The law of war? No, the duty of war; and a duty so imperious that a man does not discuss it and that, implacable though it be, he must not even allow the merest quiver of a complaint to stir in his secret soul. Whether Élisabeth was faced by death or by dishonor did not concern Sergeant Paul Delroze and could not make him turn for a second from the path which he was ordered to follow. He was a soldier first and a man afterwards. He owed no duty save to France, his sorely-stricken and beloved country.
He carefully folded up Élisabeth’s diary and went out, followed by his brother-in-law.
At nightfall he left the Château d’Ornequin.
CHAPTER XI. “YSERY, MISERY”
TOUL, BAR-LE-DUC, VITRY-LE-FRANÇOIS. . . . The little towns sped past as the long train carried Paul and Bernard westwards into France. Other, numberless trains came before or after theirs, laden with troops and munitions of war. They reached the outskirts of Paris and turned north, passing through Beauvais, Amiens and Arras.
It was necessary that they should arrive there first, on the frontier, to join the heroic Belgians and to join them as high up as possible. Every mile of ground covered was so much territory snatched from the invader during the long immobilized war that was in preparation.
Second Lieutenant Paul Delroze — he had received his new rank in the course of the railway journey — accomplished the northward march as it were in a dream, fighting every day, risking his life every minute, leading his men with irresistible dash, but all as though he were doing it without his own cognizance, in obedience to the automatic operation of a predetermined will.
While Bernard continued to stake his life with a laugh, as though in play, keeping up his comrade’s courage with his own light-hearted pluck, Paul remained speechless and absent. Everything — fatigue, privations, the weather — seemed to him a matter of indifference.
Nevertheless, it was an immense delight, as he would sometimes confess to Bernard, to be going towards the fighting line. He had the feeling that he was making for a definite object, the only one that interested him: Élisabeth’s deliverance. Even though he was attacking this frontier and not the other, the eastern frontier, he was still rushing with all the strength of his hatred against the detested enemy. Whether that enemy was defeated here or there made little difference. In either case, Élisabeth would be free.
“We shall succeed,” said Bernard. “You may be sure that Élisabeth will outwit that swine. Meanwhile, we shall stampede the Huns, make a dash across Belgium, take Conrad in the rear and capture Èbrecourt. Doesn’t the proposal make you smile? Oh, no, you never smile, do you, when you demolish a Hun? Not you! You’ve got a little way of laughing that tells me all about it. I say to myself, ‘There’s a bullet gone home,’ or ‘That’s done it: he’s got one at the end of his toothpick!’ For you’ve a way of your own of sticking them. Ah, lieutenant, how fierce we grow! Simply through practise in killing! And to think that it makes us laugh!”
Roye, Lassigny, Chaulnes. . . . Later, the Bassée Canal and the River Lys. . . . And, later and at last, Ypres. Ypres! Here the two lines met, extended towards the sea. After the French rivers, after the Marne, the Aisne, the Oise and the Somme, a little Belgian stream was to run red with young men’s blood. The terrible battle of the Yser was beginning.
Bernard, who soon won his sergeant’s stripes, and Paul Delroze lived in this hell until the early days of December. Together with half a dozen Parisians, a volunteer soldier, a reservist and a Belgian called Laschen, who had escaped from Roulers and joined the French in order to get at the enemy more quickly, they formed a little band who seemed proof against fire. Of the whole section commanded by Paul, only these remained; and, when the section was re-formed, they continued to group together. They claimed all the dangerous expeditions. And each time, when their task was fulfilled, they met again, safe and sound, without a scratch, as though they brought one another luck.
During the last fortnight, the regiment, which had been pushed to the extreme point of the front, was flanked by the Belgian lines on the one side and the British lines on the other. Heroic assaults were delivered. Furious bayonet charges were made in the mud, even in the water of the flooded fields; and the Germans fell by the thousand and the ten thousand.
Bernard was in the seventh heaven:
“Tommy,” he said to a little English soldier who was advancing by his side one day under a hail of shot and who did not understand a single word of French, “Tommy, no one admires the Belgians more than I do, but they don’t stagger me, for the simple reason that they fight in our fashion; that is to say, like lions. The fellows who stagger me are you English beggars. You’re different, you know. You have a way of your own of doing your work . . . and such work! No excitement, no fury. You keep all that bottled up. Oh, of course, you go mad when you retreat: that’s when you’re really terrible! You never gain as much ground as when you’ve lost a bit. Result: mashed Boches!”
He paused and then continued:
“I give you my word, Tommy, it fills us with confidence to have you by our side. Listen and I’ll tell you a great secret. France is getting lots of applause just now; and she deserves it. We are all standing on our legs, holding our heads high and without boasting. We wear a smile on our faces and are quite calm, with clean souls and bright eyes. Well, the reason why we don’t flinch, why we have confidence nailed to our hearts, is that you are with us. It’s as I say, Tommy. Look here, do you know at what precise moment France felt just a little shaking at the pit of her stomach? During the retreat from Belgium? Not a bit of it! When Paris was within an ace of being sacked? Not at all. You give it up? Well, it was on the first day or two. At that time, you see, we knew, without saying so, without admitting it even to ourselves, that we were done for. There was no help for it. No time to prepare ourselves. Done for was what we were. And, though I say it as shouldn’t, France behaved well. She marched straight to death without wincing, with her brightest smile and as gaily as if she were marching to certain victory. Ave, Cæsar, morituri te salutant! Die? Why not, since our honor demands it? Die to save the world? Right you are! And then suddenly London rings us up on the telephone. ‘Hullo! Who are you?’ ‘It’s England speaking.’ ‘Well?’ ‘Well, I’m coming in.’ ‘You don’t mean it?’ ‘I do — with my last ship, with my last man, with my last shilling.’ Then . . . oh, then there was a sudden change of front! Die? Rather not! No question of that now! Live, yes, and conquer! We two together will settle fate. From that day, France did not know a moment’s uneasiness. The retreat? A trifle. Paris captured? A mere accident! One thing alone mattered: the final result. Fighting against England and France, there’s nothing left for you Huns to do but go down on your knees. Here, Tommy, I’ll start with that one: the big fellow at the foot of the tree. Down on your knees, you big fellow! . . . Hi! Tommy! Where are you off to? Calling you, are they? Good-by, Tommy. My love to England!”
It was on the evening of that day, as the 3rd company were skirmishing near Dixmude, that an incident occurred which struck the two brothers-in-law as very odd. Paul suddenly felt a violent blow in the right side, just above the hip. He had no time to bother about it. But, on retiring to the trenches, he saw that a bullet had passed through the holster of his revolver and flattened itself against the barrel. Now, judging from the position which Paul had occupied, the bullet must have been fired from behind him; that is to say, by a soldier belonging to his company or to some other company of his regiment. Was it an accident? A piece of awkwardness?
Two days later, it was Bernard’s turn. Luck protected him, too. A bullet went through his knapsack and grazed his shoulder-blade.
And, four days after that, Paul had his cap shot through: and, this time again, the bullet came from the French lines.
There was no doubt about it therefore. The two brothers-in-law had evidently been aimed at; and the traitor, a criminal in the enemy’s pay, was concealed in the French ranks.
“It’s as sure as eggs,” said Bernard. “You f
irst, then I, then you again. There’s a touch of Hermann about this. The major must be at Dixmude.”
“And perhaps the prince, too,” observed Paul.
“Very likely. In any case, one of their agents has slipped in amongst us. How are we to get at him? Tell the colonel?”
“If you like, Bernard, but don’t speak of ourselves and of our private quarrel with the major. I did think for a moment of going to the colonel about it, but decided not to, as I did not want to drag in Élisabeth’s name.”
There was no occasion, however, for them to warn their superiors. Though the attempts on the lives of Paul and Bernard were not repeated, there were fresh instances of treachery every day. French batteries were located and attacked; their movements were forestalled; and everything proved that a spying system had been organized on a much more methodical and active scale than anywhere else. They felt certain of the presence of Major Hermann, who was evidently one of the chief pivots of the system.
“He is here,” said Bernard, pointing to the German lines. “He is here because the great game is being played in those marshes and because there is work for him to do. And also he is here because we are.”
“How would he know?” Paul objected.
And Bernard rejoined:
“How could he fail to know?”
One afternoon there was a meeting of the majors and the captains in the cabin which served as the colonel’s quarters. Paul Delroze was summoned to attend it and was told that the general commanding the division had ordered the capture of a little house, standing on the left bank of the canal, which in ordinary times was inhabited by a ferryman. The Germans had strengthened and were holding it. The fire of their distant batteries, set up on a height on the other side, defended this block-house, which had formed the center of the fighting for some days. It had become necessary to take it.
“For this purpose,” said the colonel, “we have called for a hundred volunteers from the African companies. They will set out to-night and deliver the assault to-morrow morning. Our business will be to support them at once and, once the attack has succeeded, to repel the counter-attacks, which are sure to be extremely violent because of the importance of the position. You all of you know the position, gentlemen. It is separated from us by the marshes which our African volunteers will enter to-night . . . up to their waists, one might say. But to the right of the marshes, alongside of the canal, runs a tow-path by which we will be able to come to the rescue. This tow-path has been swept by the guns on both sides and is free for a great part. Still, half a mile before the ferryman’s house there is an old lighthouse which was occupied by the Germans until lately and which we have just destroyed with our gun-fire. Have they evacuated it entirely? Is there a danger of encountering an advance post there? It would be a good thing if we could find out; and I thought of you, Delroze.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It’s not a dangerous job, but it’s a delicate one; and it will have to make certain. I want you to start to-night. If the old lighthouse is occupied, come back. If not, send for a dozen reliable men and hide them carefully until we come up. It will make an excellent base.”
“Very well, sir.”
Paul at once made his arrangements, called together his little band of Parisians and volunteers who, with the reservist and Laschen the Belgian, formed his usual command, warned them that he would probably want them in the course of the night and, at nine o’clock in the evening, set out, accompanied by Bernard d’Andeville.
The fire from the enemy’s guns kept them for a long time on the bank of the canal, behind a huge, uprooted willow-trunk. Then an impenetrable darkness gathered round them, so much so that they could not even distinguish the water of the canal.
They crept rather than walked along, for fear of unexpected flashes of light. A slight breeze was blowing across the muddy fields and over the marshes, which quivered with the whispering of the reeds.
“It’s pretty dreary here,” muttered Bernard.
“Hold your tongue.”
“As you please, lieutenant.”
Guns kept booming at intervals for no reason, like dogs barking to make a noise amid the deep, nervous silence; and other guns at once barked back furiously, as if to make a noise in their turn and to prove that they were not asleep.
And once more peace reigned. Nothing stirred in space. It was as though the very grass of the marshes had ceased to wave. And yet Bernard and Paul seemed to perceive the slow progress of the African volunteers who had set out at the same time as themselves, their long halts in the middle of the icy waters, their stubborn efforts.
“Drearier and drearier,” sighed Bernard.
“You’re very impressionable to-night,” said Paul.
“It’s the Yser. You know what the men say: ‘Yysery, misery!’”
They dropped to the ground suddenly. The enemy was sweeping the path and the marshes with search-lights. There were two more alarms; and at last they reached the neighborhood of the old lighthouse without impediment.
It was half-past eleven. With infinite caution they stole in between the demolished blocks of masonry and soon perceived that the post had been abandoned. Nevertheless, they discovered, under the broken steps of the staircase, an open trap-door and a ladder leading to a cellar which revealed gleams of swords and helmets. But Bernard, who was piercing the darkness from above with the rays of his electric lamp, declared:
“There’s nothing to fear, they’re dead. The Huns must have thrown them in, after the recent bombardment.”
“Yes,” said Paul. “And we must be prepared for the fact that they may send for the bodies. Keep guard on the Yser side, Bernard.”
“And suppose one of the beggars is still alive?”
“I’ll go down and see.”
“Turn out their pockets,” said Bernard, as he moved away, “and bring us back their note-books. I love those. They’re the best indications of the state of their souls . . . or rather of their stomachs.”
Paul went down. The cellar was a fairly large one. Half-a-dozen bodies lay spread over the floor, all lifeless and cold. Acting on Bernard’s advice, he turned out the pockets and casually inspected the note-books. There was nothing interesting to attract his attention. But in the tunic of the sixth soldier whom he examined, a short, thin man, shot right through the head, he found a pocket-book bearing the name of Rosenthal and containing French and Belgian bank-notes and a packet of letters with Spanish, Dutch and Swiss postage stamps. The letters, all of which were in German, had been addressed to a German agent residing in France, whose name did not appear, and sent by him to Private Rosenthal, on whose body Paul discovered them. This private was to pass them on, together with a photograph, to a third person, referred to as his excellency.
“Secret Service,” said Paul, looking through them. “Confidential information. . . . Statistics. . . . What a pack of scoundrels!”
But, on glancing at the pocket-book again, he saw an envelope which he tore open. Inside was a photograph; and Paul’s surprise at the sight of it was so great that he uttered an exclamation. It represented the woman whose portrait he had seen in the locked room at Ornequin, the same woman, with the same lace scarf arranged in the identical way and with the same expression, whose hardness was not masked by its smile. And was this woman not the Comtesse Hermine d’Andeville, the mother of Élisabeth and Bernard?
The print bore the name of a Berlin photographer. On turning it over, Paul saw something that increased his stupefaction. There were a few words of writing:
“To Stéphane d’Andeville. 1902.”
Stéphane was the Comte d’Andeville’s Christian name!
The photograph, therefore, had been sent from Berlin to the father of Élisabeth and Bernard in 1902, that is to say, four years after the Comtesse Hermine’s death, so that Paul was faced with one of two solutions: either the photograph, taken before the Comtesse Hermine’s death, was inscribed with the date of the year in which the count had received it
; or else the Comtesse Hermine was still alive.
And, in spite of himself, Paul thought of Major Hermann, whose memory was suggested to his troubled mind by this portrait, as it had been by the picture in the locked room. Hermann! Hermine! And here was Hermine’s image discovered by him on the corpse of a German spy, by the banks of the Yser, where the chief spy, who was certainly Major Hermann, must even now be prowling.
“Paul! Paul!”
It was his brother-in-law calling him. Paul rose quickly, hid the photograph, being fully resolved not to speak of it to Bernard, and climbed the ladder.
“Well, Bernard, what is it?”
“A little troop of Boches. . . . I thought at first that they were a patrol, relieving the sentries, and that they would keep on the other side. But they’ve unmoored a couple of boats and are pulling across the canal.”
“Yes, I can hear them.”
“Shall we fire at them?” Bernard suggested.
“No, it would mean giving the alarm. It’s better to watch them. Besides, that’s what we’re here for.”
But at this moment there was a faint whistle from the tow-path. A similar whistle answered from the boat. Two other signals were exchanged at regular intervals.
A church clock struck midnight.
“It’s an appointment,” Paul conjectured. “This is becoming interesting. Follow me. I noticed a place below where I think we shall be safe against any surprise.”
It was a back-cellar separated from the first by a brick wall containing a breach through which they easily made their way. They rapidly filled up the breach with bricks that had fallen from the ceiling and the walls.
They had hardly finished when a sound of steps was heard overhead and some words in German reached their ears. The troop of soldiers seemed to be fairly numerous. Bernard fixed the barrel of his rifle in one of the loop-holes in their barricade.
“What are you doing?” asked Paul.
“Making ready for them if they come. We can sustain a regular siege here.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 175
