“Auberge, albergo, inn,” said Baron laconically.
“Denoting lunch, lager and a luscious loaf,” crooned Pagan as he leant on the low stone parapet and gazed into the greeny blue waters of the lake. “Do you know, Baron, I believe I should look rather well in a Beret—suit my manly bronze and military moustache—what!”
Baron leant on the parapet and found that their heads and shoulders were reflected in the calm water. “You are getting vain in your old age, Charles,” he said. “But if you want to make yourself look like a Boulogne tripper, I really don’t see why you should not.”
They crossed the dam towards the auberge to find the long public-room crowded with feeding boy scouts whose bivouacs could be seen among the trees on the hillside above them. However, there was a bleached, weather-worn table beneath the trees outside, and here iced bock was brought to them as a preliminary of the meal. They dumped their packs on the bench and stretched their legs beneath the table.
The meal was excellent, and the landlord himself came to pass the time of day with them. Baron mentioned that they had just come down from the old battlefield, and added with a grin that they had not visited it at night.
“No,” answered the man seriously, it was better not to be there at night.
“That’s just what a fellow told us whom we met on the way up,” said Baron. “In fact he warned us against it.”
The man nodded. Pagan took a draught from his tall glass. “As homme to homme,” he said. “What is it that is queer about this bloomin’ battlefield?”
The man slightly lifted his shoulders. “On dit, on dit,” he began. “They say that strange things are seen there at night.”
“But what kind of things?” persisted Pagan.
The man spread out his hands in a French gesture and pursed up his lips. “Who shall say? I have not been there myself.”
“But people will always say that an old battlefield is haunted—civilians at any rate,” scoffed Baron. “But you—you have been a soldier I suspect; you don’t believe this battlefield is haunted. You would go there any time?”
The man smiled. “I do not go to the battlefields,” he said. “I have seen more than enough of battlefields.”
“So have I,” agreed Baron heartily. “But you would go if you had to?”
“If I had to go,” answered the man, “I should go—but in daylight. Why not? In the army I have learnt—and you too, M’sieu, I expect have learnt—not to seek trouble. I do not believe every foolish tale I hear, M’sieu, nor do I scoff at anything just because it is strange. We in Europe are very clever, no doubt, but we do not yet know everything.”
“In other words, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Baron,” said Pagan.
As they shouldered their packs and again took the road Baron said, “Queer thing about this battlefield, Charles, but I believe mine host of the Poilu’s Rest up there is at the bottom of it.”
“How do you mean?” asked Pagan.
“Why, you remember what I said about the political business—some sort of secret Bolshy club that meets at the auberge. Well, probably they have had meetings up there on the old battlefield nearby, and it’s their forms slinking about in the dark that has given rise to this haunted rumour. And probably they have encouraged the idea and played up to it in order to keep people out of the way.”
“Sounds plausible enough, but it doesn’t explain that thing I saw on the hillside.”
Baron glanced sideways at Pagan. “But, my dear old Charles,” he said, “you are not seriously going to maintain that missing link stuff, surely! A figure crouching in a bush at night, and clouds scurrying across the moon and throwing running shadows—I ask you! Why, you remember the queer tricks the Very lights used to play with objects out in no-man’s-land. And that night at the pub, the conditions were much the same.”
“But pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, it was bright moonlight for a few seconds, and I saw quite clearly.”
“Then, my dear old Charles, you ought to have your eyes seen to.”
“There is nothing wrong with my eyes,” retorted Pagan. “They are better than yours and always have been.”
“Well, are they?” queried Baron.
“Are they, my dear old son of an unbeliever! You know damn well they are. Weren’t your field glasses in the old days eight mags? And hadn’t I a pair of twelves? And there wasn’t another fellow in the battalion who could use ’em. Are my eyes better than yours, forsooth!”
“All right, all right, I surrender,” cried Baron. “They are. All I say is they must be so damn good that you saw something that wasn’t there!”
“Anyway, I saw it,” retorted Pagan. “Whereas you didn’t see a chair that was there, and blundered over it—twice!”
“And if I do it the third time it’s mine for keeps,” grinned Baron. “It’s too hot to argue, anyway.”
The little valley they were following curved suddenly to the left between steep wooded slopes and began to descend rapidly. The brook gurgled noisily over the pebbles and hurled itself in a series of foaming cascades over a dozen rocky outcrops. But the narrow road continued its more gentle descent. It parted company with the rocky valley bed and slanted along the swelling flank of the hill which began to increase its distance from its wooded neighbour opposite. The valley widened rapidly and disclosed ahead a high wooded barrier of hills that proved to be the further rampart of a bigger, transverse valley, of which their own was but a tributary.
The narrow hill-carved road wound round the great green bastion that separated the lesser from the greater valley. A rank of feathery mountain ash protected its outer margin from the steep descent, and above the dusty wayfarers, great clusters of scarlet berries hung gala-like against the deep blue sky. Just below them in the valley ran a white, tree-bordered road with a broad shallow stream beside it. Beyond the road was a single line railway. Their own narrow road slanted down to join the valley where a double row of red-roofed, yellow-washed cottages formed a village. Behind them distantly among the hills sounded the whistle of an engine.
Pagan stopped dramatically, and seized Baron’s arm. “Hark! Did you hear that?”
“Having the regulation number of ears, I did,” said Baron. “A train.”
“Where does this line go to?” asked Pagan.
“It runs down the valley to Colmar.”
“Through Kaisersburg?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my bold bad Baron, there you are!”
Baron gave a hitch to his pack. “Look here, Charles, I thought this was to be a walking tour.”
“So it is,” retorted Pagan. “But we are not walking round the world.”
“Slackening of moral fibre, Charles.”
Pagan scoffed. “Here we are,” he cried, “two old crocks of the Great Fracas trudging down a mountain side on our flat feet, all hot and bothered, and a hell of a way to go; and along comes a perfectly good train at the right time and in the right direction—I ask you! And you look this gift horse in the boiler.”
“Lead us not into temptation!” murmured Baron piously.
“You old Puritan!” exclaimed Pagan in disgust. “Ye gods, I believe you would call it temptation if you found yourself alone on a desert island with the Queen of Sheba!”
“No, Charles,” grinned Baron. “That would be providence.”
The little train puffed into view up the valley as they reached level ground on the white dusty road between the cottages. Pagan cast a thirsty look on the lime-washed front of an estaminet as they hurried past, but the fussy whistling of the engine was rapidly approaching and the little station was the other end of the village.
They sprinted the last fifty yards and boarded the train as it began to move again. Pagan dumped his rucksack on the seat beside him and lighted his pipe with an air of content. He nodded towards the dusty white road that ran beside the railway. “And you are the chap who would rather be legging it out there i
n the sun!”
Baron was leaning upon the rail of the little observation platform at the end of the coach. He turned his head and answered grudgingly, “I’m not denying that it’s pleasant loafing here. Only I have a conscience.”
Pagan threw back his head and blew a cloud of smoke upwards. “Thus conscience does make cowards of us all!” he complained. “I like loafing here in the sun while the engine does the work, and I am not ashamed to own it.”
Baron glanced at his watch. “Well then, you can loaf right on into Colmar,” he retorted; “and pick up our letters and washing. You will be able to get back in time for dinner. I will drop off at Kaisersburg and fix up at the hotel; it’s called de la Cigogne according to the book of words.”
“Right ’o!” agreed Pagan cheerfully. “I will fetch your little shirt and vest for you. Anything to encourage cleanliness, which is the nearest you will ever get to godliness.”
CHAPTER FOUR
OUTSIDE the station at Colmar the afternoon sun beat down upon the white shuttered buildings that bordered the dusty road. The scalloped fringe of the green and white striped awning of the Café de la Gare hung motionless in the dry still air, and the aloes in their little green painted tubs threw hard brittle shadows upon the hot pavements. In the shade of the awning the white napkin of a waiter moved unhurriedly among the little tables.
Pagan yawned and glanced at his watch. In the station facing him across the sun-parched road an invisible engine was moving with slow, stertorous puffs, as though overcome by the heat. His train was not due to leave for a quarter of an hour, but on such an afternoon he would not take the risk of having to hurry. He picked up his hat and parcel of washing and stepped out into the sunlight. From a distance came indistinctly the strains of a quick-march played by a French bugle band. He crossed the road slowly and mounted the steps of the station. It was hot beneath the misty glass roof, but the subway was cool, and the far platform from which his train left was shaded and open to the air of either side. A number of passengers were already darting to and fro as though they had not a moment to lose, although the engine was not yet coupled to the train.
Pagan sauntered slowly up the long platform. Ahead of him a girl was talking to a porter. It was her voice that first attracted his attention, a low, clear, melodious voice speaking excellent French with a slow drawl and a slight English accent. From the voice he was led to take stock of the girl herself. She had her back to him. She was dressed in a simple coat and skirt, but it was beautifully tailored and fitted her like a glove; and he noted that the whole effect was right, absolutely right, from the close fitting little hat to the sheeny silk stockings and the trim shoes that were neither too-high-heeled and impractical nor too serviceable and dull. He was unable to see her face, but without staring too rudely he was able to catch a glimpse of it as he passed. That, too, was quite right, more right if possible than the clothes and the voice.
Half-unconsciously he slowed his steps and allowed the girl and her porter to pass him. Up the platform they went in single file, like figures on a nursery frieze: first the blue-bloused porter, short, fat and rubicund, carrying a morocco-leather dressing case; next came the girl, dainty and slim, moving with easy grace, her scarf ends fluttering behind her elbows; and then Pagan, a clean, well-knit figure in blue collar and grey lounge suit, walking with a slow, easy stride.
The short, plump porter passed along two-thirds of the length of the train, and then suddenly swung himself by the handrail up the two steep steps to the coach. He turned in the doorway to put a plump hand under the girl’s elbow as she followed him nimbly, though of necessity displaying for a second, from ankle to knee, a very shapely leg. Pagan swung himself up slowly after her and followed at a discreet distance along the corridor where the motes hung like gauze in the sunshine.
Apparently she had reserved a seat, for her plump little porter, with much puffing and blowing, put his head into each compartment; and each time that he did so, the little procession came to a halt from front to rear in succession like a string of freight trucks, so that Pagan, taken at first by surprise, found his nose all but pressed against a close fitting little hat, and his mouth tantalisingly close to the nape of the neck that showed below it.
Presently, however, the porter announced the end of his quest by a Gallic click of the tongue and swung the dressing case on to the rack above a corner seat on the corridor side. The procession had, perforce, to halt once more, and Pagan, peering through the window as the girl stood in the doorway with her back to him, noted with amused disgust that all the seats in that compartment were taken. Before he could pass on to another compartment, however, the plump form of the porter backed out and blocked the corridor so that he had to wait whilst the girl took money from her bag for a tip; but she did not even glance at him, and only when the grateful porter, bowing and backing, bumped into him and filled the corridor with hearty deep-voiced apologies did her grave grey eyes rest for a moment on his.
In the next compartment he found a vacant corner seat, also on the corridor side, and he put his parcel on the rack and sat down.
He was amused at his own behaviour. “Charles Pagan,” he said to himself severely, “here you are, a hardy old bachelor of some thirty odd summers, behaving like a callow schoolboy. Admittedly the girl is very pretty and chic and interesting looking, but you are no longer a susceptible youth and you are decidedly old enough to know better. I hope you are properly ashamed of yourself.” And having decided half-heartedly that he was, he pulled an English newspaper from his pocket and settled down to read.
But not for long. He noticed that the windows of the corridor with the dark station behind them acted as mirrors, and that reflected in one of them was the provoking little hat and profile of the girl in the next compartment. And even as he made this discovery she left the compartment and climbed down to the platform. He put down his paper and went out into the corridor. With his elbows on the open window he watched her disappear among the crowd which had just descended from an incoming train.
He turned back to the corridor again. From where he stood he could see into her compartment. The morocco-leather dressing case reposed upon the rack above her vacant seat. The other seats were taken by some French children and a governess who were at the moment in the corridor staring out of the windows.
It was then that an idea came to him, an idea that caused his tanned face to crease into a grin as he eyed the dressing case upon the rack and the empty rack above the corresponding seat in his own compartment. Yes, it really was a masterpiece of strategy, he decided. And ridiculously easy. People returning to their seats past empty compartments usually identified their own particular compartments by their luggage. All he had to do was to move the dressing case from its present position and place it upon the rack above the vacant seat opposite his own in the next compartment.
The children and their governess were still gazing out of the corridor windows. It should be quite simple. “There comes a tide in the affairs of men,” he murmured, and stepped into the compartment. The leather dressing case lay on the rack on a level with his face. A small label was tied loosely to one of the rings of the handle, the writing uppermost. “Clare Lindsey. Colmar via Paris and Strasbourg,” he read. He liked the name Clare. It suited her, he thought. He swung the dressing case from the rack and turned quickly to the corridor, so quickly that he pulled up only just in time to avoid running full tilt into the plump, rubicund porter who stood there.
Now no hearty apologies came from the man. He made no attempt to move out of the way. For a moment neither moved nor spoke. They regarded one another in silence. In Pagan’s eyes was startled surprise; in the porter’s the unwinking stare of flouted authority. Then the man’s eyes went down to the dressing case which he himself had placed upon the rack. He looked again directly at Pagan. “Is that your bag?” It was a challenge rather than a question.
Pagan smiled. “Is it mine?” he echoed amiably. He glanced down at it whilst visions of a F
rench prison floated before his eyes. “Well, yes—in a way.”
The porter folded his arms across his huge chest and nodded his head slowly. His voice was ominously quiet. “You assert that the bag belongs to you?”
Pagan maintained his air of innocence. “Yes—er—in a way.”
The porter’s eyebrows went up, and he pursed his thick lips. “So! A bag like that! Chic—petite—the bag of a demoiselle!”
Pagan smiled amiably. “It is true it belongs to a lady,” he said. “To Mademoiselle Lindsey, but er …” The porter broke in with, “Bon! To the English Mademoiselle. Bon!” And then he added in tones threateningly polite. “And yet it belongs to M’sieu—in a way!”
Pagan nodded. “Yes. Mademoiselle—er—Clare, you understand, is my fiancée, and so well—what belongs to her, belongs to me,” he ended triumphantly.
The man’s conviction was shaken. It showed in his eyes, though the severity of his manner did not relax. Pagan was quick to follow up his advantage.
“We quarrelled, you understand, Mademoiselle Clare and I,” he went on glibly. “A lover’s quarrel. She would not allow me to explain. You, M’sieu, no doubt know how unreasonable are women. But in a train tête-à-tête!” He waved his disengaged hand towards the compartment behind him. “In a train one could talk, explain, is it not so? But her compartment is full. It is necessary for me to go to the next one in which there are empty seats.” He waved his hand towards it, and went on in his literally translated French. “But will she come? No. But then I have an idea, a truly wave of the brain.” He lifted the leather dressing case and patted it with his hand. “I put her bag on the rack opposite my seat. Violà! When she come back, she sit there, is it not so?”
The man was smiling now. Pagan had won. And he followed up his advantage by digging the porter familiarly in the ribs. “A good idea, my old one, is it not so!”
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