Paul released himself roughly. The two men, shaking with a rage which was increased by the din of the firing and the madness of their quarrel, were on the verge of coming to blows while the shells and bullets whistled all around them.
Then a new strip of wall fell to pieces. Paul gave his orders and, at the same time, thought of Major Hermann lying in his corner, to whom he could have brought M. d’Andeville like a criminal who is confronted with his accomplice. But why then did he not do so?
Suddenly remembering the photograph of the Comtesse Hermine which he had found on Rosenthal’s body, he took it from his pocket and thrust it in front of M. d’Andeville’s eyes:
“And this?” he shouted. “Do you know what this is? . . . There’s a date on it, 1902, and you pretend that the Comtesse Hermine is dead! . . . Answer me, can’t you? A photograph taken in Berlin and sent to you by your wife four years after her death!”
M. d’Andeville staggered. It was as though all his rage had evaporated and was changing into infinite stupefaction. Paul brandished before his face the overwhelming proof constituted by that bit of cardboard. And he heard M. d’Andeville mutter:
“Who can have stolen it from me? It was among my papers in Paris. . . . Why didn’t I tear it up? . . .” Then he added, in a very low whisper, “Oh, Hermine, Hermine, my adored one!”
Surely it was an avowal? But, if so, what was the meaning of an avowal expressed in those terms and with that declaration of love for a woman laden with crime and infamy?
The lieutenant shouted from the ground floor:
“Everybody into the trenches, except ten men. Delroze, keep the best shots and order independent firing.”
The volunteers, headed by Bernard, hurried downstairs. The enemy was approaching the canal, in spite of the losses which he had sustained. In fact, on the right and left, knots of pioneers, constantly renewed, were already striving with might and main to collect the boats stranded on the bank. The lieutenant in command of the volunteers formed his men into a first line of defense against the imminent assault, while the sharpshooters in the house had orders to kill without ceasing under the storm of shells.
One by one, five of these marksmen fell.
Paul and M. d’Andeville were here, there and everywhere, while consulting one another as to the commands to be given and the things to be done. There was not the least chance, in view of their great inferiority in numbers, that they would be able to resist. But there was some hope of their holding out until the arrival of the reinforcements, which would ensure the possession of the blockhouse.
The French artillery, finding it impossible to secure an effective aim amid the confusion of the combatants, had ceased fire, whereas the German guns were still bombarding the house; and shells were bursting at every moment.
Yet another man was wounded. He was carried into the attic and laid beside Major Hermann, where he died almost immediately.
Outside, there was fighting on and even in the water of the canal, in the boats and around them. There were hand-to-hand contests amid general uproar, yells of execration and pain, cries of terror and shouts of victory. The confusion was so great that Paul and M. d’Andeville found it difficult to take aim.
Paul said to his father-in-law:
“I’m afraid we may be done for before assistance arrives. I am bound therefore to warn you that the lieutenant has made his arrangements to blow up the house. As you are here by accident, without any authorization that gives you the quality or duties of a combatant. . . .”
“I am here as a Frenchman,” said M. d’Andeville, “and I shall stay on to the end.”
“Then perhaps we shall have time to finish what we have to say, sir. Listen to me. I will be as brief as I can. But if you should see the least glimmer of light, please do not hesitate to interrupt me.”
He fully understood that there was a gulf of darkness between them and that, whether guilty or not, whether his wife’s accomplice or her dupe, M. d’Andeville must know things which he, Paul, did not know and that these things could only be made plain by an adequate recital of what had happened.
He therefore began to speak. He spoke calmly and deliberately, while M. d’Andeville listened in silence. And they never ceased firing, quietly loading, aiming and reloading, as though they were at practise. All around and above them death pursued its implacable work.
Paul had hardly described his arrival at Ornequin with Élisabeth, their entrance into the locked room and his dismay at the sight of the portrait, when an enormous shell exploded over their heads, spattering them with shrapnel bullets.
The four volunteers were hit. Paul also fell, wounded in the neck; and, though he suffered no pain, he felt that all his ideas were gradually fading into a mist without his being able to retain them. He made an effort, however, and by some miracle of will was still able to exercise a remnant of energy that allowed him to keep his hold on certain reflections and impressions. Thus he saw his father-in-law kneeling beside him and succeeded in saying to him:
“Élisabeth’s diary. . . . You’ll find it in my kit-bag in camp . . . with a few pages written by myself . . . which will explain. . . . But first you must . . . Look, that German officer over there, bound up . . . he’s a spy. . . . Keep an eye on him. . . . Kill him. . . . If not, on the tenth of January . . . but you will kill him, won’t you?”
Paul could speak no more. Besides, he saw that M. d’Andeville was not kneeling down to listen to him or help him, but that, himself shot, with his face bathed in blood, he was bending double and finally fell in a huddled heap, uttering moans that grew fainter and fainter.
A great calm now descended on the big room, while the rifles crackled outside. The German guns were no longer firing. The enemy’s counter-attack must be meeting with success; and Paul, incapable of moving, lay awaiting the terrible explosion foretold by the lieutenant.
He pronounced Élisabeth’s name time after time. He reflected that no danger threatened her now, because Major Hermann was also about to die. Besides, her brother Bernard would know how to defend her. But after a while this sort of tranquillity disappeared, changed into uneasiness and then into restless anxiety, giving way to a feeling of which every second that passed increased the torture. He could not tell whether he was haunted by a nightmare, by some morbid hallucination. It all happened on the side of the attic to which he had dragged Major Hermann. A soldier’s dead body was lying between them. And it seemed, to his horror, as if the major had cut his bonds and were rising to his feet and looking around him.
Paul exerted all his strength to open his eyes and keep them open. But an ever thicker shadow veiled them; and through this shadow he perceived, as one sees a confused sight in the darkness, the major taking off his cloak, stooping over the body, removing its blue coat and buttoning it on himself. Then he put the dead man’s cap on his head, fastened his scarf round his neck, took the soldier’s rifle, bayonet and cartridges and, thus transfigured, stepped down the three wooden stairs.
It was a terrible vision. Paul would have been glad to doubt his eyes, to believe in some phantom image born of his fever and delirium. But everything confirmed the reality of what he saw; and it meant to him the most infernal suffering. The major was making his escape!
Paul was too weak to contemplate the position in all its bearings. Was the major thinking of killing him and of killing M. d’Andeville? Did the major know that they were there, both of them wounded, within reach of his hand? Paul never asked himself these questions. One idea alone obsessed his failing mind. Major Hermann was escaping. Thanks to his uniform, he would mingle with the volunteers! By the aid of some signal, he would get back to the Germans! And he would be free! And he would resume his work of persecution, his deadly work, against Élisabeth!
Oh, if the explosion had only taken place! If the ferryman’s house could but be blown up and the major with it! . . .
Paul still clung to this hope in his half-conscious condition. Meanwhile his reason was wavering. His though
ts became more and more confused. And he swiftly sank into that darkness in which one neither sees nor hears. . . .
Three weeks later the general commanding in chief stepped from his motor car in front of an old château in the Bourbonnais, now transformed into a military hospital. The officer in charge was waiting for him at the door.
“Does Second Lieutenant Delroze know that I am coming to see him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take me to his room.”
Paul Delroze was sitting up. His neck was bandaged; but his features were calm and showed no traces of fatigue. Much moved by the presence of the great chief whose energy and coolness had saved France, he rose to the salute. But the general gave him his hand and exclaimed, in a kind and affectionate voice:
“Sit down, Lieutenant Delroze. . . . I say lieutenant, for you were promoted yesterday. No, no thanks. By Jove, we are still your debtors! So you’re up and about?”
“Why, yes, sir. The wound wasn’t much.”
“So much the better. I’m satisfied with all my officers; but, for all that, we don’t find fellows like you by the dozen. Your colonel has sent in a special report about you which sets forth such an array of acts of incomparable bravery that I have half a mind to break my own rule and to make the report public.”
“No, please don’t, sir.”
“You are right, Delroze. It is the first attribute of heroism that it likes to remain anonymous; and it is France alone that must have all the glory for the time being. So I shall be content for the present to mention you once more in the orders of the day and to hand you the cross for which you were already recommended.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, sir.”
“In addition, my dear fellow, if there’s the least thing you want, I insist that you should give me this opportunity of doing it for you.”
Paul nodded his head and smiled. All this cordial kindness and attentiveness were putting him at his ease.
“But suppose I want too much, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“Very well, sir, I accept. And what I ask is this: first of all, a fortnight’s sick leave, counting from Saturday, the ninth of January, the day on which I shall be leaving the hospital.”
“That’s not a favor, that’s a right.”
“I know, sir. But I must have the right to spend my leave where I please.”
“Very well.”
“And more than that: I must have in my pocket a permit written in your own hand, sir, which will give me every latitude to move about as I wish in the French lines and to call for any assistance that can be of use to me.”
The general looked at Paul for a moment, and said:
“That’s a serious request you’re making, Delroze.”
“Yes, sir, I know it is. But the thing I want to undertake is serious too.”
“All right, I agree. Anything more?”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant Bernard d’Andeville, my brother-in-law, took part as I did in the action at the ferryman’s house. He was wounded like myself and brought to the same hospital, from which he will probably be discharged at the same time. I should like him to have the same leave and to receive permission to accompany me.”
“I agree. Anything more?”
“Bernard’s father, Comte Stéphane d’Andeville, second lieutenant interpreter attached to the British army, was also wounded on that day by my side. I have learnt that his wound, though serious, is not likely to prove fatal and that he has been moved to an English hospital, I don’t know which. I would ask you to send for him as soon as he is well and to keep him on your staff until I come to you and report on the task which I have taken in hand.”
“Very well. Is that all?”
“Very nearly, sir. It only remains for me to thank you for your kindness by asking you to give me a list of twenty French prisoners, now in Germany, in whom you take a special interest. Those twenty prisoners will be free in a fortnight from now at most.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
For all his coolness, the general seemed a little taken aback. He echoed:
“Free in a fortnight from now! Twenty prisoners!”
“I give you my promise, sir.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“It shall be as I say.”
“Whatever the prisoners’ rank? Whatever their social position?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And by regular means, means that can be avowed?”
“By means to which there can be no possible objection.”
The general looked at Paul again with the eye of a leader who is in the habit of judging men and reckoning them at their true value. He knew that the man before him was not a boaster, but a man of action and a man of his word, who went straight ahead and kept his promises. He replied:
“Very well, Delroze, you shall have your list to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XIV. A MASTERPIECE OF KULTUR
ON THE MORNING of Sunday, the tenth of January, Lieutenant Delroze and Sergeant d’Andeville stepped on to the platform at Corvigny, went to call on the commandant of the town and then took a carriage in which they drove to the Château d’Ornequin.
“All the same,” said Bernard, stretching out his legs in the fly, “I never thought that things would turn out as they have done when I was hit by a splinter of shrapnel between the Yser and the ferryman’s house. What a hot corner it was just then! Believe me or believe me not, Paul, if our reinforcements hadn’t come up, we should have been done for in another five minutes. We were jolly lucky!”
“We were indeed,” said Paul. “I felt that next day, when I woke up in a French ambulance!”
“What I can’t get over, though,” Bernard continued, “is the way that blackguard of a Major Hermann made off. So you took him prisoner? And then you saw him unfasten his bonds and escape? The cheek of the rascal! You may be sure he got away safe and sound!”
Paul muttered:
“I haven’t a doubt of it; and I don’t doubt either that he means to carry out his threats against Élisabeth.”
“Bosh! We have forty-eight hours before us, as he gave his pal Karl the tenth of January as the date of his arrival and he won’t act until two days later.”
“And suppose he acts to-day?” said Paul, in a husky voice.
Notwithstanding his anguish, however, the drive did not seem long to him. He was at last approaching — and this time really — the object from which each day of the last four months had removed him to a greater distance. Ornequin was on the frontier; and Èbrecourt was but a few minutes from the frontier. He refused to think of the obstacles which would intervene before he could reach Èbrecourt, discover his wife’s retreat and save her. He was alive. Élisabeth was alive. No obstacles existed between him and her.
The Château d’Ornequin, or rather what remained of it — for even the ruins of the château had been subjected to a fresh bombardment in November — was serving as a cantonment for territorial troops, whose first line of trenches skirted the frontier. There was not much fighting on this side, because, for tactical reasons, it was not to the enemy’s advantage to push too far forward. The defenses were of equal strength; and a very active watch was kept on either side.
These were the particulars which Paul obtained from the territorial lieutenant with whom he lunched.
“My dear fellow,” concluded the officer, after Paul had told him the object of his journey, “I am altogether at your service; but, if it’s a question of getting from Ornequin to Èbrecourt, you can make up your mind that you won’t do it.”
“I shall do it all right.”
“It’ll have to be through the air then,” said the officer, with a laugh.
“No.”
“Or underground.”
“Perhaps.”
“There you’re wrong. We wanted ourselves to do some sapping and mining. It was no use. We’re on a deposit of rock in which it’s impossible to dig.”
It was Paul’s turn to smile:
/> “My dear chap, if you’ll just be kind enough to lend me for one hour four strong men armed with picks and shovels, I shall be at Èbrecourt to-night.”
“I say! Four men to dig a six-mile tunnel through the rock in an hour!”
“That’s ample. Also, you must promise absolute secrecy both as to the means employed and the rather curious discoveries to which they are bound to lead. I shall make a report to the general commanding in chief; but no one else is to know.”
“Very well, I’ll select my four fellows for you myself. Where am I to bring them to you?”
“On the terrace, near the donjon.”
This terrace commands the Liseron from a height of some hundred and fifty feet and, in consequence of a loop in the river, is exactly opposite Corvigny, whose steeple and the neighboring hills are seen in the distance. Of the castle-keep nothing remains but its enormous base, which is continued by the foundation-walls, mingled with natural rocks, which support the terrace. A garden extends its clumps of laurels and spindle-trees to the parapet.
It was here that Paul went. Time after time he strode up and down the esplanade, leaning over the river and inspecting the blocks that had fallen from the keep under the mantle of ivy.
“Now then,” said the lieutenant, on arriving with his men. “Is this your starting-point? I warn you we are standing with our backs to the frontier.”
“Pooh!” replied Paul, in the same jesting tone. “All roads lead to Berlin!”
He pointed to a circle which he had marked out with stakes, and set the men to work:
“Go ahead, my lads.”
They began to throw up, within a circle of three yards in circumference, a soil consisting of vegetable mold in which, in twenty minutes’ time, they had dug a hole five feet deep. Here they came upon a layer of stones cemented together; and their work now became much more difficult, for the cement was of incredible hardness and they were only to break it up by inserting their picks into the cracks. Paul followed the operations with anxious attention.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 178
