Part 15

And I have heard a few stories of others. Here is one told me by a French officer, one Colonel Girault. The scene was a road bridge on the outskirts of the zone of the armies. His car had broken down hopelessly, and with much profane language he swung to the bridge-head. The sentry saluted. He was an elderly Territorial with a ragged pair of canvas trousers and a ragged old blue uniform coat and a battered kepi and an ancient rifle. A scarecrow of a sentry, such as were seen on all the roads of France.

"How far is it to the village?"

"Two kilometres, _mon Colonel_."

There was something familiar in the voice and in the dark, humorous eyes.

"Say, _mon vieux_, what is your name?" asked Colonel Girault.

"Gaston de Nérac, _mon Colonel_."

"_Connais pas_," murmured the Colonel, turning away.

"Exalted rank makes Gigi Girault forget the lessons of humility he learned in the Café Delphine."

Colonel Girault stood with mouth agape. Then he laughed and threw himself into the arms of the dilapidated sentry.

"_Mon Dieu_! It is true. It is Paragot!"

Then afterwards: "And what can I do for you, _mon vieux_?"

"Nothing," said Paragot. "The _bon Dieu_ has done everything. He has allowed me to be a soldier of France in my old age."

And Colonel Girault told me that he asked for news of the little Asticot--a painter who ought by now to be famous. Paragot replied:

"He is over there, killing Boches for his old master."

Do you remember Paul Savelli, the Fortunate Youth? He lived to see his dream of a great, awakened England come true. He fell leading his men on a glorious day. His Princess wears on her nurse's uniform the Victoria Cross which he had earned in that last heroic charge, but did not live to wear. And she walks serene and gracious, teaching proud women how to mourn.

What of Quixtus? He sacrificed his leisure to the task of sitting in a dim room of the Foreign Office for ten hours a day in front of masses of German publications, and scheduling with his scientific method and accuracy the German lies. Clementina saw him only on Sundays. She turned her beautiful house on the river into a maternity home for soldiers' wives. Tommy, the graceless, when last home on leave, said that she was capable of murdering the mothers so as to collar all the babies for herself. And Clementina smiled as though acknowledging a compliment. "Once every few years you are quite intelligent, Tommy," she replied.

I have heard, too, that Simon, who jested so with life, and Lola of the maimed face, went out to a Serbian hospital, and together won through the horror of the retreat. They are still out there, sharing in Serbia's victory, and the work of Serbia's reconstruction.

In the early days of the war, in Regent Street, I was vehemently accosted by a little man wearing the uniform of a French captain. He had bright eyes, and a clean shaven chin which for the moment perplexed me, and a swaggering moustache.

"Just over for a few hours to see the wife and little Jean."

"But," said I, "what are you doing in this kit? You went out as a broken-down Territorial."

"_Mon cher ami_," he cried, straddling across the pavement to the obstruction of traffic, and regarding me mirthfully, "it is the greatest farce on the world. Imagine me! I, a broken-down Territorial, as you call me, bearded a lion of a General of Division in his den--and I came out a Captain. Come into the Café Royal and I'll tell you all about it."

His story I cannot set down here, but it is not the least amazing of the joyous adventures of my friend Aristide Pujol.

What Doggie and Jeanne did in the war, my gentle readers know. Their first child was born on the glorious morning of November 11, 1918, amid the pealing of bells and shouts of rejoicing. When Doggie crept into the Sacred Room of Wonderment, he found the babe wrapped up in the Union Jack and the Tricolour. "There's only one name for him," whispered Jeanne with streaming eyes, "Victor!"

To leave fantasy for the brutal fact. You may say these friends of mine are but shadows. It is true. But shadows are not cast by nothingness. These friends must live substantially and corporeally, although in the flesh I have never met them. Some strange and unguessed sun has cast their shadows across my path. I _know_ that somewhere or the other they have their actual habitation, and I know that they have done the things I have above recounted. These shadows of things unseen are real. In fable lies essential truth. These shadows that now pass quivering before my eyes have behind them great, pulsating embodiments of men and women, in England and France, who have given up their lives to the great work which is to cleanse the foulness of the Central Empires of Europe, regenerate humanity, and bring Freedom to God's beautiful earth.

THE END

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR

IDOLS JAFFERY VIVIETTE SEPTIMUS DERELICTS THE USURPER STELLA MARIS WHERE LOVE IS THE ROUGH ROAD THE RED PLANET THE WHITE DOVE SIMON THE JESTER A STUDY IN SHADOWS A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY THE WONDERFUL YEAR THE FORTUNATE YOUTH THE BELOVED VAGABOND AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA THE GLORY OF CLEMENTINA THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE THE JOYOUS ADVENTURES OF ARISTIDE PUJOL