That breathless unrest which always seizes me when men are at one anothers throats set me wriggling and twitching, and peering from the window, through which I could not see because of the blinds. Command after command was ringing out in the street below. Forward! shouted a resonant voice, and Forward! forward! forward! echoed the voices of the captains, distant and more distant, then drowned in the rolling of kettle-drums and the silvery clang of Moorish cymbals.
The band music of the Algerian infantry died away in the distant tumult of the guns; faintly, at moments, I could still hear the shrill whistle of their flutes, the tinkle of the silver chimes on their toug; then a blank, filled with the hollow roar of battle, then a clear note from their reeds, a tinkle, an echoing chime and nothing, save the immense monotone of the cannonade.
I had been lying there motionless for an hour, my head on my hand, snivelling, when there came a knock at the door, and I hastily buttoned my blood-stained shirt to the throat, threw a tunic over my shoulders, and cried, Come in!
A trick of memory and perhaps of physical weakness had driven from my mind all recollection of the Countess de Vassart since I had come to my senses under the surgeons probe. But at the touch of her fingers on the door outside, I knew her I was certain that it could be nobody but my Countess, who had turned aside in her gentle pilgrimage to lift this Lazarus from the waysides of a hostile world.
She entered noiselessly, bearing a bowl of broth and some bread; but when she saw me sitting there with eyes and nose all red and swollen from snivelling she set the bowl on a table and hurried to my side.
What is it? Is the pain so dreadful? she whispered.
No oh no. Im only a fool, and quite hungry, madame.
She brought the broth and bread and a glass of the most exquisite wine I ever tasted a wine that seemed to brighten the whole room with its liquid sunshine.
Do you know where you are? she asked, gravely.
Oh yes in Morsbronn.
And in whose house, monsieur?
I dont know I glanced instinctively at the tarnished coronet on the canopy above the bed. Do you know, Madame la Comtesse?
I ought to, she said, faintly amused. I was born in this room. It was to this house that I desired to come before my exile.
Her eyes softened as they rested first on one familiar object, then on another.
The house has always been in our family, she said. It was once one of those fortified farms in the times when every hamlet was a petty kingdom like the King of Yvetôts domain. Doubtless the ancient Trécourts also wore cotton night-caps for their coronets.
I remember now, said I, a stone turret wedged in between two houses. Is this it?
Yes, it is all that is left of the farm. My ancestors built this crazy old row of houses for their tenants.
After a silence I said, I wish I could look out of the window.
She hesitated. I dont suppose it could harm you?
It will harm me if I dont, said I.
She went to the window and folded up the varnished blinds.
How dreadful the cannonade is growing, she said. Wait! dont think of moving! I will push you close to the window, where you can see.
The tower in which my room was built projected from the rambling row of houses, so that my narrow window commanded a view of almost the entire length of the street. This street comprised all there was of Morsbronn; it lay between a double rank of houses constructed of plaster and beams, and surmounted by high-pointed gables and slated or tiled roofs, so fantastic that they resembled steeples.
Down the street I could see the house that I had left twenty-four hours before, never dreaming what my journey to La Trappe held in store for me. One or two dismounted soldiers of the Third Hussars sat in the doorway, listening to the cannon; but, except for these listless troopers, a few nervous sparrows, and here and there a skulking peasant, slinking off with a load of household furniture on his back, the street was deserted.
Everywhere shutters had been put up, blinds closed, curtains drawn. Not a shred of smoke curled from the chimneys of these deserted houses; the heavy gables cast sinister shadows over closed doors and gates barred and locked, and it made me think of an unseaworthy ship, prepared for a storm, so bare and battened down was this long, dreary commune, lying there in the August sun.
Beside the window, close to my face, was a small, square loop-hole, doubtless once used for arquebus fire. It tired me to lean on the window, so I contented myself with lying back and turning my head, and I could see quite as well through the loop-hole as from the window.
Lying there, watching the slow shadows crawling out over the sidewalk, I had been for some minutes thinking of my friend Mr. Buckhurst, when I heard the young Countess stirring in the room behind me.
You are not going to be a cripple? she said, as I turned my head.
Oh no, indeed! said I.
Nor die? she added, seriously.
How could a man die with an angel straight from heaven to guard him! Pardon, I am only grateful, not impertinent. I looked at her humbly, and she looked at me without the slightest expression. Oh, it was all very well for the Countess de Vassart to tuck up her skirts and rake hay, and live with a lot of half-crazy apostles, and throw her fortune to the proletariat and her reputation to the dogs. She could do it; she was Éline Cyprienne de Trécourt, Countess de Vassart; and if her relatives didnt like her views, that was their affair; and if the Faubourg Saint-Germain emitted moans, that concerned the noble faubourg and not James Scarlett, a policeman attached to a division of paid mercenaries.
Oh yes, it was all very well for the Countess de Vassart to play at democracy with her unbalanced friends, but it was also well for Americans to remember that she was French, and that this was France, and that in France a countess was a countess until she was buried in the family vault, whether she had chosen to live as a countess or as Doll Dairymaid.
The young girl looked at me curiously, studying me with those exquisite gray eyes of hers. Pensive, distraite, she sat there, the delicate contour of her head outlined against the sunny window, which quivered with the slow boom! boom! of the cannonade.
Are you English, Monsieur Scarlett? she asked, quietly.
American, madame.
And yet you take service under an emperor.
I have taken harder service than that.
Of necessity?
Yes, madame.
She was silent.
Would it amuse you to hear what I have been? I said, smiling.
That is not the word, she said, quietly. To hear of hardship helps one to understand the world.
The cannonade had been growing so loud again that it was with difficulty that we could make ourselves audible to each other. The jar of the discharges began to dislodge bits of glass and little triangular pieces of plaster, and the solid walls of the tower shook till even the mirror began to sway and the tarnished gilt sconces to quiver in their sockets.
I wish you were not in Morsbronn, I said.
I feel safer here in my own house than I should at La Trappe, she replied.
She was probably thinking of the dead Uhlan and of poor Bazard; perhaps of the wretched exposure of Buckhurst the man she had trusted and who had proved to be a swindler, and a murderous one at that.
Suddenly a shell fell into the court-yard opposite, bursting immediately in a cloud of gravel which rained against our turret like hail.
Suddenly a shell fell into the court-yard opposite, bursting immediately in a cloud of gravel which rained against our turret like hail.
Stunned for an instant, the Countess stood there motionless, her face turned towards the window. I struggled to sit upright.
She looked calmly at me; the color came back into her face, and in spite of my remonstrance she walked to the window, closed the heavy outside shutters and the blinds. As she was fastening them I heard the whizzing quaver of another shell, the racket of its explosion, the crash of plaster.
Where is the safest place for us to stay? she asked. Her voice was perfectly steady.
In the cellar. I beg you to go at once.
Bang! a shell blew up in a shower of slates and knocked a chimney into a heap of bricks.
Do you insist on staying by that loop-hole? she asked, without a quiver in her voice.
Yes, I do, said I. Will you go to the cellar?
No, she said, shortly.
I saw her walk toward the rear of the room, hesitate, sink down by the edge of the bed and lay her face in the pillow.
Two shells burst with deafening reports in the street; the young Countess covered her face with both hands. Shell after shell came howling, whistling, whizzing into the village; the two hussars had disappeared, but a company of Turcos came up on a run and began to dig a trench across the street a hundred yards west of our turret.
How they made the picks and shovels fly! Shells tore through the air over them, bursting on impact with roof and chimney; the Turcos tucked up their blue sleeves, spat on their hands, and dug away like terriers, while their officers, smoking the eternal cigarette, coolly examined the distant landscape through their field-glasses.
Shells rained fast on Morsbronn; nearer and nearer bellowed the guns; the plaster ceiling above my head cracked and fell in thin flakes, filling the room with an acrid, smarting dust. Again and again metal fragments from shells rang out on the heavy walls of our turret; a roof opposite sank in; flames flickered up through clouds of dust; a heavy yellow smoke, swarming with sparks, rolled past my window.
Down the street a dull sound grew into a steady roar; the Turcos dropped pick and shovel and seized their rifles.
Garde! Garde à vous! rang their startled bugles; the tumult increased to a swelling uproar, shouting, cheering, the crash of shutters and of glass, and
The Prussians! bellowed the captain. Turcos charge!
His voice was lost; a yelling mass of soldiery burst into view; spiked helmets and bayonets glittering through the smoke, the Turcos were whirled about like brilliant butterflies in a tornado; the fusillade swelled to a stupefying din, exploding in one terrible crash; and, wrapped in lightning, the Prussian onset passed.
From the stairs below came the sound of a voiceless struggle, the trample and panting and clicking of steel, till of a sudden a voice burst out into a dreadful screaming. A shot followed silence another shot then the stairs outside shook under the rush of mounting men.
As the door burst open I felt a touch on my arm; the Countess de Vassart stood erect and pale, one slender, protecting hand resting lightly on my shoulder; a lieutenant of Prussian infantry confronted us; straight, heavy sword drawn, rigid, uncompromising, in his faultless gray-and-black uniform, with its tight, silver waist-sash.
I do not have you thrown into the street, he said to me, in excellent French, because there has been no firing from the windows in this village. Otherwise other measures. Be at ease, madame, I shall not harm your invalid.
He glanced at me out of his near-sighted eyes, dropped the point of his sword to the stone floor, and slowly caressed his small, blond mustache.
How many troops passed through here yesterday morning? he asked.
I was silent.
There was artillery, was there not?
I only looked at him.
Do you hear? he repeated, sharply. You are a prisoner, and I am questioning you.
You have that useless privilege, I observed.
If you are insolent I will have you shot! he retorted, staring haughtily at me.
I glanced out of the window.
There was a pause; the hand of the Countess de Vassart trembled on my shoulder.
Under the window strident Prussian bugles were blowing a harsh summons; the young officer stepped to the loop-hole and looked out, then hastily removed his helmet and thrust his blond head through the smoky aperture. March those prisoners in below! he shouted down.
Then he withdrew his head, put on his polished helmet of black leather, faced with the glittering Prussian eagle, and tightened the gold-scaled cheek-guard.
A moment later came a trample of feet on the landing outside, the door was flung open, and three prisoners were brutally pushed into the room.
I tried to turn and look at them; they stood in the dusk near the bed, but I could only make out that one was a Turco, his jacket in rags, his canvas breeches covered with mud.
Again the lieutenant came to the loop-hole and glanced out, then shook his head, motioning the soldiers back.
It is too high and the arc of fire too limited, he said, shortly. Detail four men to hold the stairs, ten men and a sergeant in the room below, and youd better take your prisoners down there. Bayonet that Turco tiger if he shows his teeth again. March!
As the prisoners filed out I turned once more and thought I recognized Salah Ben-Ahmed in the dishevelled Turco, but could not be certain, so disfigured and tattered the soldier appeared.
Here, you hussar prisoner! cried the lieutenant, pointing at me with his white-gloved finger, turn your head and busy yourself with what concerns you. And you, madame, he added, pompously, see that you give us no trouble and stay in this room until you have permission to leave.
Are are you speaking to me, monsieur? asked the Countess, amazed. Then she rose, exasperated.
Your insolence disgraces your uniform, she said. Go to your French prisoners and learn the rudiments of courtesy!
The officer reddened to his colorless eyebrows; his little, near-sighted eyes became stupid and fixed; he smoothed the blond down on his upper lip with hesitating fingers.
Suddenly he turned and marched out, slamming the door violently behind him.
At this impudence the eyes of the Countess began to sparkle, and an angry flush mounted to her cheeks.
Madame, said I, he is only a German boy, unbalanced by his own importance and his first battle. But he will never forget this lesson; let him digest it in his own manner.
And he did, for presently there came a polite knock at the door, and the lieutenant reappeared, bowing rigidly, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other holding his helmet by the gilt spike.
Lieutenant von Eberbach present to apologize, he said, jerkily, red as a beet. Begs permission to take a half-dozen of wine; men very thirsty.
Lieutenant von Eberbach may take the wine, said the Countess, calmly.
Rudeness without excuse! muttered the boy; beg the graciously well-born lady not to judge my regiment or my country by it. Can Lieutenant von Eberbach make amends?
The Lieutenant has made them, said the Countess. The merciful treatment of French prisoners will prove his sincerity.
The lad made another rigid bow and got himself out of the door with more or less dignity, and the Countess drew a chair beside my sofa-chair and sat down, eyes still bright with the cinders of a wrath I had never suspected in her.
Together we looked down into the street.