Chapter XIII: A French Conscript

DENHAM IVOR was a man considerably better educated and better read than the average young officer of his day, a matter for congratulation in respect of Roy's present education; and also his intellectual gifts were well above the average level.

The main force of the man lay, however, rather in the direction of character than of pure intellect. There was about him a soldierly directness and simplicity, together with a whole-heartedness which often belongs to that type of nature. Whatever might befall, he would do his duty, not only with no thought of consequences to himself, but in the most direct and thorough mode possible.

He was a good man as well as a gallant soldier. He was one who might say little, but who would at all costs do what he believed to be right. He was honourable, true, pure-minded, chivalrous towards women, tender towards little children, reverent and faithful towards his God. He was indomitable in courage when he faced a foe; but so soon as fighting ceased, he would be the first to succour a wounded enemy.

All this means largely, as has been earlier stated, that Denham Ivor had taken shape under the influence and the example of John Moore. Ivor was the pupil; Moore was the master.

The prolonged banishment from England and captivity in France could not fail to be to him a terrible trial; not only because he was cut off indefinitely from the girl whom he loved with whole-hearted devotion; but because too he was cut off, in his full vigour, from every hope of promotion and honour, and from serving under the Commander whom he loved with a devotion no less whole-hearted.

Yet he seldom spoke to any one about the greatness of the trouble. It seemed as if his spirit of soldierly obedience had taught him also the secret of submission to the Divine Will.

It is easy to see that a friendship of this kind could not fail to be good for Roy. And the friendship was not such in name only, since advantages existed on both sides. Much as Ivor could do for the lad, in the way of teaching him and keeping him out of mischief, there was another side to the question. Roy, by his light-heartedness and his spirit of unconquerable fun, could and did do much to lighten the weight of the young Guardsman's wearisome captivity.

The journey from Fontainebleau to Verdun, of one hundred and seventy miles or more, would be nothing much in these days of steam-power, but it was a considerable matter in those times of slow travelling. It seemed to weigh upon Ivor's spirits more than anything had yet weighed upon them; or Denham was less successful in hiding what he felt. Mrs. Baron was brighter than for months past. Her relief at not being forced to leave her husband, or to part yet with Roy, tended to cheerfulness; and Colonel Baron, glad to see her happy, was the same himself. Roy, as usual, was in good spirits. Ivor alone appeared to have parted with his elasticity. He did not give in to the mood of depression; but it was patent enough to Mrs. Baron, whose concerned gaze wandered often towards him.

No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly Keene, which floated before his eyes through all those miles of driving, driving, ever further away from where he craved to be. He might reply readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence recurred, up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft velvet eyes, her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would hear the tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did like Captain Ivor—well, just a little!—and that she might perhaps be willing to marry him—well, some day!

Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest itself, how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever be. He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment, before he should see Polly again. Why not? In those times wars had been wont to last in one unbroken stretch for such periods as seven years, ten years, twenty years, thirty years.

Would Polly be content to wait for him?

This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse possibility. The idea that she might not be willing to wait came freshly; but having once come it did not soon depart.

He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one thought.

They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small town, where fresh horses would be waiting. Ivor was listening to Roy, responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street, when, without warning, that query burst upon him.

Would Polly indeed be willing to wait? Did she care enough? She was very young; hardly more than a child. If he were to be years away from her, the two never meeting, letters seldom passing between them, could he expect—would it even be fair and reasonable to expect—that he should remain enshrined in her heart, as surely as she would remain enshrined in his? Polly had known him intimately but a few weeks, though their acquaintance extended further back; and impressions made upon the mind and imagination at seventeen are not always lasting. Moreover, Polly was exceedingly pretty, quite unusually charming. Other men would wish to marry her. Could he expect such constancy on her part as that she should wait for her absent lover, refusing every other chance that might present itself? What would her grandmother think and say? Polly, with all her charms, was a portionless maiden.

The whole question rolled itself out before Denham's mental gaze, as they drove along the chief street of the place, exciting less attention than usual. With his bodily eyes he saw little, yet in a manner he was aware that a considerable stir prevailed, and he heard, almost without hearing, Roy's rapid questions.

"I don't at all know," he replied mechanically, as they came to a halt before the inn.

"Den—look—what a lot of people outside the maison de ville! And some of them seem so miserable. What are they after?"

"I have not the least idea. Something seems to be wrong. Easy to find out."

The mystery was soon explained. This happened to be a day appointed for drawing for the conscription; and around the door of the little town-hall opposite were gathered the near relatives of the young fellows who were eligible. There was no mistaking the dread written upon their faces.

One woman in particular drew notice. She was bent and old in appearance, though very likely not beyond middle age; she had grey hair; and she wore a short very full skirt, with a long-waisted bodice, and big brass buckles on her shoes. From under the wide-brimmed hat her face waited, with a consuming eagerness, for news, the lips working, the eyes staring.

"I wonder if she's got a son. I hope, if she has, he won't be taken," exclaimed Roy. "What are they doing inside."

"Drawing lots, to see who must go to the wars. All the young men in the neighbourhood, of a certain age, have been called together, probably; and those who are passed by surgeons as whole and healthy have to draw lots. Some will escape, and some will have to go."

"Look—they are coming out. And something is being said—what is it?"

"Hush—the names of those who are drawn."

All listened intently; and the elderly woman, clasping her worn hands, leaned forward, with a face of concentrated suspense.

"Jean Paulet," sounded clearly.

A bitter wailing cry burst from her, drowning what followed. She held out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and dropped senseless to the ground.

"Can nothing be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Baron in distress. "The poor creature! George, will they not let him off? Surely they need not be so cruel as to take him away!"

"I am afraid the only chance would be a substitute—and not much hope of that."

"Do ask. Find out something. Do, please."

Denham crossed the road with his rapid stride, followed closely by his inevitable shadow, Roy, while the Colonel came after in more leisurely style. The poor woman's friends were attending to her; and Ivor, always the Colonel's spokesman in a foreign language, made inquiries of a respectable man, probably a small shopkeeper, standing by. The man shrugged his shoulders as he replied. "It had to be," he said, not unkindly, but resignedly. All young men equally were subject to the conscription, and he who "fell" had to go. There was no escape, no remedy. None, except through the purchase of a substitute; and Marie Paulet, he feared, could not manage that. She was a good woman, truly estimable, and he was sorry for her, yes, sincerely sorry; but what was to be done? The First Consul required soldiers, and, in fact, he would have them! Another expressive shrug.

How much would be required for a substitute? Eh Bien—one hundred livres would doubtless suffice. Madame Paulet, foreseeing this day, had toiled hard and saved assiduously during many years; but with her utmost exertions, as he knew, for she had told him, she had managed to get together only fifty-five livres. No substitute could be obtained for only fifty-five livres. No, no, impossible! Jean would have to go, and his mother would grow used to it, like other mothers. How soon? Sans doute he would be marched away at once—immediately—to the nearest dépôt, there to be exercised. The thing had to be. There was no remedy. All France was giving up her best men, by tens of thousands, to feed the army. In parts already none but women and old men remained to till the soil.

"Was Madame Paulet a widow?" asked Denham.

"Oui, oui, oui, oui," the man said, fast as the words could come. Certainly she was a widow; but then she was not over sixty, nor was Jean her only son. Had she been over sixty, and depending for her subsistence upon an only son, then vraiment her case would have been easily pleaded. Marie Paulet was under fifty in age, though she looked more, since she had toiled hard and had known much sorrow. She had a second son too, young and somewhat lame, but able to work, though in truth more of a burden than an assistance. Jean, however, would have to go. This was a supplementary conscription for the year, more men being urgently required by the First Consul.

Jean Paulet stood with a face of sullen despair beside his mother, saying not a word. He was scarcely over nineteen, only one fortnight past the day, Ivor's informant remarked; and he looked young, being loose-limbed and shambling, though broad-shouldered.

"Ask them how much they could make up among themselves towards the purchase of a substitute. Some may be willing to help," suggested the Colonel.

Denham obeyed, and a discussion took place in raised voices. The two Englishmen waited gravely, Mrs. Baron watching from the coach, while Roy stood close by, scanning the conscript with interested gaze. Marie Paulet sat upon the cold ground, weeping bitterly.

"About fifteen livres seems to be all, sir. They are poor here. It is a marvel how the woman has managed to save so much. But I am ready to give fifteen livres."

Colonel Baron's eyebrows stirred. "Well, tell them that, if they can find a substitute for one hundred livres, you will give fifteen, and I will do the same. For my part, I doubt if a substitute can be procured, the drain on the country has been so severe of late. But it will soften matters a little to the poor woman. I rather grudge letting the money go into French pockets—but I'd defy any one with proper sensibilities to stand out against that poor creature's misery."

Denham explained what "Monsieur le Colonel Anglais" had said, failing to make clear his own share in the matter, though from no lack of power to express himself. The scene that followed was eminently French in its abandon of joy. One of the young men present who was eligible but who had not been drawn—had not tombé, as the saying was—came forward, and offered for the sum of one hundred livres to go as the substitute for Jean Paulet. This settled matters; and without hesitation Colonel Baron produced notes for the amount he had named, Denham adding his own donation with a rapid movement, which drew no attention.

Thereupon enthusiasm rose to its height. The people of the town, with whom Marie and her son were plainly favourites, shouted their approval; while Marie crept close to Colonel Baron, knelt at his feet, sobbed out her wordless rapture, and even kissed his hands, to the Colonel's discomfiture.

"I say, Den, I'm going back to the carriage. Say whatever you choose to them. It's all right, but I vow this sort of thing doesn't quite suit a Britisher. And it strikes me you haven't made 'em understand that you're doing as much as I am. Tell 'em that, and talk as much as you think necessary, and then come along."

A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which the Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them with a certain reticent indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes bent upon poor old Mme. Paulet were infinitely kind.

Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his unexpected escape.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going to fight against the English just yet."

Jean muttered broken words—something of a faltering hope and prayer that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps—who could tell?—to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for Monsieur le Colonel's friend.

It seemed very unlikely—most unlikely—that he and these passing English prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be able to do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in this world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet.

As the coach started, in the midst of grateful acclamations, Marie Paulet held up mute hands, tears streaming down her faded cheeks. Such a look was hers, that even Colonel Baron was conscious of moisture in his eyes, though by no means easily moved to outward emotion. Mrs. Baron was weeping outright, with the thought of what such a parting would be between Roy and herself. As for Denham, nobody managed to get a clear sight of his face for a quarter of a minute.

Once more they were rolling along the interminable roads, Roy wondering whether Jean Paulet would be drawn at some future time; while Denham's mind, like a spring released, went back to the one engrossing question, which for a space had been thrust into the background. Would Polly indeed wait for him? Or would she grow tired of waiting, forget his love, and become the wife of another?

That possibility held him in thrall both day and night, through the rest of this wearisome journey.