The Green Bay Tree (Bromfield, Frederick A. Stokes Company, printing 11)/Chapter 79
WITH the falling of night, the Germans were in possession of the château and the gardens. In bands of twenty or thirty they pushed beyond across the Meaux. A few remained behind, and these occupied the château, using the best linen of the Baroness, taking down from the wall of the kitchen the cook's great battery of spotless copper kettles in which to cook their beans and soup.
Lily, sitting quietly inside the darkened lodge by the side of Madame Gigon, heard their shouts and the stamping of their horses in the stables, Dark figures moved above among the trees of the garden, the figures of her enemies, the men who would kill if it were Possible Césaire and Jean. In the excitement, no one ventured as far from the château as the lodge, and for a time she remained safe and in peace.
The cannon were no longer to be heard. For a little while there arose the distant crackling of rifles like the sound of brush fires made by the foresters in August; but this too died away after a time.
She bathed her head, fed Madame Gigon once more and sat down again to wait, and at last, overcome by exhaustion she sank quietly into sleep.
In the château the weary Germans slept and in the stables the horses ceased their stamping. A deep unbroken stillness settled again over the garden and the wheatfields beyond, so that the firing and the shouting of a little while before might have been wholly an illusion, a nightmare which had nothing to do with reality.
Thus passed three hours.
It was the sound of knocking which aroused Lily, a violent imperious sort of knocking which wakened her sharply and brought her quickly to her feet. As if by force of habit, she opened the door and said in French, "Gently . . . please. . . . Gently. It is not necessary to break down the door. There is a sick woman here."
As it swung open she was enveloped by the sudden bright glare of an electric torch. At the same moment a voice speaking the most excellent French said, "I am sorry, Madame. I ask your pardon. I did not know the lodge was occupied."
The voice was not gruff. It was rather cold and smooth and carried a hint of weariness. "I found the door locked. I always knock upon locked doors," continued the voice. "May I come in?"
All this time Lily, blinded by the sudden light, stood leaning against the door, emerging slowly from the effects of her deep slumber. For a moment she was silent.
"I prefer to come outside," she replied. "There is a sick woman here. . . . If you will turn your light inside, you will see that I am not lying. She is there."
The light flashed across the high bed of Madame Gigon. "I believe you, Madame."
Lily closed the door and stood leaning against it. From the one of the lower windows of the château streamed a path of light which illuminated faintly the terrace, the front of the lodge and the Uhlan officer. He was not tall and was not in the least savage in appearance. On the contrary his face was smooth shaven and narrow, rather the face of a scholar than a soldier. Yet he carried himself very erect. There was something about him that was cold, stiff, almost brittle.
"What do you want of me?" asked Lily in a voice expressionless and free of all emotion.
For a moment her companion hesitated. He switched off the electric torch which until now he had kept turned full upon her. "Were you sleeping?" he asked.
"Yes." Again in the same dead tone.
"Extraordinary. You must be a woman of great nerve."
"No . . . not at all. I had not slept in thirty-six hours."
Again he hesitated. "I . . . I have been riding for that length of time . . . and still I cannot sleep. I have tried. . . . My nerves are too much on edge."
She waited silently.
"Tell me . . . why did you remain behind?" he began presently.
She made a gesture indicating the window behind which lay Madame Gigon. "You have seen the reason," she said. "It was impossible to go away."
The man whistled softly. "Aren't you in the least afraid?"
For a time there was no sound except a deep sigh. "There was nothing to be done," she answered presently in the same dead voice. "When there is nothing to be done, it is foolish to fret. It is best to make the most of it. What would you have me do?" For a moment a trace of life, almost of humor entered her voice. "Would you have me lie down and scream?" Again she sighed. "What good would it do? What would come of it? I do not believe in scenes."
The Uhlan laughed. "Unlike most women," he said. "But you are right. Afterwards, scenes are ridiculous. Nothing really matters much. . . . I've learned that in two days," he added with a sort of pride.
To this she made no reply but her very silence carried its own gesture of assent. She did not deny his statement.
"I suppose you hate me," he began, "like a good Frenchwoman."
For the first time she raised her head and looked squarely at the stranger. "What do you want?" she asked. "Why are you talking in this fashion? You understand I am helpless. I must talk with you if you choose." In the darkness she frowned. "I suppose that is war." And then, "Besides, I am not a Frenchwoman at all. I am an American."
At this the stranger gave a sudden start, in the darkness more audible than visible by the sudden click of metal on some part of his uniform.
"Then you must hate me even more. . . . I have lived in Paris. The Americans there are more French than the French."
This remark, it appeared, angered her for she answered quickly. "I know no Americans in Paris. I know nothing about them."
The Uhlan laughed. "Madame, I have no intention of injuring you . . . in any way."
To this she replied, "I suppose you do not mind if I sit down. I am a little weary."
The stranger's manner changed abruptly. He became courteous, almost courtly.
"I am sorry. I did not know there were chairs. You see I am a stranger here. Sit down if you prefer it, by all means. . . . I am not one to work hardships for a woman." She moved toward the long chair under the lindens and lay down, wrapping the cloak about her and closing her eyes.
"Perhaps," said the stranger, "you would prefer to sleep."
"No," she replied quietly, "I could not sleep now." And as if the idea amused her she added, "I might as well talk with you . . . since you too suffer from insomnia."
"As you will . . . if you do not hate me too much."
He sat in the chair by her side and slipped from his waist the belt in which hung his black lugar pistol. Thus they remained for some time, silently and peacefully, as if they were old friends between whom there was no necessity for speech. The German sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in his hands. There was a smoothness and angularity about his thin figure so trimly clad in a uniform that now carried the stains of battle.
At last he took out a cigarette and said, "I suppose you smoke, Madame?"
To which Lily replied without opening her eyes, "No."
He was so polite, so scrupulously polite. And presently he sighed, "Ah, this civilization . . . this world of monkeys. (Monde de singes.)" And once more the night stillness descended, for Lily made no effort at speech now. She lay motionless, so still that she might have been dead. Her silence appeared to reproach him for he turned suddenly and said, "Do you fancy I like this . . . this living like a burglar in a château . . . your château?"
"It is not mine," Lily murmured.
"Do you fancy I like this war. . . . I am not pleased with killing men. Why should I? I do not hate them. How is it possible? How can you even hate me?"
She stirred impatiently. "No. It is impossible to hate genuinely . . . without a reason one can put one's finger on. All the same you are my enemy," she added stubbornly.
The Uhlan laughed. "Who has made me so, Madame? Not myself, surely." And then after a little pause, he added with a kind of desperation, "No, I am like all the others. I have nothing to do with it. We are all caught, Madame, . . . hopelessly caught in one great web spun by a monster. Ah, what a monster!"
In the distant stable arose suddenly the sound of two horses quarreling. There was a violent kicking . . . a squealing that was savage and implacable.
"We are not even like that," he said. "It is not even that we bite and kick. . . . We shoot each other at a distance. You, Madame, perhaps have friends among the men I am fighting. I kill them and they me only because the first who shoots is the safest. You know the artillerymen kill men they never even see." He spat suddenly. "Bah! It is mechanics . . . all mechanics . . . machinery, you understand, which they make in great roaring factories. They kill men in factories in order to kill more men on the battlefield. What is there in that?"
Again she made no answer to his question. The quarreling horses had been separated and their squealing silenced. There was only the overpowering stillness once more, a stillness unearthly in quality which lifted all that it enveloped upon a new plane, determined by new values. Life, death, reality, dreams—all these things were confused and yet amazingly clear, as if the whole had been pierced by a single beam of cold white light.