Kitabı oku: «The Outrage», sayfa 6

Finally, after rapid consultation in the wings, the good-natured Miss Johnson was prevailed upon to go out and sing the "Merry Pipes of Pan." She was not nervous and did not care whether the silly refugees laughed or not.

When she stepped out she saw that Mr. Mellon was not there to accompany her, so after a long wait she went off into the wings on one side, just as Mr. Mellon—wiping his mouth after a hasty refreshment—came hurrying in on the other.

Miss Johnson had to be coaxed and driven and pushed out again, and this so flustered her that she forgot most of her words and had to make a series of inarticulate sounds until she came to the refrain.

Here she felt safe.

 
"Then follow the mipes,"
 

she warbled,

 
"The perry mipes–"
 

There seemed to be something wrong with the words, but she could not get them right

 
"Yet, the perry perry mipes of Pan!"
 

"Gracious goodness," murmured the husky Miss Snelgrove to Mrs. Whitaker, who sat near her, "what a strident voice!"

"Yes," assented Mrs. Whitaker. "And what are the 'perrimipes,' I wonder?"

There was no denying it. The concert was a fiasco. Owing to the execrable behaviour of the refugees and the contagion of their senseless laughter, a kind of hysteria gained the hall and half the audience was soon in a condition of brainless and uncontrollable hilarity.

Every new number was greeted with suffocated giggles, sometimes even with screams of laughter from the younger portion of the audience.

The curate—who had himself been found holding both his sides in one of the empty schoolrooms—made a caustic speech at the close of the performance about "our well-meant efforts, our perchance too modest talents," having appealed mainly to the risible faculties of their foreign guests, and he had pleasure in stating that the sum collected was eighteen pounds seven shillings and sixpence.

The refugees slunk home and were treated like pariahs for many weeks afterwards; while the word "Concert" was not pronounced for months in the homes of Mrs. Mellon, of Miss Johnson, or of Miss Price.

CHAPTER XI

CHÉRIE'S DIARY

Loulou is ill, and I am very anxious about her. It must be the English climate perhaps, for I also do not feel as I used to feel in Bomal. I often am deathly sick, and faint and giddy; I cannot bear the sight of things and of people that before I did not mind, or even liked. Certain puddings, for instance, and all kinds of dishes which I thought so extraordinarily nice to eat when we first came here, now I cannot bear to see them when they are brought on the table. Something makes me grind my teeth and I feel as if I must get up and run out of the room. And I have the same inexplicable aversion to people; for instance the nice kind Monsieur George Whitaker—I cannot say what I feel when he comes near to me; a sort of shuddering terror that makes me turn away so as not to see him. I cannot bear to look at his strong brown hands with the little short fair hairs on his wrist. I cannot look at his clear grey eyes, or at his mouth which always laughs, or at his broad shoulders, or anything.... There is something in me that shrinks and shudders away from the sight of him. Have the sorrows and troubles we have passed through unhinged my reason?…

But to return to Louise. I thought that what made her look so pale and wild was the anxiety of not hearing from Claude; but since his first dear letter ten days ago telling us that he is safe, she seems even worse than before. It is true he has been wounded; but that is almost a blessing, for the wound is not serious and yet it will keep him safely in the hospital at Dunkirk for months to come. He may remain slightly lame as he has been shot in the knee, but that does not matter, and he says his health is perfect.

Of course I thought Loulou would start at once to go and visit him, as she can get permission to see him and he has sent her plenty of money for the journey; but she will not hear of it. She only weeps and raves when I speak of it; and I do not think she ever sleeps at night. I can hear her in her room, which is next to mine, moaning and whispering and praying whenever I wake up. I have asked her why, why she will not go to see Claude—ah, if only I knew where to find Florian, how I should fly to his side!—but she shakes her head and weeps and her eyes are full of terror and madness. I ask her, "Is it because of Mireille? Are you afraid of telling him about her?" "Yes, yes, yes," she cries. "I am afraid, afraid of telling him what has made her as she is."

"But, Loulou, dearest, what do you mean? Was it not her fear that the Germans would kill us that took away her speech? Why should you not tell Claude? He would comfort you. He knows the Germans were in Bomal! He knows that they ransacked our house, that they killed Monsieur le Curé and poor André...."

"Yes, he knows that," answers Louise slowly with her eyes fixed on mine. "But he does not know–"

Then she is silent.

"What does he not know?"

She grasps my shoulders. "Chérie, Chérie. Are you demented? Have you forgotten—have you forgotten?"

Forgotten!… In truth, I have forgotten many things. There are gaps in my memory, wide blank spaces that, no matter how I try to remember, I cannot fill. Now and then something flashes into those blank spaces, a fleeting recollection, a transient vision, then the blankness closes down again and when I try to remember what I have remembered, it is gone.

I ask Louise to tell me what she means, to tell me what I have forgotten; but she only stares at me with those horror-haunted eyes and whispers, "Hush! hush, my poor Chérie!" Then she places her cold hand on my lips as if to close them.

I will try to remember. I will write down in this book all that remains in my memory of those terrible days and nights when we fled from home; when we hid starving and trembling in the woods, and saw through the trees our church-tower burn like a torch, saw it list over and crash down in a cloud of smoke and flame; when, crouching in a ditch, we heard the Uhlans gallop past us and saw them drag two little boys, César and Émile Duroc, out of their hiding-places in the bushes only a few yards from us.

We saw them—we saw them!—crush the children's feet with the butts of their rifles, and then taunt them, telling them to "run away!" I can see them now—two of the men standing behind the children, holding them upright by their small shoulders, while a third beat and crunched and ground their feet into the earth....

But stay … the wide blank spaces in my brain go back much further than that.

What is it that Louise says I have forgotten? Let me try to remember. Let me try to remember.

I will go back to the evening of my birthday. August the fourth. Our friends come. We dance.

 
Sur le pont
D'Avignon
On y danse, on y danse....
 

Then Florian arrives—and goes. The last thing I see clearly—distinct and clear-cut as a haut-relief carved upon my brain—is Florian, turning at the end of the road to wave his hand to me. Then he is gone. I remain standing on the verandah, alone; I can see the row of pink and white carnations in their pots at my feet; Louise's favourite malmaisons fill the air with perfume, and the large white daisies among them gleam like stars in the grey-green twilight; I am wearing my white dress and the sea-blue scarf Louise has given me that morning. Then little Mireille's laughing voice calls me; they all come running out to fetch me, Lucile and Cri-cri, Verveine, Cécile and Jeannette....

Then, suddenly—the gun! the thud and roll of that first distant gun!…

The children have fled, pale, trembling, whispering to their homes, and we are left alone in the house; alone, Louise, Mireille and I, because Frieda and Fritz—wait! what do I remember about Fritz? That he is throwing our gate open to the enemy—no; it is something else … something that frightens me more than that—but I cannot remember. I see Fritz laughing. Whenever I remember Fritz I see him laughing. He is leaning against a door … there is a curtain.... I seem to see a red curtain swaying beside him and he is laughing with his head thrown back. What is he laughing at?… At me? What is happening that he should laugh at me? The blank closes round Fritz. He has vanished. I cannot hold him. It is as if he were made of mist.

But—before that; what do I remember before that?…

The guns are thundering, the windows shake … a huge sheaf of flame rises up into the sky. There is a roar, an explosion; it is as if the world were crashing to pieces.

Then soldiers fill the house; officers take possession of our rooms—their coats and belts are on our chairs, their helmets are flung on the piano. There is a tall man with very light eyes....

A tall man with very light eyes....

Let me try to remember.

They order us about; they make Louise cry. One of them is wounded in the arm—I see it bleeding on the wet cotton-wool that Louise is binding round it—Now the blank comes.... I feel it coming down like a white cloud on my brain. Lift it, oh, holy Mother, lift it and let me remember!

There are two of the men near me; they blow their cigarette-smoke in my face; they want me to drink out of their glasses.... I weep … I will not. They laugh and force me to drink. Eins, zwei, drei!—they threaten me with I know not what—the light eyes of one of them are close to mine … impelling me, forcing me.... I am frightened, and I drink. Then they sing and clink their glasses together. I stand between them, and they make me drink again—cool frothing champagne and hot burning brandy—until I am so giddy that the floor heaves under my feet.

I cry and cry. I call Louise … she is gone from the room. I see Mireille crouching in a corner staring at me, white and terrified. I call her—"Mireille! Mireille!" She springs up and rushes to me, she screams like a maddened animal, and the light-eyed man catches her by the wrists and laughs. The other man—one of the other men, I don't know how many there are—one who has red hair and has been reciting something in German, lies down on the sofa and goes to sleep. But another one—I remember his round face, I remember that the others were angry with him and called him names—he comes near to me and says something quickly in my ear. I am not afraid of him … I know he is trying to help me … but I am so sick and giddy that I do not understand what he says. He pushes me towards the door. He says in German: "Geh! Geh! Mach' dass du fort kommst!" and again he pushes me toward the door. But I turn to see what is being done to Mireille. She has a broken glass in her hand and she is trying to strike the tall officer in the face with it, as if she were trying to strike at his light eyes and put them out. There is a streak of blood on his chin but he is still laughing. He snatches up my blue scarf which is lying on the floor and he ties Mireille's hands behind her back with it. Then he winds it round and round her until she cannot move. Wait—wait—let me remember!… Then he takes one of the leather belts that are on the chair and he straps her to the railing—the wrought-iron railing that ends the short flight of steps that lead to the drawing-room. I see him lifting her up those three shallow steps, I see him kick over the china flower-pot on the top step in order to get nearer to the iron banister, I see him fasten her to it with the leather strap.... Her little wild face is turned towards me, her hands are tied behind her back. I hear what he says in German—he is laughing and laughing—"Da bleibst du … und schaust zu!" Is he going to kill her? "Schau nur zu! Schau nur zu," he repeats. What does he mean? Is he going to kill me—to kill me before her eyes?

He comes toward me … (the white cloud is coming over my brain again). I see the other officer—the one with the round face, the one who had tried to push me to the door—Glotz! yes, Glotz, that was his name—I see him dart forward and catch hold of the other man's arms—stopping him—keeping him away from me. I rush to Mireille and try to drag her away from the railing, to free her … I cannot. My fingers have no strength. She is crying and moaning. I hear Glotz shouting again to me in German—"Get away—get away!" He is struggling with the tall man to give me time to escape. I stumble up the stairs screaming, "Louise! Louise!" I fall, again and again, at almost every step, but I stumble on and reach her door—it is locked. Locked from the inside. But I hear sounds in the room—a man's hoarse agitated voice....

I stagger blindly on. I will go to my room, I will lock myself in there, and open the window and call for help....

I turn the handle and open my door. On the threshold I stop.... There is something lying there—a black heap, with blood trickling from it. Amour! It is Amour, with his skull crushed in.

As I stand looking down at it I hear a man's footsteps running up the stairs—I know it is the tall man—he is coming to find me! I stagger blindly forward, my feet slipping in Amour's blood. I draw the door after me. I rush forward and hide behind the curtained alcove where my dresses hang. The man stops at the door and looks in. He sees the dead dog on the threshold; he says "Pfui" and tries to push it aside with his foot. He glances round the apparently empty room, then he turns away and I hear him going down the passage, opening other doors, thumping at Louise's door, where the voice of a man answers him.... Then I hear him running upstairs to the top floor in search of me.

I slip from my hiding-place, I stumble again over the horrible thing that was Amour, and I rush down the stairs and into the drawing-room. Mireille is still there, tied to the banister, her face thrown back, the tears streaming from her eyes. She is alone, but for the red-haired officer asleep and snoring on the sofa. A thought has come to me. I cross the room, which swims round me, and I go to the sideboard—I take the bottle of corrosive sublimate from the shelf where Louise had put it—I open it and shake some of the little pink tablets into my hand—then I run to the table where the wine-glasses stand. One of them is still half-filled with champagne. I drop the tablets into it. Even as I do so I hear the man coming downstairs. He appears on the top of the short flight, near Mireille, and laughs as he sees me. "Ha, ha! the dovelet who tried to escape!"

I smile up at him. I smile, moving back towards that side of the table where his wine-glass stands. He passes his hand over his forehead and hair; his face is hot; I know he is going to drink again. Then he lurches towards me; he puts one hand round my waist and with the other grasps the glass on the table.... Now this again I see, clear-cut in my memory as if carved into it with a knife; the tall man standing beside me raising the wine-glass to his lips....

He stops—he looks down into the glass. His face is motionless, expressionless. He merely stares at the little bright pink heap at the bottom of the glass from which spiral streaks of colour slowly curl up and tint the pale-gold wine.

For what seems to me hours or eternities he stares at the glass; then his light eyes turn slowly upon me. And this is the last thing I see.

I carry the gaze of those light eyes with me as I slip suddenly into unconsciousness. I hear a crash—is it the glass that has fallen?… I feel the grasp of two strong hot hands on my arms—is he holding me, or crushing me down? I hear Mireille shriek as I try madly to beat back the enveloping darkness. Mireille's piercing voice follows me into oblivion.

Then nothing more....

Nothing more.

The cloud that blots out consciousness lifts for an instant—is it a moment later? or hours later? Or years later?… I have no idea.

I feel that I am being lifted … carried along … then flung down. I feel my head thrown far back, my hair dragged from my forehead.... The world is full of rushing horrors, of tearing, racking pain.... Then again nothing more.

Fritz?… Is it then that I see him laughing as he looks at me? He is standing near a red curtain—he is speaking to some one, but his eyes are upon me and he laughs....

Once more unconsciousness like a black velvet tunnel engulfs me.

Out of the darkness comes Louise's voice calling me softly … then louder … then screaming my name. I open my eyes. She is bending over me. She lifts me up … she wraps a shawl round my head, she drags me along … drags me down the steps and out of the house and down a stony road that leads to the woods.

It is not day and it is not night; it is dawn perhaps.

Thirst and a deathly sickness are upon me.... I can go no farther. I lean my head against a tree, the rough bark of it wounds my forehead as I slip to the ground and fall on the damp leaves and moss.

I moan and cry.

"Hush! for the love of heaven! Hush!" … It is Louise's voice. "Hide, hide, lie down!"

And she drags me into a deep ditch overgrown with brambles. We hear horses gallop past and men's voices, full guttural voices that we know and dread. They ride on. They are gone. No—they stop.

They have found widow Duroc's two little boys hiding in the bushes.... Little César is shouldering a wooden gun and points it at them. In a moment three of the men are off their horses.... The children must be punished.

The children are punished.

… Then the men ride on. But the torture of those children has reminded me of Mireille. "Mireille—" I cry. "We must go back and fetch Mireille!"

"Hush! Mireille is here."

Mireille is here! She is not dead? Then who is dead?

"No one, no one is dead," says Louise, "we are all three here."

No—no—no! Somebody is dead. Somebody has been killed, I know it. I know it. Who is it? Is it I—is it Chérie who is dead? Louise's arms are about me, her tears fall on my face.

Then once again the velvet mist falls, and the world is blotted out.

We are on board a ship, dipping and rising on green-grey waters....

Many people are around us; derelicts like ourselves....

Soon the white cliffs of England shine and welcome us.

CHAPTER XII

CHÉRIE'S DIARY

November 2nd (All Souls).—It is strange, but even yet the feeling comes over me now and again that somebody was murdered on that night. And, strangest of all, I cannot free myself of the thought that it was I—I, who was killed, I, who am no more. I cannot describe the feeling. Doubtless it is folly. It is weakness and shock. It is what the good English doctor who has been called in to see us all—especially to try and cure Mireille—calls "psychic trauma." He says Mireille is suffering from psychic trauma; that means that her soul has been wounded. Sometimes I feel as if my soul had not only been wounded but that it had been killed—murdered while I was unconscious. I feel as if it were only a ghost, a spectre that resembles me and bears my name, but not the real Chérie, that wanders in this English garden, that speaks and smiles, kisses and comforts Louise, prays for Claude and for Florian.

Florian! Florian! Where are you? Are you dead, too? Is this sense of annihilation, of unreality in me but an omen, a warning of your real death? My brave young lover, blue-eyed and gay, have you gone from life? If I wander through all the world, if I journey to the ends of the earth, shall I never meet you again?

Oh God! I wish we were all safely dead, Louise and I and poor little Mireille; all lying silent and at peace, with closed eyes and quiet folded hands. I often think how good it would be if we could all three escape from life, as we escaped from the foe-haunted wood that night; if we could silently slip away, out of the long days and the dark nights; out of the hot summers and the dreary winters; out of feverish youth and desolate old age; out of hunger and thirst, out of exile and home-sickness, out of the past and out of the future, out of love and out of hate. Oh! to lie in peace under the waving trees of the little cemetery in Bomal, all with quiet heart and closed eyes. And by our side like a marble hero, Florian, Florian as I have known and loved him, Florian faithful and brave and true.

… But what of Claude? What would he do alone in the world, poor lame Claude, whose country is ravaged, whose home is devastated, whose wife fears him, whose child cannot speak to him … and whose sister, though she lives, has been murdered in her sleep?

November 15th.—Doctor Reynolds called today. Louise said she wanted him. Then when he came she would not see him. She locked herself in her room, and nobody could persuade her to come down.

So it was I who took Mireille into the drawing-room where Mrs. Whitaker and the doctor were waiting for us. They were talking rather excitedly when I knocked at the door—at least Mrs. Whitaker was—but when we entered she did not say a word.

She looked me up and down and I felt sorry that I had Louise's old black frock on instead of the new navy suit they had made for me a month ago. But I cannot fasten it, it is so tight round my throat and waist. That reminds me that when Mrs. Whitaker said the other day that she wished Doctor Reynolds to see me, I laughed and told her about my dresses being so tight, assuring her therefore that there could not be much wrong with me. She did not laugh, however; on the contrary, she stared at me very strangely and fixedly, and did not answer.

I don't know what is wrong in the house, but everybody seems silent and constrained and not so kind as they used to be. Eva has been sent away to stay with friends in Hastings, and George, who is at Aldershot, comes home for a day or so every now and then, but hardly ever speaks to us. He wanders about the roads near the house, or goes into the garden, the sad rainy garden, flicking the wet grasses and flowerless plants with his riding-stick. He often glances up at the window where I sit as if he would like to speak to us; but if I nod and smile at him he looks at me for an instant and then turns away. I have an idea that his mother objects to his talking with us much. He wanted Louise or me to read French with him, but after the first day his mother had a long talk with him and he did not come to our sitting-room again.

Perhaps they are tired of having us in the house. I am not surprised. We are doleful creatures, and we all have something the matter with us. I myself sometimes imagine I am going into consumption; I feel so strange and faint, I feel so sick when I eat, and I have the most terrible pains in my chest. Also I am anæmic, I know. But still I don't cough. So perhaps I am all right.

When we went into the drawing-room today the kindly old doctor felt Mireille's pulse and spoke to her, but all the time he was looking at me, and so was Mrs. Whitaker. He asked me several questions and when I told him what I felt, he coughed and said, "Hm.... Yes. Quite so." At last he glanced at Mrs. Whitaker, who at once got up and left the room with Mireille.

The doctor then beckoned to me and took my hand.

"My poor girl," he said, "have you anything to tell me?"

I was frightened. "What do you mean? Am I going to die? Am I very ill?"

He shook his head. "No. Why should you die? People don't die—" he commenced, and stopped.

"What about Mireille?" I asked, feeling terrified, I knew not why.

"Now we are speaking of you," he said, quite sternly.

Again he stopped as if expecting me to say something. I was bewildered. Perhaps the old man was a little strange in his head.

He coughed once more and his face flushed. Then he said: "I am an old man, my dear. I am a father—" He stopped again. "And I know all the sadness and wickednesses of the world. You may confide in me."

I said: "Thank you very much. I am sure I can."

There was another long silence. He seemed to be waiting. Then he got up and his face was a little hard. "Well," he said, "perhaps you prefer speaking to Mrs. Whitaker."

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "Why—not at all."

Again he waited. Then he took his hat and gloves. "Well—as you like," he said abruptly. "I cannot compel you to speak. You must go your own way. I suppose you have your reasons." And he left the room.

I stood petrified with wonder. What did he mean about my going my own way? Why did he seem displeased with me? As I opened the door to go back to my room, I heard him in the hall speaking to Mrs. Whitaker.

"No," he was saying. "I feel sure I am not mistaken. But she would not approach the subject at all."

What a queer nightmare world we are living in!

Later.—I am expected to say something, I know not what. Everybody looks at me with an air of expectation—that is to say, Mrs. Whitaker does. But strangest thing of all, I sometimes think that Loulou does too. There are long silences between us, and when I raise my eyes I find her looking at me with a sort of breathless eagerness, an expression of anxiety and suspense of which I cannot grasp the meaning.

Late at night.—Mrs. Whitaker was very strange this evening. She came into my bedroom without warning, and found me on my knees. I was weeping and saying my prayers. She suddenly came towards me with an impulsive gesture of kindness and took me in her arms.

"Poor little girl!" she said, and she kissed me. She added, as if she were echoing the sentiments of the kind old doctor, "Chérie, I am a mother—" Then she stopped. "And I am not such a sour, hard person as I look." The tears stood in her eyes so I took her hand and kissed it. She sat down on a low chair and drew me to a footstool beside her. "Tell me," she said. "Tell me everything. I shall understand."

So I told her. I told her how unhappy I was about Louise and Mireille, I told her about Claude in the hospital. She said, "I know all that. Go on." Then I told her about Florian, how brave and handsome he was, and that we were betrothed. Then I wept bitterly and told her I thought that he was dead.

She raised my face with her hand and looked into my eyes. "Is it he?" she said.

I did not understand. She repeated her question. "Is it he? Did he—" she hesitated as if looking for a word—"did he wrong you?"

"Why? How wrong me?" I asked.

She gazed deeply into my eyes and I gazed back as steadfastly at her, wondering what she meant.

"Did he betray you?"

"Betray me? Never!" I cried. "He could never betray. He is true and faithful as a saint."

I was hurt that she should have asked such a question. Florian, who has never looked at or thought of any woman but me! Betray me!

"Well," she said rising to her feet suddenly—her expression of rather cold dignity again reminded me of the doctor. "If it had been the outrage of an enemy I know you would have told me. However, let it be as you wish. I will say only this: where I could have pitied disgrace, I cannot condone deceit."

And she left me.

Am I dreaming, or are people in this country incomprehensible and demented?