Part 5

The soldiers were then bidden to enter, and the search began. Not only was her desk examined and every letter in it opened, but each volume in the book-cases was taken out and looked through; the cushions and upholstery of sofa and chairs were examined; the carpet was pulled up at the edges, and every cranny and crevice, where a paper might be hidden, investigated.

And all that seemingly endless time Madame de X—— sat listening to the wild beating of her heart, thrilled through with terror as one or other of the men approached the little table where the papers they sought lay hidden only by a flimsy embroidered cover!

Had her hair not been white, it would certainly have become so during that period of moral anguish and suspense; but, in recounting it, Madame de X—— affirmed she was scarcely conscious of peril; the strain was so intense she lost sight of its cause and seemed to suffer more physically than mentally. Each movement of the men acted painfully upon her nerves, and though her hands still moved, mechanically plying the needle, her very muscles seemed to stiffen; she felt petrified and unable to move her head or body.

The men did their work in silence, but she could hear their breathing, and now and then a cough or throaty sound that shocked her like the discharge of a gun. During the whole procedure she noted that the superior was secretly watching her; and, fearing he might detect terror in her attitude, she made a mighty effort to change it easily. But she dared not rise from that table, whereon lay the price of her daughter’s life and her own.

When everything had been examined to the chief officer’s satisfaction, he muttered something to his men, and, approaching Madame de X——, laid his hand on _the little table_!

“What is in this, Madame?” he demanded.

“That?” she replied, with a calm that surprised herself; “only embroidery-silks and things of that sort—it is my work-table.”

“There is a drawer in it, _n’est-ce pas_?”

“No, Monsieur, it opens at the top.”

Though this was the crisis of all, Madame de X—— stated that a strange calm of indifference came over her; a conviction that the end had come gave her the recklessness of despair.

The soldiers, at that moment, were busy replacing books in the bookcase; the other officer, at her desk, was putting together certain letters of wholly innocent character he thought might be of service later on.

“I should like to look into the table, if you please,” said the chief.

“_Bien._” She lifted her work-basket and, handing it to him, said: “Will you kindly set that on the other table?”

As he, while examining the basket’s contents, turned to do this, she swept the table-cover with the papers under it into her lap. Scarcely was this done, when he turned; and quickly lifting the lid, she remarked, looking up innocently, with the smile now familiar to him: “Its contents are not likely to interest a soldier, I fear.”

He put his hand in and felt through the silks, then drew it out quickly, pierced by a needle!

“Good!” he said harshly, his face reddening. Then, when the pain passed: “Thank you, Madame. So far we have found nothing incriminating, but nevertheless you must come with me at once to the Military Governor.”

“Go with you!” she gasped, fearing to rise because of those papers in her lap; “but why, Monsieur? For what reason do you arrest a woman of my age, against whom you have no charge?”

He raised his shoulders. “Our reasons, Madame, are not usually given. You must be imprisoned until this matter is fully investigated; that is all I shall say. If you wish to go to your room to dress, you may do so; but I must ask you to be as quick as possible.”

The unyielding dryness of his tone told her argument would be futile, and, in a last desperate effort to save the situation, she gathered up her apron, in which lay embroidery, table-cover, and papers, and left the room in proud silence, determined to benefit by the moment of privacy allowed her, and destroy the papers. The officer, after ordering one of the soldiers to examine the chair she had occupied, said something to the other, who, with him, followed her from the room.

As she mounted the stairs, Madame de X——, to her horror, perceived that the second soldier mounted close in her wake. This she knew meant ruin! It meant that the last possible chance to rid herself of the fatal documents was to be denied her; for, taught by the experience of others, she knew every inch of the apparel she wore or discarded would be minutely examined. Consequently, by some means or other, the soldier must be prevented from accompanying her to her room. A plea for consideration, however, was not likely to be granted, and rebellion would only incur greater severity. She paused and glanced back, thinking frantically what to do. Suddenly an idea came to her.

“Monsieur,” she said, with obvious embarrassment, “this man _cannot_ accompany me! You have examined every inch of my house; you have cross-questioned me and my servants, and read my intimate letters! Everything has been freely yielded to your investigation, therefore I must beg you to recall this man for a little moment. I am an old woman; I have urgent need of a moment of privacy.”

“Good!” was the colourless reply; “He will await you in the corridor and accompany you to your room.”

This being all she could hope for, and more than would have been accorded had her acting been less perfect or the slightest clue discovered, Madame de X——, followed by the soldier, went on to the floor above. There the soldier, looking bored and miserable, awaited her by the door of a small compartment at the end of the corridor.

One moment later those documents which the enemy would have prized—which would have condemned Madame de X—— and her daughter to death—were driven, by a resounding rush of water, into oblivion down the drain-pipe!

But their contents she retained in her memory, and later found means of communicating them to those for whom they were destined—I believe during her imprisonment, but am not sure of this point.

The consequence of her heroic courage was the exoneration—after painful and lengthy imprisonment—of both women, as no proof could be found of their guilt. But it is doubtful whether condemnation to death could have caused more anguish than Madame de X—— suffered during those hours of desperate peril! Among the many great deeds of Belgian heroism few are more deserving of admiration than the brave and clever fidelity of these two daring women to the confidence reposed in them.

VII

Although time passed somewhat less dully than later, the incidents that, during the winter and summer of 1915, relieved our otherwise monotonous days were of such distressing character that they only deepened the gloom. One by one our British friends were carried off to Rühleben, while their wives were left behind without sufficient means—in some cases absolutely destitute, since they could receive nothing from without, and were consequently worse off than the really impoverished Belgians, for whom charity provided. For months at a stretch, this monotony of misery was broken by nothing more encouraging than bad news from the front, and the tragic events at the _Tir National_, where citizens were shot for patriotic deeds, seldom graver than that of Miss Cavell, or the brave Belgian girl Gabrielle Petit, twenty-one years of age. She, however, was given a chance of having her punishment commuted to imprisonment, but declined this favour which had been denied the Englishwoman. The murder of Miss Cavell caused a pervading mood of mourning that seemed unlikely ever to diminish, even in those who did not know her personally. That crime, so pitilessly carried out, in secrecy and under cover of false promises, was perhaps most appalling to those in the vicinity whose hopes were stimulated by misleading assurances, until the post-mortem announcement proved them vain! Although a British subject has referred to the deed as rather a “blunder” than a crime,—she being proven guilty of having assisted young men across the frontier,—the fact that other women, not British, found guilty of the same humane, although forbidden, acts, were yet spared the extreme punishment reserved for spies and the worst of treason, takes all logic from the argument of this apparently prejudiced Irishman. Edith Cavell’s martyrdom impressed us in Brussels, as it must always impress history, not only as shortsighted stupidity—the very determination, secrecy, and haste with which it was perpetrated contradicts such interpretation—but rather as a deliberate and atrocious act of vengeance toward a hated nation!

But other tragedies followed so quickly that this one gradually became lost in the mass of appalling incidents related by relatives of those who suffered, or widely announced in German _affiches_ in order to strike fresh terror to the hearts of a sorrowing and helpless people.

Yet hope lived on; despite the prevailing misery, each gleam of good news that reached us from the front was magnified to a great victory for the Allies, and twenty-four hours sufficed to develop the conviction that a glorious and triumphant peace was about to be proclaimed.

Secret organizations in Belgium occasionally brought us a ray of encouragement, despite the twenty thousand German civilians endeavouring to discover and destroy these sources of information opposed to what was allowed to appear in our papers. But, by dint of passing from mouth to mouth, the news became so distorted or exaggerated that one scarcely knew what to believe.

We all had maps spread over our walls, on which every mile that the British and French advanced was marked with pins bearing little flags of the nations. For how many months—_years_, indeed—we pored over that line as it crept closer and closer to St. Quentin, Cambrai, and other points considered the keys to a rapid and overwhelming victory! I cannot recall them without painful recollection of our many disappointments.

In the spring of 1918 we put those maps out of sight, and ceased reading the communiqués vouchsafed us by a German press.

The most trying element of all, in regard to the front, was the _authentic_ information we received by word of mouth, as early as December 1916, of the taking of Courtrai, St. Quentin, etc., by the Allied armies. The stirring account grew as it passed from one excited recounter to another. It was originally obtained, as stated above, from some unknown but trustworthy source. But later on we came to believe that these stories were, in great part, spread by the Germans in order to weaken and destroy what faith and hope still survived in the country. I heard soldiers, even at this time, express very gloomy views as to their nation’s prospects in the war. Once in a tram, just before the last temporarily successful onslaught of the Germans at Verdun, I heard one, who pretended he was drunk and had possibly been taught the words in French, cry out hysterically: “Our cause is lost! _Nous sommes fichus! Nous sommes fichus!_”

For some reason beyond the comprehension of civil minds the occupying Government appeared bent upon destroying every vestige of hope in Belgian hearts. Invariably on the eve of a German victory, exhilarating rumours of great Allied successes were set forth from unknown sources awakening joy in the prison city which often verged on an outburst of dangerous enthusiasm. Then, as invariably, the blazing blue _affiche_ appeared, announcing an overwhelming defeat of the Allies in the very section where they were understood to have been successful.

The subtle trickery of such tactics might in time have attained its object; certainly there could be no better method of wearying and torturing a people into losing faith. And while it did not succeed with the better classes, it tired and broke the spirit of the suffering poor to such an extent that, even when positive proof of successes reached us, they would not believe; for they had come to the conviction that the Germans were invincible and would never give up an inch of Belgium.

We who had witnessed the easy and rapid advance of the enemy through Belgium and deep into France, cut off as we were from all reliable information, could not, during the first years, form any idea of the vastly differing conditions affecting the Allied armies. As the Germans, opposed only by hastily-mustered, unorganized, and infinitely weaker forces, had swept on so quickly, we looked for like speed from the Allies when once their strength was massed and ready. That the enemy had had time to root himself in and fortify his positions almost invulnerably, while England was forming an army of untrained men, and France was preparing hers, we did not comprehend until later. Few details reached us from the outer world, although during the first year a London _Times_ was occasionally smuggled in. A _Times_! No one outside can realize what that meant to us! The poor sheet, usually more than a week old, passed surreptitiously from hand to hand, was reduced to a flimsy rag before reaching its last reader! Enormous prices were paid for it. The members of the Anglo-American club paid a hundred francs for one copy which contained nothing of importance, but was nevertheless of inestimable value to us as a voice from friendly regions whence, week by week, we were further cut off. But soon these rare and precious journals appeared no more; and the apparently innocent newsvendors who shouted aloud: “_La Belgique!_”—and whispered, when someone known to be trustworthy passed: “_Le Teems, Monsieur?_”—no longer added the zest of dangerous intrigue to our saunterings through the dull streets.

But tales of heroic deeds done by the Belgians afforded a certain interest and satisfaction; tales only whispered to those who could be trusted not to repeat them. And many were performed by the Flemish, whom the Germans boasted they had won to their side. One may be given to illustrate the real sentiments of these people, so falsely represented in the German accounts. At Bruges, where the Flemish element predominates, an old man, for many years foreman in the unloading, etc., of canal boats, approached my friend the steel manufacturer in that town, gruffly complained that the Allies were making a mistake in bombarding the railroads from aeroplanes, since the Germans were shipping their ammunition and so forth exclusively by the canal, and asked the manufacturer if there was no means of sending them word to this effect. The latter, not wishing to betray himself, but meaning to attempt it, said he knew of no such means. Whereupon the old Fleming withdrew, muttering discontentedly, with bowed head and great bushy brows knitted over a pair of clever dark eyes, meditating mischief.

A few hours later, German officers came in hot haste to the manufacturer, and, in a frenzy of rage and excitement, made him accompany them to the canal. There a great crowd had gathered about the old foreman, who was under arrest, and threatened with death. He appeared stupidly indifferent to the menaces and curses heaped upon him by the infuriated Teutons, merely repeating over and over:

“I could not help it!—An accident!—I did my best!”

For some moments my friend, dazed by the reigning confusion, was unable to understand what it was all about, until, led by an officer to the canal bank, he saw the cause of their rage. He was so much affected by amusement mingling with a deeper emotion that a lump rose to his throat, and he could not speak.

The old foreman, as though by accident, had managed to let drop the hook of his great iron crane just as a boat, carrying a vast German war-cargo, was passing by. It caught the boat so firmly by the nose that, in his pretended efforts to free it, he not only overturned the bulky vessel, but dragged down his crane, which, with the boat, sank into the canal, blocking it against all navigation for nearly five weeks! He did this at the risk of his life, and only his able pretence of stupidity, and the manufacturer’s representation that he was in his dotage, won for him a term of imprisonment instead of the extreme penalty.

The brave passage of young Belgians over the frontier to join their army caused the barriers of our prison to be more closely guarded. Those who still ventured to cross—and there were many even after the deadly electric wires had been installed!—did so with scarcely a chance for their lives. Boys as young as seventeen ran the gauntlet of that “death-zone,” and many passed it in safety after incredible endurance and suffering.

A Belgian woman, whose two sons made a daring attempt to pass, told us their experience, related to her in part by one of their companions, obliged by illness to return; and in part by the German officer who coldly informed her of their fate.

After skulking for four days and nights under cover of a wood in the Campine, devoid of food, save what little they carried in their pockets, and exposed to incessant autumn rains, they at last reached a canal lying between them and Dutch territory. Having no other means of crossing, they plunged at night into the black water, and struck out for the opposite shore.

The mother, not hearing of their capture, which would have been widely published, concluded, after several days, that they had got over safely. But one morning she was startled by the visit of a German sub-officer who came to announce that one of her sons had been shot while swimming the canal.

As she pretended ignorance of his intention to cross, the information was considered sufficient punishment, especially when, several days later, the tidings of her other son’s death in like manner was conveyed to her by the same pitiless messenger.

This was the most tragic incident of the sort I heard first-hand at that time; but tales as sad, or others picturing the glorious success of such young heroes, were constantly circulating.

Later, when the electric wires and underground mines were installed, the matter was differently managed. By a carefully-organized plan, the boys were able to pass over in companies of twenty, thirty, and more at a time, each one contributing his share to the large bribe by which the sentinels were bought off.

Once, when, before this rare privilege was wholly withdrawn, my companion was permitted to go by motor into Holland on business, he was surprised to meet, in the little Dutch town of Nispen, a Belgian acquaintance whom he believed to be in Brussels. He and thirty companions had been safely conducted over the frontier the night before! Three thousand one hundred francs, one hundred from each member of the party, had secured them this easy passage. The youths, now free and eager for revenge, were glad to regain liberty at so small a price, and be able to join their colours. While he was relating this in the street, he noticed a crowd gathered about two German soldiers, unresistingly arrested by the Dutch police.

The young Belgian, on seeing them, uttered an exclamation: “_Mon Dieu!_” he said. “Those are our sentinels!—the men who led us over last night!” They hastened to the group, and the soldiers, recognizing him, grinned and nodded in a friendly manner.

“What are you doing here?” he asked them genially, for the men were evidently good-natured creatures, not reared in the army, whose military sympathies were apparently no deeper than their uniforms.

“Got tired of it over there!” returned one, still smiling. “We are not so free as you are, but we can wait for that more comfortably here than in Belgium!”

During the summer of 1916 the inhabitants of Brussels, weary of suffering and the “hope deferred which maketh the heart sick,” began a rather forced effort to brighten their existence. When, after a bitterly gloomy winter, the first peep of green became visible in the Bois, it seemed as though a tremor of new life passed through the city. War, with its ever-recurring calamities and disappointments, had come to be looked on as an unalterable affliction, which must be endured with patience until some unforeseen and unimaginable event should bring it to an end. Confidence in early and rapid victory had gradually given place to a less definite though stubborn belief in final triumph; but now even this was less openly expressed. War, in fact, became a tacitly avoided subject of conversation. The tedious communiqués, giving only such details as the Government thought fit to present, were no longer discussed, even by bereaved and serious folk whose thoughts were ever at the front. We who, as yet, were spared the crape worn by so many, began to frequent tennis and golf clubs, where, while healthfully exercising on the courts, or “chasing a pill through a pasture”—as the Irishman defined golf!—we tried to forget that the air we breathed came to us over acres of death.

The Bois became alive again with children and pleasure-seeking couples; and although there were no horses to drive or ride, boats were launched, as of old, on the beautiful lake surrounding an island café, which reopened its doors to serve, not the dainty repasts of former days,—edibles were far too dear!—but tea and coffee of sorts, while procurable, and a light home-made beer. One lump of sugar was allowed to each cup, and no appeal or bribe could secure more. But in a short time the place was crowded, not only by Belgians, but German soldiers who mingled freely with them, seeking relief from the dull routine of their days of rest.

One of the touching sights of this little island retreat was that of these weary, battle-soiled men, to whose clothes still clung the mud and grime of the trenches, delightedly visiting the dovecot, where, for ten centimes, they procured grain to feed the pigeons. These pure white birds, emblems of peace and beauty, would settle on their hands, shoulders, and heads; and through their snowy plumage the men’s gruesome, green-grey uniforms appeared like the thought of an evil mind, marring the spiritual accord between God and man.

This reawakening of the people was a natural reaction—the demand of life for its own rights. As with individuals, sorrow’s tedium had evoked in the entire occupied country a certain helpless resignation to circumstances that after two years’ patient endurance and discouragement offered no promise of change. Oppression and deprivation had become permanent elements of existence. Tragedies even failed to impress us so deeply as of yore; incidents of heart-breaking pathos no longer brought tears to the eyes of those who could still dress warmly in winter, and indulge adequately, if not luxuriously, in the high-priced food. All had made such sacrifices for the poorer classes as each considered possible without serious menace to himself. Many had given the last centime they could spare, others substantial donations which they probably did not miss.

Nevertheless, evidences of distressing want increased, more especially among those too proud to ask alms, who, before the war, had been comfortably off.

During that summer and the following winter these once well-to-do and industrious citizens swelled the long lines of hunger-driven, ill-clad beings who, in rain, snow, or sunshine, stood for hours outside soup-kitchens to obtain the loaf of bread and jug of hot broth provided by charity. I think no visible sign of the country’s calamity was more painfully impressive than the sight of those silent, patient files of heterogeneous humanity, extending at certain hours along whole blocks of the city’s streets. Chiefly were they eloquent during the early dusk of winter, when, exposed to the blast of cold winds, to sleety rain, or penetrating fog, refined men and women, old and young, stood shivering side by side with the lowest inhabitants of rue Haute!