Part 2

At that moment the French mechanic, who had lighted his cigarette and now only wanted to be done with the job, put his lever over, and set the thrasher buzzing again. As if spell-bound, old Vanderlynden gave one leap and regained his place on the stack. The Belgians fell to at their several jobs. The corn flew, the wheels whizzed, the grain rattled in the hopper, the straw swished in long swathes beneath the rakes. Dormer and the Major were left standing, idle and forgotten, with their War, while the real business of the farm went steadily forward, only a little hastened because the thrasher had to be at Watten next day.

They walked back to the car, in a black frame of mind. Neither spoke, from war habit of not mentioning the omnipresent perversity of things. But Madeleine Vanderlynden’s departure from the farm, coming after the wording of the claim, was ominous indeed.

Travelling by motor has many disadvantages, but against all these it has one crowning advantage: to those who are weary and overspent, it provides more immediately and completely than any other physical sensation the feeling of escape. What magic lies behind that word! To get into the car and go, no matter whither, and to leave at any rate one incomprehensible muddle behind him: that was the illusion while the chauffeur was starting.

No farther off than the gate of the pasture, swaying at slowest speed over the unevenness of the entry, the car stopped. A motor-cyclist slithered up beside it, saluted the A.P.M. and produced one of those scores of messages that fluttered about just beyond the end of the field telephone. Dormer might have passed unknown, but the A.P.M. was unmistakable. Having handed over the flimsy envelope, the pocket Hermes threw his leg over the saddle of the gibbering machine that carried him, and was away up the lane and out on to the _pavé_ road, out of sight before the A.P.M. could get out the words “No answer.”

The A.P.M. sat frowning at the pink Army message form. The chauffeur sat frowning, one hand on the wheel, his foot keeping the engine going by light continual touches on the accelerator, his face screwed round to catch the order to proceed. The Sergeant of police sat perfectly still and impassive, looking before him, the sunlight glinting on the tiny fair hairs of his clipped moustache. The cyclist had gone, the chauffeur wanted to go, and, after a moment, quietly slipped into first gear and let the car gently gather way. The policeman did not have to want. He had simply to sit still and his morning would pass as his other mornings did, in passively guarding law and order in the organization of the British Armies in France and Flanders. It was not until the car was already moving at more than walking pace that the A.P.M. spoke, and Dormer got the queerest sensation from the sequence of such small events. For the first time it seemed to him that the A.P.M. was not in possession of the initiative. It was these private soldiers, waiting, coming and going, that forced him to give an order. The impression lasted only a moment, but it was disturbing. Decidedly, Dormer felt, he was not well, having such notions. Then he had no more time to think, for the A.P.M. was holding out the pink wire for him to read. He read:

“Corps requires signed statement of withdrawn claim.” The illusion of escape was gone. The botheration was not behind, it was ahead of them.

“No use saying she isn’t there. We shall have to concoct something.” He was obviously waiting for Dormer to suggest.

“I think, sir, we might go back to Blanquart, and find out the girl’s whereabouts. The Maire will be gone by now!”

“Thank goodness. To Hondebecq Mairie.” The car flew from second to top speed.

Back at the Grand’ Place of the village, the car stopped, the chauffeur folded his hands, at the order to wait, the A.P.M. and Dormer entered the Estaminet. It was empty, as Dormer had foreseen. The Maire and his Secretary were not people who had time to waste, and were both gone about their jobs--the Maire to his farm, the clerk to his school, the classes of which were plainly audible through the wall, grinding out some lesson by heart, in unison, like some gigantic gramophone with a perpetual spring. It was the hour at which all France prepares for its substantial meal.

Outside, the Grand’ Place was empty, save for the sunshine, not here an enemy, as farther south, but the kindly friend that visits the coasts of the North Sea all too rarely, wasting its pale and tepid gold on the worn stones, on the green-shuttered, biscuit-coloured façades of substantial two-storied houses, with steep roofs and tall chimneys, behind which protruded the summits of ancient Holland elms. For a long while there was no movement, save the flutter of a straw caught in the cobbles. The A.P.M. fidgeted. There was no sound but the classes next door, the wind in the street, the faint tremor of the window-panes, in response to some distant inaudible shelling.

“You wouldn’t think there was a war going on within twenty miles?”

“Twenty kilometres, sir!”

“Is it possible? Are we going to wait all day, Dormer?”

“No, sir, only a moment; the people of the house can’t be far off, but the door behind the bar is locked. I don’t want to go into the school myself, Blanquart won’t like it, and one wants to keep on the right side of him.”

“Why won’t he like it? He’ll have to.”

“The children get out of hand, sir, at the sight of a uniform. I’ve noticed it when I’ve been billeting.”

“Do they?”

“Yes, sir; it’s all fun to them still.”

“Is it?” The A.P.M. grimaced and began reading the signs over the little shops: “_Charcuterie_--what’s that?”

“Baked-meat shop. Pork-butcher’s we should call it, sir!”

“_Quincaillerie._”

“Hardware!”

“Who’s this, coming across the square?”

“Belgian refugee, sir!”

Dormer had no doubt about it. The heavy round-shouldered figure, the mouth hanging loosely open, the bundle carried under the arm, the clumsy boots, the clothes apparently suspended round the waist by a string. Her story was written all over her: turned out of some Walloon or Flemish farm or town, at the approach of the Germans--tramping along a road with a retreating army all mixed up with a nation on the move, she had lost home, parents, occupation, all in a few hours, and was glad to get board and bed and any odd job that she could do.

“Is this the sort of person we have to interview?”

“Oh no, sir. Different type!”

The woman showed some mild interest at the sight of the car, and exchanged banter in pidgin English with the chauffeur and policeman. The invitation from the latter “promenade,” and the smiling, flattered refusal “promenade no bon!” could be heard. Then she entered and stood before them.

“_Bonjour_, offizer, what you want?”

“Will you kindly tell the Maire’s Secretary one waits to see him.”

“You want billets?” in English. “Billets na poo!”

“No!” Dormer was always piqued when his French was disregarded or misunderstood. “We want M. Blanquart!”

“All right.” She returned with him in a moment.

“M. Blanquart, we have been to the farm and seen Vanderlynden. He’s very busy, and we didn’t get much out of him, but we gather his daughter has left home. Do you know her address?”

A look of incredulity visited the face of the schoolmaster. He pointed across the square. “There. She has taken the ‘Lion of Flanders.’ She gives lunch to officers!”

When this was conveyed to the A.P.M. he was considerably annoyed. “Why couldn’t that old fool Vander what’s-his-name say so?”

Blanquart understood perfectly, not only the words, but the feeling. “Ah, Monsieur, there you have the peasant. I have lived among them all my life. I am not of them, I am from St. Omer, but I know them well. They are like that. They are thrashing. They are sowing. They cannot attend to anything else, even if it be their own business. You and I shall be treated like the weather, something to be used or avoided....”

But the A.P.M. had stepped out of the Estaminet de la Mairie. Dormer lingered, just sufficiently to say:

“We are much obliged, M. Blanquart, we will attend to the affair.” For he had been brought up to behave as a little gentleman and knew that politeness cost nothing and that he might require the Secretary of the Mairie again.

Outside, the chauffeur was busy underneath the car, the policeman stood beside it, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, face expressing absolutely nothing. In a few strides Dormer caught up to the A.P.M.

“This lady speaks good English, sir. No doubt you will conduct the inquiry yourself?”

“I hope so, if we really have found the person at last. We’ve wasted nearly the whole morning.”

Dormer was relieved; his mind, always inclined to run a little in advance, had already arrived at the point at which some one would have to ask this woman:

“Are you the victim of this shocking crime?” He didn’t want to do it, for he felt that it was the A.P.M.’s business.

The two officers entered the Café-Restaurant of the “Lion of Flanders.” The whole of the ground floor, a long, low room looking out into the Grand’ Place, had been cleared and set with little tables. Round the desk from which the Patronne supervised the business, one or two officers from neighbouring billets were drinking mixed vermouth. The air was redolent of preparation, and it was only because they remained standing that the A.P.M. and Dormer attracted attention. Finally, a rough middle-aged woman in an apron asked what she could do for these gentlemen. Feeling the subject to be increasingly delicate, Dormer ordered two mixed vermouths and then asked if they might speak to Mademoiselle Vanderlynden upon business. The drinks were served, and behind them came the person required. No sooner had she come and inquired what was wanted, than Dormer wished to goodness she had not. He realized more than ever how difficult it would be to say to such a person, “Are you the victim of the unmentionable crime?” But there she stood, quite good looking, imperturbable, a little impatient perhaps, obviously wanting to know without delay why she had been sent for in the middle of a busy morning. This was comforting in a sense; it showed there was something wrong with the whole atrocious story. On the other hand it was awkward, one had to go on and explain. So he pulled out the blue printed claim: the A.P.M. in spite of what had been said, left it to him.

“It is about this claim of your father’s.”

She took it, scrutinized it a moment, and handed it back:

“Ah, that.” She was not helpful.

“You are of course familiar with the whole story?”

“Yes, I remember it all.”

The A.P.M. was listening attentively, impressed by her glib, adequate English, and even more so by her personality. Dormer, on the other hand, was occupied with his own feelings.

“There is some mistake, is there not?”

“No, there is no mistake.”

“The Major has come to see the--er--the damage!”

“I shall be pleased to go with you to the farm, after lunch.”

“That’s a jolly good idea,” the A.P.M. broke in. “We’ll have lunch here, and go and look at the damage afterwards.”

“Very good. Will you take a chair, sir?” and she was gone.

“You see, it wasn’t what you thought,” the A.P.M. went on, finishing his drink at a gulp, and making Dormer feel, for the twentieth time, what a grossly unfair War it was.

The lunch was long, far more of the Flemish midday dinner than the French déjeuner. The A.P.M. took the lot, commented freely, enjoyed himself immensely. There were _hors d’œuvres_ (sardines, beans in oil, some sort of sausage, a kind of horse-radish, “Wonder where the devil she gets ’em?” said the A.P.M.), soup (ordinary, but enlivened by parsley and bits or toast fried in fat and something, third cousin to a piece of garlic, “scrumptious”), veal and spinach (very good, but “no fish, pity!”). In a moment, Mademoiselle Vanderlynden stood over them. “I am sorry, we have only sardines, they will not let the fish come by train!” Chicken and salad (“Excellent. Ah, they understand oil, the French”), little biscuits, coffee that dripped through a strainer into glasses, rum (“That’s English, I bet!”), and Dormer, shy in such matters, and without social code, began wondering whether he could offer to pay.

He had learned during bitter years, one rule: “Always treat an A.P.M. if you can!” This had not been his preoccupation during the meal. He had been haunted by a tag of verse--from the “Ingoldsby Legends” which he certainly hadn’t read for twenty years. He was not one to read “poetry.” But neither had he a regular soldier’s trained indifference. He knew where it was going to end, this quest on which they were engaged. Some poor brute who had volunteered to come to this blessed country to fight the Germans, would be hauled out of some ghastly apology for a “rest” camp--if he were lucky--more likely out of some dug-out or cellar, or even from Hospital--placed under arrest--frightened dumb, if by any chance he had any speech in him, and finally tried by a court to whom he was a “Tommy” (the sort of person who enlisted in the regular army because he was out of work), and sentenced to some penalty. And here was the A.P.M. eating and drinking with gusto. It reminded Dormer of:

Send for Trefooze, and Lieutenant Tregooze, Send for Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues. How much must I fork out, my trump, For the whole first floor of the Magpie and Stump?

the rhyme of the drunken swells who couldn’t even keep awake to see a man hanged. It was, however, the ideal state of mind for making war.

The A.P.M. was saying to Mademoiselle Vanderlynden: “The bill please, Madam,” and when he got it, “By Gad, did we drink all that? Well, I don’t grudge it.”

So he was going to pay. The room was emptying now, there were no troops in the village, and most of the officers lunching there (with shy propitiatory looks toward the A.P.M.) had some way to ride to get back to their units. Here was Mademoiselle ready to go and show them the damage. She wore no hat, but her clothes were good of their kind and she carried the day’s takings clasped to her breast, in a solid little leather dolly-bag, far from new. The A.P.M. allowed her the rare privilege of a lift in the car. They went back over the same road that the two officers had followed in the morning. Once more Dormer had his queer feelings. There was something wrong about this. Three times over the same road and nothing done. As they turned into the by-road, Mademoiselle Vanderlynden held up her hand. “Stop here, please!”

They were at the corner of the big pasture before the house. There was an ordinary hedge, like an English one, thickened at this angle into a tiny copse, with a dozen young poplars. Mademoiselle soon found a gap in the fence and led them through, remarking, “The troops made this short cut!”

They found themselves in Vanderlynden’s pasture, like hundreds of others over a hundred miles of country. There were no troops in it at the moment, but it had the air of being continuously occupied. In long regular lines the grass had been trampled away. Posts and wire, and a great bank of manure marked the site of horse-lines. Nearer the house, tents had been set up from time to time, and circles, dotted with peg and post holes, appeared half obliterated. At the corners of the field were latrines, and at one spot the cookers had blackened everything.

“Billets for the troops!” reflected Dormer, to whom the idea of lodging in the open had never ceased to be a thoroughly bad joke. “Stables for horses, stables for men!” Obviously enough the machinery of War had been here in full swing. Dormer (a man of no imagination) could almost see before him the khaki-clad figures, the sullen mules, the primitive vehicles filing into the place, tarrying ever so briefly and filing out again to be destroyed. But Mademoiselle Vanderlynden was occupied with the matter in hand, and led to the other side of the coppice, where there had been built by some previous generation of pious Vanderlyndens a little shrine. It was perhaps eight feet high, six feet thick, and had its glazed recess towards the main road. But the glazing was all broken, the altar torn down, and all those small wax or plaster figures or flowers, vases, and other objects of the trade in “votive offerings” and _objets de piété_ which a Vanderlynden would revere so much more because he bought them at a _fournitures ecclésiastiques_, rather than made them with his own hands, were missing. Army wire had been used to fasten up the gaping aperture.

“There you are,” said Mademoiselle. She added, as if there might be some doubt as to ownership: “You can see that it is ours. Here is our name, not our proprietors!”

Sure enough, on a flat plaster panel was a partially effaced inscription: “Marie Bienheureuse--prie pour--de Benoit Vanderl--femme Marthe--Juin 187----”

The A.P.M. lighted a cigar, and surveyed the ruins. He was feeling extremely well, and was able to take a detached unofficial attitude. “Oh, so that’s the Virgin, is it?”

“No. That is the place for the image. The image is broken, as I told you, and we removed the pieces.”

“Very good. Then I understand you claim a thousand francs for the damage to the brick-work and the--er--altar furniture which was--ah, broken--it seems too much, you know!”

“Perhaps, sir, you are not well ack-vainted with the price of building materials!” (Ah, thought Dormer, she speaks pretty good English, but that word did her.)

“Oh, I think so, I’m a bit of a farmer myself, you know. I have a place in Hampshire, where I breed cattle.”

Mademoiselle’s voice seemed to rise and harden:

“Yes, sir; but if you are rich, that is not a reason that you should deny justice to us, who are poor. I do not know if I can get this altar repaired, and even if I can there is also the question of the _effraction_----”

“The what?”

“Legal damages for breaking in--trespass, sir,” put in Dormer, alarmed by the use of French. He could see she was getting annoyed, and wished the A.P.M., the lunch, the claim, the farm and the War, all the blessed caboodle, were with the devil.

“Oh, I see.”

“Et puis, and then there are _dédommagements_--what would you say if I were to knock down your Mother’s tomb?”

“What’s that. Oh, I can’t say, I’m sure. I really can’t go into all this. Captain Dormer, there is obviously no arrest to be made. It is purely a claim for compensation. I will leave it to you. I must be getting back. _Comprenez_, Mademoiselle, this officer will hear what you have to say and will settle the whole matter with you. Famous lunch you gave us. Au revoir. If you care for a game of bridge this evening, Dormer, come round to B Mess!”

Dormer took out his field notebook and conducted the inquiry partly in English, partly in French.

They sat in the cavernous old tiled kitchen, half-filled with the stove and its stupefying heat, half with the table, scrubbed until the grain of the wood stood out in ribs.

Mademoiselle Vanderlynden had dismissed the A.P.M. from her mind with the remark that he was a droll type, and gave Dormer her full attention, rather as if he had been a dull boy in the lowest class, and she his teacher.

“When did this occur?”

“Why, in April. It was wet, or he would not have done it!”

“Did you see it done?”

“Yes. I even tried to stop it!”

“Where were you?”

“Why naturally I was at that hole in the fence. One cannot always hire a boy to keep the cattle from straying.”

“Well?”

“Well, then the troops came in. They were not pretty to see!”

“What troops were they?”

She turned over a dirty dog-eared memorandum book.

“469 Trench Mortar Battery.”

“So they had had a bad time?”

“One gathered that. They were very few, and some of their material was missing. At the last came this man with his two mules. One was sick, one was wounded. Most of the men, as soon as they had put up their animals, fell down and slept, but this one kept walking about. It was almost dark and it was beginning to rain. I asked him what he wanted.”

“What did he say?”

“‘To Hell with the Pope!’”

The shibboleth sounded so queer on her lips that Dormer glanced at her face. It was blank. She had merely memorized the words in case they might be of use to her. She went on:

“He did not like the images on the altar! Then he began to break the glass, and pull down the woodwork. One saw what he wanted. It was shelter for his mules.”

“You cautioned him that he was doing wrong?”

“I believe you. I even held him by the arm.”

“That was wrong of you, Mademoiselle. You should have informed his officer.”

“Oh, you must understand that his officer was asleep on the kitchen floor. But so asleep. He lay where he had fallen, he had not let go the mug from which he drank his whisky. So much--(she held up four graphic fingers)--ah, but whisky you know!”

“I see. You were unable to report to the officer in charge of the party. But still, you should never touch a soldier. He might do you an injury, and then, at a court of inquiry, it would be said against you that you laid hands on him.”

“Oh, you understand, one is not afraid, one has seen so many soldiers these years. And as for the court of inquiry, we have had four here, about various matters. They all ended in nothing.”

“Well, well, you endeavoured to prevent the damage, and being unable to report to the proper authority, you made your claim for damage in due course. But when the officer woke up, you informed him that you had done so?”

“Why necessarily, since we had the Maire to make a _procès-verbal_!”

“So I hear, from the Maire himself. But apparently the Maire did not do so, for the procès-verbal is not included with the other papers.”

“No, the Maire was prevented by the troops. (A grim smile broke for a moment the calculated business indifference on the face of one who excluded emotion, because it was a bad way of obtaining money.) Oh, la-la! There was a _contretemps_!”

“Do you mind telling me what occurred?” She seemed to regret that brief smile, and apologized to herself.

“All the same, it was shameful. Our Maire is no better than any other, but he is our Maire. One ought to respect those in power, ought not one, sir?”

“In what way were the troops lacking in respect?”

“They sang. They sang--_casse-tête_--enough to split your head, all the way to the village!”

“Oh, they were on the move, were they?”

“It was pitiable, I assure you, sir, it was shameful to see. _Ces pauvres êtres._ They hardly had any sleep. Only a few hours. Then it seems the Bosche made a counter-attack, and paff! here comes a motor-cyclist, and they were obliged to wake up and fall in. Some of them could only stand up with difficulty. But at length, they were ready; then the Maire came. We had sent for him _d’urgence_, when we saw the troops were going, because you can’t make a _procès-verbal_ of a person who is no longer there!”

“No, quite right. But why did they sing?”

“Ah, _ça tombait d’accord_. Just as the officer gives the word, the Maire arrives. We had informed him it was a crime of violence, and he had taken it very serious. He is old, our Maire. He had put on his--_écharpe_.”

“What is that?”

She made a vivid gesture with her hands.

“It goes so! It is tricolour. It is the Maire’s official dress!”

“Ah, his official scarf!”

“That is it. Also, he had mounted his hat!”

“How did he do that?”

“The usual way. But it was a long hat, a hat of _grande tenue_--like a pot of confiture.”

“Mademoiselle, this will not do. I cannot settle this matter here and now, I must pass on all the papers to my superior officer, who will place them with the proper authority. They will ask ‘Is there no _procès-verbal_?’ Am I to say: ‘The Maire went to make one. He put on his hat and the troops began to sing.’ It sounds like a joke.”

“Ah, you others, you are always the ones to laugh. It was just exactly as I have said. They sang!”

“But you told me just now that they were tired out!”

“Quite true!”