Complete weird tales of.., p.941
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 941
“Oui, monsieur. The Mayor has asked for her. She is to play for an hour to entertain the wounded.” He rested his withered cheek on his hand and looked out through the window at the sunshine with aged and tragic eyes. “It is very little to do for our wounded,” he added aloud to himself.
Burley had sent twenty mules to Nivelle the night before, and had heard some disquieting rumours concerning that town.
Now he walked out past the dusky, arched passageway into the sunny street and continued northward under the trees to the barracks of the Gendarmerie.
“Bon jour l’ami Gargantua!” exclaimed the fat, jovial brigadier who had just emerged with boots shining, pipe-clay very apparent, and all rosy from a fresh shave.
“Bong joor, mon vieux copain!” replied Burley, preoccupied with some papers he was sorting. “Be good enough to look over my papers.”
The brigadier took them and examined them.
“Are they en règle?” demanded Burley.
“Parfaitement, mon ami.”
“Will they take me as far as Nivelle?”
“Certainly. But your mules went forward last night with the Remount — —”
“I know. I wish to inspect them again before the veterinary sees them. Telephone to the corral for a saddle mule.”
The brigadier went inside to telephone and Burley started for the corral at the same time.
His cream-coloured, wall-eyed mule was saddled and waiting when he arrived; he stuffed his papers into the breast of his tunic and climbed into the saddle.
“Allongs!” he exclaimed. “Hoop!”
* * *
Half way to Nivelle, on an overgrown, bushy, circuitous path which was the only road open between Nivelle and Sainte Lesse, he overtook Maryette, driving her donkey and ancient market cart.
“Carillonnette!” he called out joyously. “Maryette! C’est je!”
The girl, astonished, turned her head, and he spurred forward on his wall-eyed mount, evincing cordial symptoms of pleasure in the encounter.
“Wee, wee!” he cried. “Je voolay veneer avec voo!” And ere the girl could protest, he had dismounted, turning the wall-eyed one’s nose southward, and had delivered a resounding whack upon the rump of that temperamental animal.
“Allez! Go home! Beat it!” he cried.
The mule lost no time but headed for the distant corral at a canter; and Burley, grinning like a great, splendid, intelligent dog who has just done something to be proud of, stepped into the market cart and seated himself beside Maryette.
“Who told you where I am going?” she asked, scarcely knowing whether to laugh or let loose her indignation.
“Your father, Carillonnette.”
“Why did you follow me?”
“I had nothing else to do — —”
“Is that the reason?”
“I like to be with you — —”
“Really, monsieur! And you think it was not necessary to consult my wishes?”
“Don’t you like to be with me?” he asked, so naïvely that the girl blushed and bit her lip and shook the reins without replying.
They jogged on through the disused byway, the filbert bushes brushing axle and traces; but presently the little donkey relapsed into a walk again, and the girl, who had counted on that procedure when she started from Sainte Lesse, did not urge him.
“Also,” she said in a low voice, “I have been wondering who permits you to address me as Carillonnette. Also as Maryette. You have been, heretofore, quite correct in assuming that mademoiselle is the proper form of address.”
“I was so glad to see you,” he said, so simply that she flushed again and offered no further comment.
For a long while she let him do the talking, which was perfectly agreeable to him. He talked on every subject he could think of, frankly practicing idioms on her, pleased with his own fluency and his progress in French.
After a while she said, looking around at him with a curiosity quite friendly:
“Tell me, Monsieur Burley, why did you desire to come with me today?”
He started to reply, but checked himself, looking into the dark blue and engaging eyes. After a moment the engaging eyes became brilliantly serious.
“Tell me,” she repeated. “Is it because there were some rumours last evening concerning Nivelle?”
“Wee!”
“Oh,” she nodded, thoughtfully.
After driving for a little while in silence she looked around at him with an expression on her face which altered it exquisitely.
“Thank you, my friend,” she murmured.... “And if you wish to call me Carillonnette — do so.”
“I do want to. And my name’s Jack.... If you don’t mind.”
Her eyes were fixed on her donkey’s ears.
“Djack,” she repeated, musingly. “Jacques — Djack — it’s the same, isn’t it — Djack?”
He turned red and she laughed at him, no longer afraid.
“Listen, my friend,” she said, “it is très beau — what have you done.”
“Vooz êtes tray belle — —”
“Non! Please stop! It is not a question of me — —”
“Vooz êtes tray chick — —”
“Stop, Djack! That is not good manners! No! I was merely saying that — you have done something very nice. Which is quite true. You heard rumours that Nivelle had become unsafe. People whispered last evening — something about the danger of a salient being cut at its base.... I heard the gossip in the street. Was that why you came after me?”
“Wee.”
“Thank you, Djack.”
She leaned a trifle forward in the cart, her dimpled elbows on her knees, the reins sagging.
Blue and rosy jays flew up before them, fluttering away through the thickets; a bullfinch whistled sweetly from a thorn bush, watching them pass under him, unafraid.
“You see,” she said, half to herself, “I had to come. Who could refuse our wounded? There is no bell-master in our department; and only one bell-mistress.... To find anyone else to play the Nivelle carillon one would have to pierce the barbarians’ lines and search the ruins of Flanders for a Beiaardier — a Klokkenist, as they call a carillonneur in the low countries.... But the Mayor asked it, and our wounded are waiting. You understand, mon ami Djack, I had to come.”
He nodded.
She added, naïvely:
“God watches over our trenches. We shall be quite safe in Nivelle.”
A dull boom shook the sunlit air. Even in the cart they could feel the vibration.
An hour later, everywhere ahead of them, a vast, confused thundering was steadily increasing, deepening with every ominous reverberation.
Where two sandy wood roads crossed, a mounted gendarme halted them and examined their papers.
“My poor child,” he said to the girl, shaking his head, “the wounded at Nivelle were taken away during the night. They are fighting there now in the streets.”
“In Nivelle streets!” faltered the girl.
“Oui, mademoiselle. Of the carillon little remains. The Boches have been shelling it since daylight. Turn again. And it is better that you turn quickly, because it is not known to us what is going on in that wooded district over there. For if they get a foothold in Nivelle on this drive they might cross this road before evening.”
The girl sat grief-stricken and silent in the cart, staring at the woods ahead where the road ran through taller saplings and where, here and there, mature trees towered.
All around them now the increasing thunder rolled and echoed and shook the ground under them. Half a dozen gendarmes came up at a gallop. Their officer drew bridle, seized the donkey’s head and turned animal and cart southward.
“Go back,” he said briefly, recognizing Burley and returning his salute. “You may have to take your mules out of Sainte Lesse!” he added, as he wheeled his horse. “We are getting into trouble out here, nom de Dieu!”
Maryette’s head hung as the donkey jogged along, trotting willingly because his nose was now pointed homeward.
The girl drove with loose and careless rein and in silence; and beside her sat Burley, his troubled gaze always reverting to the despondent form beside him.
“Too bad, little girl,” he said. “But another time our wounded shall listen to your carillon.”
“Never at Nivelle.... The belfry is being destroyed.... The sweetest carillon in France — the oldest, the most beautiful.... Fifty-six bells, Djack — a wondrous wilderness of bells rising above where one stands in the belfry, tier on tier, tier on tier, until one’s gaze is lost amid the heavenly company aloft.... Oh, Djack! And the great bell, Clovis! He hangs there — through hundreds of years he has spoken with his great voice of God! — so that they heard him for miles and miles across the land — —”
“Maryette — I am so sorry for you — —”
“Oh! Oh! My carillon of Nivelle! My beloved carillon!”
“Maryette, dear! My little Carillonnette — —”
“No — my heart is broken — —”
“Vooz ates tray, tray belle — —”
The sudden crashing of heavy feet in the bushes checked him; but it was too late to heed it now — too late to reach for his holster. For all around them swarmed the men in sea-grey, jerking the donkey off his forelegs, blocking the little wheels with great, dirty fists, seizing Burley from behind and dragging him violently out of the cart.
A near-sighted officer, thin and spare as Death, was talking in a loud, nasal voice and squinting at Burley where he still struggled, red and exasperated, in the clutches of four soldiers:
“Also! That is no uniform known to us or to any nation at war with us. That is not regulation in England — that collar insignia. This is a case of a franc-tireur! Now, then, you there in your costume de fantasie! What have you to say, eh?”
There was a silence; Burley ceased struggling.
“Answer, do you hear? What are you?”
“American.”
“Pig-dog!” shouted the gaunt officer. “So you are one of those Yankee muleteers in your uniform, and armed! It is sufficient that you are American. If it had not been for America this war would be ended! But it is not enough, apparently, that you come here with munitions and food, that you insult us at sea, that you lie about us and slander us and send your shells and cartridges to England to slay our people! No! Also you must come to insult us in your clown’s uniform and with your pistol—” The man began to choke with fury, unable to continue, except by gesture.
But the jerky gestures were terribly significant: soldiers were already pushing Burley across the road toward a great oak tree; six men fell out and lined up.
“M-my Government—” stammered the young fellow — but was given no opportunity to speak. Very white, the chill sweat standing on his forehead and under his eyes, he stood against the oak, lips compressed, grey eyes watching what was happening to him.
Suddenly he understood it was all over.
“Djack!”
He turned his gaze toward Maryette, where she struggled toward him, held by two soldiers.
“Maryette — Carillonnette—” His voice suddenly became steady, perfectly clear. “Je vous aime, Carillonnette.”
“Oh, Djack! Djack!” she cried in terror.
He heard the orders; was aware of the levelled rifles; but his reckless greyish eyes were now fixed on her, and he began to laugh almost mischievously.
“Vooz êtes tray belle,” he said, “ — tray, tray chick — —”
“Djack!”
But the clang of the volley precluded any response from him except the half tender, half reckless smile that remained on his youthful face where he lay looking up at the sky with pleasant, sightless eyes, and a sunbeam touching the metal mule on his blood-wet collar.
CHAPTER XVII
FRIENDSHIP
SHE TRIED ONCE more to lift the big, warm, flexible body, exerting all her slender strength. It was useless. It was like attempting to lift the earth. The weight of the body frightened her.
Again she sank down among the ferns under the great oak tree; once more she took his blood-smeared head on her lap, smoothing the bright, wet hair; and her tears fell slowly upon his upturned face.
“My friend,” she stammered, “ — my kind, droll friend.... The first friend I ever had — —”
The gun thunder beyond Nivelle had ceased; an intense stillness reigned in the forest; only a leaf moved here and there on the aspens.
A few forest flies whirled about her, but as yet no ominous green flies came — none of those jewelled harbingers of death which appear with horrible promptness and as though by magic from nowhere when anything dies in the open world.
Her donkey, still attached to the little gaily painted market cart, had wandered on up the sandy lane, feeding at random along the fern-bordered thickets which walled in the Nivelle byroad on either side.
Presently her ear caught a slight sound; something stirred somewhere in the woods behind her. After an interval of terrible stillness there came a distant crashing of footsteps among dead leaves and underbrush.
Horror of the Hun still possessed her; the victim of Prussian ferocity still lay across her knees. She dared not take the chance that friendly ears might hear her call for aid — dared not raise her voice in appeal lest she awaken something monstrous, unclean, inconceivable — the unseen thing which she could hear at intervals prowling there among dead leaves in the demi-light of the woods.
Suddenly her heart leaped with fright; a man stepped cautiously out of the woods into the road; another, dressed in leather, with dry blood caked on his face, followed.
The first comer, a French gendarme, had already caught sight of the donkey and market cart; had turned around instinctively to look for their owner. Now he discovered her seated there among the ferns under the oak tree.
“In the name of God,” he growled, “what’s that child doing there!”
The airman in leather followed him across the road to the oak; the girl looked up at them out of dark, tear-marred eyes that seemed dazed.
“Well, little one!” rumbled the big, red-faced gendarme. “What’s your name? — you who sit here all alone at the wood’s edge with a dead man across your knees?”
She made an effort to find her voice — to control it.
“I am Maryette Courtray, bell-mistress of Sainte Lesse,” she answered, trembling.
“And — this young man?”
“They shot him — the Prussians, monsieur.”
“My poor child! Was he your lover, then?”
Her tear-filled eyes widened:
“Oh, no,” she said naïvely; “it is sadder than that. He was my friend.”
The big gendarme scratched his chin; then, with an odd glance at the young airman who stood beside him:
“To lose a friend is indeed sadder than to lose a lover. What was your friend’s name, little one?”
She pressed her hand to her forehead in an effort to search among her partly paralyzed thoughts:
“Djack.... That is his name.... He was the first real friend I ever had.”
The airman said:
“He is one of my countrymen — an American muleteer, Jack Burley — in charge at Sainte Lesse.”
At the sound of the young man’s name pronounced in English the girl began to cry. The big gendarme bent over and patted her cheek.
“Allons,” he growled; “courage! little mistress of the bells! Let us place your friend in your pretty market cart and leave this accursed place, in God’s name!”
He straightened up and looked over his shoulder.
“For the Boches are in Nivelle woods,” he added, with an oath, “and we ought to be on our way to Sainte Lesse, if we are to arrive there at all. Allons, comrade, take him by the head!”
So the wounded airman bent over and took the body by the shoulders; the gendarme lifted the feet; the little bell-mistress followed, holding to one of the sagging arms, as though fearing that these strangers might take away from her this dead man who had been so much more to her than a mere lover.
When they laid him in the market cart she released his sleeve with a sob. Still crying, she climbed to the seat of the cart and gathered up the reins. Behind her, flat on the floor of the cart, the airman and the gendarme had seated themselves, with the young man’s body between them. They were opening his tunic and shirt now and were whispering together, and wiping away blood from the naked shoulders and chest.
“He’s still warm, but there’s no pulse,” whispered the airman. “He’s dead enough, I guess, but I’d rather hear a surgeon say so.”
The gendarme rose, stepped across to the seat, took the reins gently from the girl.
“Weep peacefully, little one,” he said; “it does one good. Tears are the tisane which strengthens the soul.”
“Ye-es.... But I am remembering that — that I was not very k-kind to him,” she sobbed. “It hurts — here—” She pressed a slim hand over her breast.
“Allons! Friends quarrel. God understands. Thy friend back there — he also understands now.”
“Oh, I hope he does!... He spoke to me so tenderly — yet so gaily. He was even laughing at me when they shot him. He was so kind — and droll—” She sobbed anew, clasping her hands and pressing them against her quivering mouth to check her grief.
“Was it an execution, then?” demanded the gendarme in his growling voice.
“They said he must be a franc-tireur to wear such a uniform — —”
“Ah, the scoundrels! Ah, the assassins! And so they murdered him there under the tree?”
“Ah, God! Yes! I seem to see him standing there now — his grey, kind eyes — and no thought of fear — just a droll smile — the way he had with me—” whispered the girl, “the way — his way — with me — —”
“Child,” said the gendarme, pityingly, “it was love!”
But she shook her head, surprised, the tears still running down her tanned cheeks:
“Monsieur, it was more serious than love; it was friendship.”
CHAPTER XVIII
