“Of course, he was right. And yet I had heard and seen for myself. . . .
“Saturday, 15 August.
“Yesterday, two German officers were brought in and were locked up in the wash-house, at the end of the yard. This morning, there was nothing in the wash-house but their uniforms. One can understand their breaking open the door. But the captain has found out that they made their escape in French uniforms and that they passed the sentries, saying that they had been sent to Corvigny.
“Who can have supplied them with those uniforms? Besides, they had to know the password: who can have given them that?
“It appears that a peasant woman called several days in succession with eggs and milk, a woman rather too well-dressed for her station, and that she hasn’t been here to-day. But there is nothing to prove her complicity.
“Sunday, 16 August.
“The captain has been strongly urging me to go away. He is no longer cheerful. He seems very much preoccupied:
“‘We are surrounded by spies,’ he said. ‘And there is every sign of the possibility of a speedy attack. Not a big attack, intended to force a way through to Corvigny, but an attempt to take the château by surprise. It is my duty to warn you, madame, that we may be compelled at any moment to fall back on Corvigny and that it would be most imprudent for you to stay.’
“I answered that nothing would change my resolution. Jérôme and Rosalie also implored me to leave. But what is the good? I intend to remain.”
Once again Paul stopped. There was a page missing in this section of the diary; and the next page, the one headed 18 August, was torn at the top and the bottom and contained only a fragment of what Élisabeth had written on that day:
“. . . and that is why I have not spoken of it in the letter which I have just sent to Paul. He will know that I am staying on and the reasons for my decision; but he must not know of my hopes.
“Those hopes are still so vague and built on so insignificant a detail. Still, I feel overjoyed. I do not realize the meaning of that detail, but I feel its importance. The captain is hurrying about, increasing the patrols; the soldiers are polishing their arms and crying out for the battle; the enemy may be taking up his quarters at Èbrecourt, as they say: what do I care? I have only one thought: have I found the key? Am I on the right road? Let me think. . . .”
The page was torn here, at the place where Élisabeth was about to explain things exactly. Was this a precautionary measure on Major Hermann’s part? No doubt; but why?
The first part of the page headed 19 August was likewise torn. The nineteenth was the day before t on which the Germans had carried Ornequin, Corvigny and the whole district by assault. What had Élisabeth written on that Wednesday afternoon? What had she discovered? What was preparing in the darkness?
Paul felt a dread at his heart. He remembered that the first gunshot had thundered over Corvigny at two o’clock in the morning on Thursday and it was with an anxious mind that he read, on the second half of the page:
“11 p. m.
“I have got up and opened my window. Dogs are barking on every side. They answer one another, stop, seem to be listening and then begin howling again as I have never heard them do before. When they cease, the silence becomes impressive and I listen in my turn to try and catch the indistinct sounds that keep them awake.
“Those sounds seem to my ears also to exist. It is something different from the rustling of the leaves. It has nothing to do with the ordinary interruption to the dead silence of the night. It comes from I can’t tell where; and the impression it makes on me is so powerful that I ask myself at the same time whether I am just listening to the beating of my heart or whether I am hearing what might be the distant tramp of a marching army.
“Oh, I must be mad! A marching army! And our outposts on the frontier? And our sentries all around the château? Why, there would be fighting, firing! . . .
“1 a. m.
“I did not stir from the window. The dogs were no longer barking. Everything was asleep. And suddenly I saw some one come from under the trees and go across the lawn. I at first imagined it was one of our soldiers. But, when whoever it was passed under my window, there was just enough light in the sky for me to make out a woman’s figure. I thought for a moment of Rosalie. But no, the figure was taller and moved with a lighter and quicker step.
“I was on the point of waking Jérôme and giving the alarm. I did not, however. The figure had disappeared in the direction of the terrace. And all at once there came the cry of a bird, which struck me as strange. This was followed by a light that darted into the sky, like a shooting star springing from the ground.
“After that, nothing. Silence, general restfulness. Nothing more. And yet I dare not go back to bed. I am frightened, without knowing why. All sorts of dangers seem to come rushing from every corner of the horizon. They draw closer, they surround me, they hem me in, they suffocate me, crush me, I can’t breathe. I’m frightened . . . I’m frightened. . . .”
CHAPTER IX. A SPRIG OF EMPIRE
PAUL CLUTCHED WITH convulsive fingers the heart-breaking diary to which Élisabeth had confided her anguish:
“The poor angel!” he thought. “What she must have gone through! And this is only the beginning of the road that led to her death. . . .”
He dreaded reading on. The hours of torture were near at hand, menacing and implacable, and he would have liked to call out to Élisabeth:
“Go away, go away! Don’t defy Fate! I have forgotten the past. I love you.”
It was too late. He himself, through his cruelty, had condemned her to suffer; and he must go on to the bitter end and witness every station of the Calvary of which he knew the last, terrifying stage.
He hastily turned the pages. There were first three blank leaves, those dated 20, 21 and 22 August: days of confusion during which she had been unable to write. The pages of the 23rd and 24th were missing. These no doubt recounted what had happened and contained revelations concerning the inexplicable invasion.
The diary began again at the middle of a torn page, the page belonging to Tuesday the 25th:
“‘Yes, Rosalie, I feel quite well and I thank you for looking after me so attentively.’
“‘Then there’s no more fever?’
“‘No, Rosalie, it’s gone.’
“‘You said the same thing yesterday, ma’am, and the fever came back . . . perhaps because of that visit. . . . But the visit won’t be to-day . . . it’s not till to-morrow. . . . I was told to let you know, ma’am. . . . At 5 o’clock to-morrow. . . .’
“I made no answer. What is the use of rebelling? None of the humiliating words that I shall have to hear will hurt me more than what lies before my eyes: the lawn invaded, horses picketed all over it, baggage wagons and caissons in the walks, half the trees felled, officers sprawling on the grass, drinking and singing, and a German flag flapping from the balcony of my window, just in front of me. Oh, the wretches!
“I close my eyes so as not to see. And that makes it more horrible still. . . . Oh, the memory of that night . . . and, in the morning, when the sun rose, the sight of all those dead bodies! Some of the poor fellows were still alive, with those monsters dancing round them; and I could hear the cries of the dying men asking to be put out of their misery.
“And then. . . . But I won’t think of it or think of anything that can destroy my courage and my hope. . . .
“Paul, I always have you in my mind as I write my diary. Something tells me that you will read it if anything happens to me; and so I must have strength to go on with it and to keep you informed from day to day. Perhaps you can already understand from my story what to me still seems very obscure. What is the connection between the past and the present, between the murder of long ago and the incomprehensible attack of the other night? I don’t know. I have told you the facts in detail and also my theories. You will draw your conclusions and follow up the truth to the end.
“Wednesday, 26 August.
�
�There is a great deal of noise in the château. People are moving about everywhere, especially in the rooms above my bedroom. An hour ago, half a dozen motor vans and the same number of motor cars drove onto the lawn. The vans were empty. Two or three ladies sprang out of each of the cars, German women, waving their hands and laughing noisily. The officers ran up to welcome them; and there were loud expressions of delight. Then they all went to the house. What do they want?
“But I hear footsteps in the passage. . . . It is 5 o’clock. . . . Somebody is knocking at the door. . . .
“There were five of them: he first and four officers who kept bowing to him obsequiously. He said to them, in a formal tone:
“‘Attention, gentlemen. . . . I order you not to touch anything in this room or in the other rooms reserved for madame. As for the rest, except in the two big drawing-rooms, it is yours. Keep anything here that you want and take away what you please. It is war and the law of war.’
“He pronounced those words, ‘The law of war,’ in a tone of fatuous conviction and repeated:
“‘As for madame’s private apartments, not a thing is to be moved. Do you understand? I know what is becoming.’
“He looked at me as though to say:
“‘What do you think of that? There’s chivalry for you! I could take it all, if I liked; but I’m a German and, as such, I know what’s becoming.’
“He seemed to expect me to thank him. I said:
“‘Is this the pillage beginning? That explains the empty motor vans.’
“‘You don’t pillage what belongs to you by the law of war,’ he answered.
“‘I see. And the law of war does not extend to the furniture and pictures in the drawing-rooms?’
“He turned crimson. Then I began to laugh:
“‘I follow you,’ I said. ‘That’s your share. Well chosen. Nothing but rare and valuable things. The refuse your servants can divide among them.’
“The officers turned round furiously. He became redder still. He had a face that was quite round, hair, which was too light, plastered down with grease and divided in the middle by a faultless parting. His forehead was low; and I was able to guess the effort going on behind it, to find a repartee. At last he came up to me and, in a voice of triumph, said:
“‘The French have been beaten at Charleroi, beaten at Morange, beaten everywhere. They are retreating all along the line. The upshot of the war is settled.’
“Violent though my grief was, I did not wince. I whispered:
“‘You low blackguard!’
“He staggered. His companions caught what I said; and I saw one put his hand on his sword-hilt. But what would he himself do? What would he say? I could feel that he was greatly embarrassed and that I had wounded his self-esteem.
“‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I daresay you don’t know who I am?’
“‘Oh, yes!’ I answered. ‘You are Prince Conrad, a son of the Kaiser’s. And what then?’
“He made a fresh attempt at dignity. He drew himself up. I expected threats and words to express his anger; but no, his reply was a burst of laughter, the affected laughter of a high and mighty lord, too indifferent, too disdainful to take offense, too intelligent to lose his temper.
“‘The dear little Frenchwoman! Isn’t she charming, gentlemen? Did you hear what she said? The impertinence of her! There’s your true Parisian, gentlemen, with all her roguish grace.’
“And, making me a great bow, with not another word, he stalked away, joking as he went:
“‘Such a dear little Frenchwoman! Ah, gentlemen, those little Frenchwomen! . . .’
“The vans were at work all day, going off to the frontier laden with booty. It was my poor father’s wedding present to us, all his collections so patiently and fondly brought together; it was the dear setting in which Paul and I were to have lived. What a wrench the parting means to me!
“The war news is bad! I cried a great deal during the day.
“Prince Conrad came. I had to receive him, for he sent me word by Rosalie that, if I refused to see him, the inhabitants of Ornequin would suffer the consequences.”
Here Élisabeth again broke off her diary. Two days later, on the 29th, she went on:
“He came yesterday. To-day also. He tries to appear witty and cultured. He talks literature and music, Goethe, Wagner and so on. . . . I leave him to do his own talking, however; and this throws him in such a state of fury that he ended by exclaiming:
“‘Can’t you answer? It’s no disgrace, even for a Frenchwoman, to talk to Prince Conrad of Prussia!’
“‘A woman doesn’t talk to her gaoler.’
“He protested briskly:
“‘But, dash it all, you’re not in prison!’
“‘Can I leave the château?’
“‘You can walk about . . . in the grounds. . . .’
“‘Between four walls, therefore, like a prisoner.’
“‘Well, what do you want to do?’
“‘To go away from here and live . . . wherever you tell me to: at Corvigny, for instance.’
“‘That is to say, away from me!’
“As I did not answer, he bent forward a little and continued, in a low voice:
“‘You hate me, don’t you? Oh, I’m quite aware of it! I’ve made a study of women. Only, it’s Prince Conrad whom you hate, isn’t it? It’s the German, the conqueror. For, after all, there’s no reason why you should dislike the man himself. . . . And, at this moment, it’s the man who is in question, who is trying to please you . . . do you understand? . . . So. . . .’
“I had risen to my feet and faced him. I did not speak a single word; but he must have seen in my eyes so great an expression of disgust that he stopped in the middle of his sentence, looking absolutely stupid. Then, his nature getting the better of him, he shook his fist at me, like a common fellow, and went off slamming the door and muttering threats. . . .”
The next two pages of the diary were missing. Paul was gray in the face. He had never suffered to such an extent as this. It seemed to him as though his poor dear Élisabeth were still alive before his eyes and feeling his eyes upon her. And nothing could have upset him more than the cry of distress and love which marked the page headed:
1 September.
“Paul, my own Paul, have no fear. Yes, I tore up those two pages because I did not wish you ever to know such revolting things. But that will not estrange you from me, will it? Because a savage dared to insult me, that is no reason, surely, why I should not be worthy of your love? Oh, the things he said to me, Paul, only yesterday: his offensive remarks, his hateful threats, his even more infamous promises . . . and then his rage! . . . No, I will not repeat them to you. In making a confidant of this diary, I meant to confide to you my daily acts and thoughts. I believed that I was only writing down the evidence of my grief. But this is something different; and I have not the courage. . . . Forgive my silence. It will be enough for you to know the offense, so that you may avenge me later. Ask me no more. . . .”
And, pursuing this intention, Élisabeth now ceased to describe Prince Conrad’s daily visits in detail; but it was easy to perceive from her narrative that the enemy persisted in hovering round her. It consisted of brief notes in which she no longer let herself go as before, notes which she jotted down at random, marking the days herself, without troubling about the printed headings.
Paul trembled as he read on. And fresh revelations aggravated his dread:
“Thursday.
“Rosalie asks them the news every morning. The French retreat is continuing. They even say that it has developed into a rout and that Paris has been abandoned. The government has fled. We are done for.
“Seven o’clock in the evening.
“He is walking under my windows as usual. He has with him a woman whom I have already seen many times at a distance and who always wears a great peasant’s cloak and a lace scarf which hides her face. But, as a rule, when he walks on the lawn he is accompanied by an officer whom the
y call the major. This man also keeps his head concealed, by turning up the collar of his gray cloak.
“Friday.
“The soldiers are dancing on the lawn, while their band plays German national hymns and the bells of Ornequin are kept ringing with all their might. They are celebrating the entrance of their troops into Paris. It must be true, I fear! Their joy is the best proof of the truth.
“Saturday.
“Between my rooms and the boudoir where mother’s portrait used to hang is the room that was mother’s bedroom. This is now occupied by the major. He is an intimate friend of the prince and an important person, so they say. The soldiers know him only as Major Hermann. He does not humble himself in the prince’s presence as the other officers do. On the contrary, he seems to address him with a certain familiarity.
“At this minute they are walking side by side on the gravel path. The prince is leaning on Major Hermann’s arm. I feel sure that they are talking about me and that they are not at one. It looks almost as if Major Hermann were angry.
“Ten o’clock in the morning.
“I was right. Rosalie tells me that they had a violent scene.
“Tuesday, 8 September.
“There is something strange in the behavior of all of them. The prince, the major and the other officers appear to be nervous about something. The soldiers have ceased singing. There are sounds of quarreling. Can things be turning in our favor?”
“Thursday.
“The excitement is increasing. It seems that couriers keep on arriving at every moment. The officers have sent part of their baggage into Germany. I am full of hope. But, on the other hand. . . .
“Oh, my dear Paul, if you knew the torture those visits cause me! . . . He is no longer the bland and honey-mouthed man of the early days. He has thrown off the mask. . . . But, no, no, I will not speak of that! . . .
“Friday.
“The whole of the village of Ornequin has been packed off to Germany. They don’t want a single witness to remain of what happened during the awful night which I described to you.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 173
