line. The colonel received positive orders to maintain himself at all costs, to risk nothing. Upon the maintenance of this thin screen depended the safety of two armies, forming and in motion, perhaps the fate of France.

Through his glasses the colonel gazed into the depths of the ravine, where the white stone château glinted through the dark, thickly surrounding trees. A wisp of smoke ascended from one of the chimneys and he had to be content with that assurance that all was well. A patrol sent out in the first light had failed to reach it. All access to the château was commanded by spurs from the other side of the ravine. But apparently it was unoccupied by the enemy. He thought suddenly of the dog, wondered what had happened to it. In the stress of the night attack he had lost sight of it, forgotten it. Even as he searched his memory it came bounding along the trench towards him, nosed against his leg. There was something fastened to its collar, a letter.

As he read it, all the passion of his ascetic, sun-parched years, awakened by the exquisite charm of that slender pale woman lonely there below him, surged up in him, overmastering, obliterating all else. The eloquent eyes under the auburn hair were vivid to him, spoke to his deepest soul. Her letter was a prose lyric of passion wherein all emotions--longing, tenderness, anxiety, surrender, pride in her lover, even a flash of the doubt born of swiftly-given love--contended. It was revelatory of her inmost self as her speech had never been. She, it seemed, had also waited--waited. Some of the phrases in it--"The burning sacrament of your kiss"--"linked in an instant for eternity"--branded themselves upon his brain. In a whirl of cerebral excitement he tore out a page from his note-book, dashed off a letter not less ardent, not less than hers the ecstasy of a soul that lives at last in the consuming fire of love.

He attached it to the dog's collar, pointed away. The animal sprang over the low parapet, disappeared in the undergrowth below.

An artillery officer came up, reported himself as the observer of the newly arrived battery. He evinced much professional interest in the château, seemed eager to make it the target for his guns. The colonel explained the situation.

All through the multitudinous tasks and responsibilities of the day his soul yearned out to the lonely woman below. To have risked his life in an endeavour to see her would have been more than a joy, it would have been the satisfaction of a need of his being--but his life was pledged to France. To him his duty was a religion with which his love did not conflict, nay both, upon the summit of his life, blended and were one. Yet tempted, he found himself speculating upon the possibility of creeping down at nightfall.

But night saw the intense glare of three German searchlights shoot out of the darkness. A storm of shrapnel burst fiercely over the trenches of the Zouaves. A wild attack of shadowy forms surging up out of the undergrowth beat against the parapet, ebbed back in an inferno of noise from the long line of countless stabs of flame, was hurled into the ravine under the reiterated crashes, the sudden livid flares of shrapnel from the battery behind.

Down below, at the highest window of the château, the countess stood looking out into the night, her lover's letter pressed close against her bosom. High above her flickered and spurted the endless rifle flashes from _his_ trenches, paling the stars above the dark hill. The noise of the conflict, the shouts and cries amid the re-echoing din, was a tribute to his power. She gloried in it, exulted when the attack subsided, withdrew in a clamour of voices past the château to the hill behind.

Descending, she wrote yet another letter to him--a proud pæan of love triumphant. Then suddenly she flung herself, face downward, arms outstretched, across the table in a passion of irrepressible tears. She lay thus a long time, until the heaving of her body ceased and she slept, her cheek upon the letter.

The morning was yet young when she despatched the dog once more upon his mission to her lover. Save for an occasional shot, the opposing trenches were quiet. Stretcher parties were at work in the valley. Waited upon by the ancient Marie--eloquent in her protestations of terror during the night--she breakfasted, counting the minutes until the return of her messenger. Roland arrived, pleased with himself, as his energetic tail testified. Once more with swelling breast and radiant face she read her lover's letter, passionate as the first. In a postscript, it begged her to give no information that might imperil her.

During the day the battle woke again between the trenches at the head of the ravine, continued in fierce spasms hour after hour. In the afternoon she wrote another letter, despatched it and received an answer. She was strangely, exaltedly happy. _He_ was holding firm. No one came to the château. At night she again posted herself at the window to watch the flashes from his trenches.

The third day dawned. She wrote, assuring him of her safety--of much else. The reply duly arrived. A false peace brooded over the little valley. Ceding to an impulse, she went out, tried to get a clearer view of his position, to see--she would not admit to herself her absurd hope. Then, regretting her imprudence, she returned hurriedly.

The grey of afternoon already filled the valley when a loud, imperative knocking upon the great door re-echoed through the house. The countess stood as if turned to stone; her heart seemed to stop. So soon! The threat to her exalted, impassioned life of the past days paralysed her. She could with difficulty cry to Marie to admit.

A German officer entered, a group of soldiers behind him. He saluted with stiff ceremony.

"Madame, I regret you must leave this house at once!" His French was painfully correct.

She faced him, tense.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then, madame, you leave me no alternative but to arrest you as a suspect."

She cried an inarticulate protest. The dog, hitherto standing by her side as though straining at a leash, sprang forward with an angry growl.

The German regarded the menace coolly, without moving a muscle.

"Schönes Tier!" he murmured. Then, turning to his men, he ordered: "Secure it, one of you!"

Thunderously growling, with a puzzled look at his mistress standing like a statue, the dog suffered a cord to be slipped through its collar. The blood surged into the countess's face.

"Monsieur----!" The sense of outrage choked her.

"Madame," he interrupted calmly, "I need scarcely remind you that time presses. You will not, I am sure, constrain us to violence."

She met his eyes, was confronted with inexorable necessity. Her hands twitched.

"You will at least allow me a little time to collect a few clothes and valuables?"

"A little time, madame."

She ran from the room, hearing as a last sound the dog choking as it struggled on the leash. In the hall was Marie, haggard, her old body shaking with excitement. She clutched at her mistress's arm.

"Madame! what is happening?" She lapsed into patois under the stress.

The countess replied also, without noticing it, in the language of her childhood.

"I am arrested. They are letting me fetch some clothes."

The servant suppressed a cry. "Madame!" The old hands trembled upon her. "The colonel!--a note to him--he will come--give it to me!"

"But Marie----" They looked deep down into each other's soul. With a sudden movement of decision the countess ran into an adjoining room, scribbled "_They are taking me. P._" on a piece of paper, thrust it into the old woman's hand. "You are sure, Marie?" she asked wildly, seeking condonation for herself.

"Chère dame!" was the brief, eloquent reply. The old woman disappeared.

The countess ran upstairs to her bedroom, the one word "Delay!--delay!--delay!--delay!" beating in her brain.

Down in the salon the officer gave a few curt commands to his men, ordered the dog to be taken into the yard. Left alone, he strolled round the room examining the pictures, the bibelots, opening the drawers of the secretaire. The minutes passed. The house was in deep silence. He began to get impatient, to wonder if some trick----. But he was sure of the vigilance of his men. A quarter of an hour had elapsed when he heard a sharp little burst of fire from the German trenches above. It was not answered. The valley resumed its unwonted quiet. Exasperated at the delay he began to pace up and down the room, looked at his watch, gave his prisoner yet another five minutes.

Suddenly his eye was caught by a little piece of folded paper on the floor under the piano. He picked it up, opened it. It was a letter that had evidently fallen from the countess's dress when she ran from the room. He read it through, a gleam in his eyes. "So! meine Gräfin!" he murmured, and smiled.

The colonel's passionate outpouring awoke no sympathetic thrill of romance in his breast. The tip of a pink tongue protruding under his fair moustache, his clever blue eyes alight, he turned it over, pondering the signature. From many indications he deduced that the writer was in the trenches on the other side of the ravine, was of commanding rank. Even as he considered it there was a knock at the door.

"Herein!" A German soldier entered and saluted. He brought a message from the trenches above. It explained the little burst of fire, warned him. The officer stood for a moment in thought, then his face lit up with a malicious pleasure. The clever blue eyes saw a sequence of events--the messenger from the countess, whose sudden scramble over the opposing parapet had drawn the German fire, imploring rescue of the distressed; a French commander, intoxicated with love for a beautiful woman, catching fire at the news, issuing wild orders, seeing only his mistress in imminent danger; a reckless avalanche of French soldiery sweeping down the sides of the ravine in a blind quixotic chivalry. He saw----"Famos!" he ejaculated, and laughed softly to himself. He wrote out an answering message, a long one, and handed it to the orderly.

When the countess returned to the room, garbed for departure, she found him seated at the piano, playing gently with a sentimental touch. He rose at her entrance, performed a polite bow.

"Madame, you appear to have a very interesting house," he said in his stiff French; "would you do me the honour of escorting me over it?"

The countess stared at him, dumbfounded. Were her prayers miraculously answered? Delay!--delay!--delay!

"If you wish, monsieur," she answered in a calm, controlled voice. Following the twin thought in her brain, her eyes searched the carpet.

He noticed the glance, drew the letter from his pocket.

"I think you dropped this, madame," he said, handing it to her.

She took it from him. Had he read it? The blonde face that met her questioning gaze was impassive under its smiling courtesy.

For an instant they confronted each other. With a cynical sense of superiority, pleasant to himself, he read her delight at his unexpected request, carefully though she tried to disguise it, read her quickly banished doubt that he had penetrated her scheme, was counter-plotting. He could almost phrase her thankful prayer to God--begging for a continuance of the miracle--that the barbarian had thus delivered himself into the strong hands of her lover. He would surely come! Both as they stood thus silent were calculating the necessary minutes--but his calculation was a double one. With the politest of bows, he opened the door for her.

Together they went through salon after salon, candlelit since he refused to have the shutters opened. In contrast with his previous manner, he displayed not the least haste. Leisurely he lingered over each piece, discussed it, appraised it with real connoisseurship as though he were merely a cultured guest. She loitered willingly, her brain on fire, every sense at strain. The precious moments were accumulating. She found new treasures for his admiration, racked her memory for rare objects that might hold him yet a little longer. He handled them, was enthusiastic, with calm audacity regretted this terrible war which imperilled so many beautiful things. Not once did he depart from his attitude of studied politeness. And while he spoke she was listening--listening--for the sudden shout, the quick close detonations, which should announce her deliverance.

At any moment now! She glanced for the barbarian's weapon, her heart praying for _his_ safety. Out there beyond the shuttered windows he was coming in might at the head of his men. She seemed to see him--running towards her, past the Cupid-crowned fountain. She exulted in the crass absence of suspicion in the hatefully calm enemy at her side.

Out there in the twilight the precincts of the château were being lined with grey-clad soldiers, settling themselves in hidden firing positions. The officer saw them, with experienced second-sight. He smiled, blandly. His prisoner loitered, desperately prolonging his happy preoccupation.

When they returned to the salon it was to find another German officer waiting. Unseen by her, they exchanged a significant look.

There was a sharp, hissing, ugly rush in the air and a loud crash in the courtyard.

* * * * *

By a fortunate chance the colonel was near when the panting Marie scrambled over the parapet to the accompaniment of a dozen rifle bullets. On the point of collapse, the old woman sank into his arms, stammered confused unintelligible words, gave him the scrap of paper. Consigning her to the care of an orderly, he read the message, then raised his head, his fingers crushing the paper. He stood motionless, in intense thought. Slowly his eyes turned, fell upon the old woman shaking more with fright from the narrowly escaped bullets than from her exertions. Then his gaze lifted, fixed itself with frowning concentration upon the clay wall of the trench. He saw only with an inner vision. Around him no one spoke. His jaw set hard.

He raised himself upon the fire-step, gazed over the parapet through his glasses. The opposing lip of the ravine, bare of undergrowth a few yards from the top, lay silent, seemingly deserted. He called up an officer, handed him his glasses, indicated a point, ordered an unceasing watch upon it. Then he sent orderlies for his chefs-de-bataillon and the artillery observation officer in all haste.

They came. The battalion commanders received definite instructions and departed. The artillery officer remained with him. The ancient Marie sat upon the fire-step of the trench, trembling but recovering. She watched the saviour of her mistress with fascinated eyes.

The trench began to fill with soldiers. They crouched in their firing positions, their heads kept carefully below the parapet. Here and there little groups were busy about the machine-guns, fitted the long comb-like strips of cartridges, huddled ready to hoist the weapon into action. The watching officer called, without moving his head.

"Infantry are slipping into the ravine, mon colonel!"

The colonel, stern, impassive, ordered him to report when the movement ceased.

The long trench filled with crouching riflemen lay in a hush of intense expectancy. There was scarce a movement save the quick, involuntary jerks of nerves at strain. The old woman's eyes began to wander, puzzled, seeking comprehension. The wild rush forward she had imagined, would it never come? She waited, breathless, for the inspiring command of the colonel that should wake the tumultuous Hurrah! The watching officer reported:

"Movement has ceased, mon colonel. About two hundred men."

The colonel drew his watch from his pocket, glanced at the dial. Beyond that he made no movement. The old woman's eyes were fixed upon him. Suddenly she noticed that he wore neither sword nor revolver. In a flash she understood. She sprang up like a madwoman, crying at the top of her voice.

"Soldiers! To the rescue! The Boches are taking away my mistress! Now! Save her! Your colonel--her lover--abandons her! _Abandons her!_ Cowards! Cowards! Do you want an old woman to show you the way?"

She leaped in a frenzy upon the fire-step, tearing aside the soldiers to make way for her with cat-like hands. There was a stir along the trench. The soldiers knew her, knew her mistress, their generous hostess. There was a murmur. The colonel stood like a statue carved in stone. His face was that of an ascetic at the supreme moment. In his eyes was the glow of a mystic who beholds a vision.

He turned to the old woman.

"Be quiet!" he commanded. His eyes rather than his voice quelled her. She sank in a passion of hysterical weeping to the floor of the trench. He glanced at his watch again, replaced it, waited. Age-long minutes passed. He turned to the artillery officer.

"Now!" he said. "But be careful! As near to the château as possible without touching it."

The officer shouted an order to the waiting telephonist. Overhead there was the rush of a shell, from far behind the sharp crack of a gun. Leisurely--one--two--three--four--the battery fired. The observation officer looked over the parapet. The colonel mounted by his side, watched also.

One--two--three--four--the battery fired again, repeated itself once more. Down there among the trees was a faint drifting smoke.