Chapter II: Part 2

"And so, Aurelle," concluded Major Parker, "you see us poor Englishmen searching hard for the solution of a problem when there isn’t one. You may think that the Irish want certain definite reforms, and that they will be happy and contented the day they get them; but not at all. What amuses them is discussion itself, plotting in theory. They play with the idea of Home Rule; if we gave it them, the game would be finished and they would invent another, probably a more dangerous one."

"Go to Ireland after the War, messiou," said the colonel, "it’s an extraordinary country. Every one is mad. You can commit the worst crimes—it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters."

"The worst crimes?" said Aurelle, "Oh, I say, sir!"

"Oh yes, anything you like—the most unheard-of things. You can go out hunting in brown breeches, fish in your neighbour’s salmon river—nothing will happen; no one will take the smallest notice of you."

"I do believe," said Aurelle, "that I am beginning to understand the Irish question."

"I will finish your education," said the doctor. "A year before the War a Liberal M.P. who was visiting Ireland said to an old peasant, ’Well, my friend, we are soon going to give you Home Rule!’ ’God save us, your honour,’ said the man, ’do not do that.’ ’What?’ said the astonished Member. ’You don’t want Home Rule now?’ ’Your honour,’ said the man, ’I’ll tell you. You are a good Christian, your honour? It’s to heaven you want to go? So do I, but we do not want to go there to-night.’"

*CHAPTER VIII*

CHORUS: "What, Jupiter not so strong as these goddesses?"

PROMETHEUS: "Yes, even he cannot escape destiny."

When young Lieutenant Warburton, temporarily commanding B Company of the Lennox Highlanders, took over his trench, the captain he came to relieve said to him:

"This part is not too unhealthy; they are only thirty yards off, but they are tame Boches. All they ask is to be left alone."

"We will wake things up a bit," said Warburton to his men, when the peaceable warrior had departed.

When wild beasts are too well fed, they become domesticated; but a few well-directed rockets will make them savage again. In virtue of this principle, Warburton, having provided himself with a star shell, instead of sending it straight up fired it horizontally towards the German trenches.

A distracted Saxon sentry cried, "Liquid-fire attack!" The Boche machine-guns began to bark. Warburton, delighted, replied with grenades. The enemy called the artillery to its assistance. A telephone call, a hail of shrapnel, and immediate reprisals by the British big guns.

The next day the German _communiqué_ said: "An attack by the British under cover of liquid-fire at H—— was completely checked by the combined fire of our infantry and artillery."

0275 Private Scott, H.J., who served his King and country under the strenuous Warburton, disapproved heartily of his officer’s heroic methods. Not that he was a coward, but the War had taken him by surprise when he had just married a charming girl, and, as Captain Gadsby of the Pink Hussars says, "a married man is only half a man." Scott counted the days he spent in the trenches, and this one was the first of ten, and his chief was reckless.

The god who guards lovers intervened the next day by the simple means of a scrap of paper asking for a man from the regiment, mechanic by trade, to look after a machine at P—— for disinfecting clothes. P—— was a pretty little town at least eight miles from the front line, rather deserted by the inhabitants on account of _marmites_, but all the same a safe and comfortable retreat for a troglodyte of the trenches.

0275 Private Scott, mechanic by trade, put his name down. His lieutenant abused him; his colonel recommended him; and his general nominated him. An old London omnibus painted a military grey took him away to his new life, far from Warburton and his perils.

The machine which Scott had to look after was in the yard of a college, an old building covered with ivy; and Abbé Hoboken, the principal, received him, when he arrived, as if he were a general.

"Are you a Catholic, my son?" he asked him in the English of the college.

Luckily for Scott, he did not understand, and answered vaguely:

"Yes, sir."

This involuntary renunciation of the Scotch Presbyterian Church procured him a room belonging to a mobilized Belgian professor and a bed with sheets.

Now, at that very moment, Hauptmann Reineker, who commanded a German battery of heavy artillery at Paschendaele, was in a very bad temper.

The evening post had brought him an ambiguous letter from his wife in which she mentioned too often, and with an affectation of indifference, a wounded officer of the Guards, whom she had been nursing for several days.

During the night, he surveyed his gun-emplacements on the outskirts of a wood, then he said suddenly:

"Wolfgang, have you any shells available?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many?"

"Three."

"Good! Wake up Theresa’s crew."

He then verified his calculations by his map.

The men, half awake, loaded the enormous gun. Heineker gave the order, and, shaking up everyone and everything, the shell started forth, hurtling through the night.

0275 Private Scott, then, who adored his wife and had accepted a post without honour for her sake, was sleeping peacefully in the bedroom of a mobilized Belgian professor: and Captain Reineker, whose wife no longer loved him, and whom he mistrusted, was striding furiously up and down amongst the frozen woods; and these two circumstances, widely apart from one another, were developed independently in an indifferent world.

Now the calculations of Reineker, like most calculations, went wrong. He was 400 yards out. His landmark was the church. From the church to the college was 400 yards. A light wind increased the deviation by 20 yards, and from that moment the Reineker and the Scott situation began to have points in common. At this particular point the chest of 0275 Private Scott received the full force of the .305 shell, and he was blown into a thousand bits, which, amongst other things, put an end to the Scott situation.

*CHAPTER IX*

"The ideal of the English Church has been to provide a resident gentleman for every parish in the Kingdom, and there have been worse ideals."—SHANE LESLIE.

Aurelle, arriving for tea at the Mess, found only the padre repairing a magic lantern.

"Hullo, messiou," he said, "very glad to see you. I am getting my lantern ready for a sporting sermon to the men of B Company when they come out of the trenches."

"What, padre, you preach sermons now with a magic lantern?’

"My boy, I am trying to make the men come; there are too many who keep away. I know very well that the regiment has a good many Presbyterians, but if you could see the Irish regiments—not a man misses going to Mass. Ah, messiou, the Catholic padres have more influence than we have. I ask myself, why? I go every day to the trenches, and even if the men think me an old fool they might at least recognize that I am a sportsman."

"The regiment is very fond of you, padre. But, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think that Catholic priests have a special influence. Confession has something to do with it, but their vow of celibacy more, because, in a sort of way, it makes them different from other people. Even the doctor tones down his best stories when Father Murphy dines with us."

"But, my boy, I love O’Grady’s stories; I am an old soldier and a man of the world. When I was shooting in Africa a negro queen made me a present of three young negresses."

"Padre!"

"Oh, I let them go the same day, which annoyed them somewhat. But I don’t see why, after that, I need play Mrs. Grundy in the Mess."

One of the orderlies brought some boiling water, and the padre asked Aurelle to make the tea.

"When I was married—_not_ that way, messiou; it’s curious that no Frenchman can make tea. Always warm the teapot first, my boy; you cannot make good tea with a cold teapot."

"You were talking about your wedding, padre."

"Yes, I wanted to tell you how indignant all these Pharisees were, who want me to behave like a prude with young people, when I merely wanted to be reasonable. When I was going to be married, I naturally had to ask one of my colleagues to perform the ceremony. After having settled the important points, I said to him, ’In the Marriage Service of the Church of England there is one passage which I consider absolutely indecent. Yes, yes, I know quite well that it is what St. Paul said. Well, probably in his time he had a perfect right to say such things, and they were adapted to the manners and customs of the Corinthians, but they are not meant for the ears of a young girl from Aberdeen in 1906. My fiancée is innocent, and I will not have her shocked.’ The young man, a worldly-minded little curate, went and complained to the bishop, who sent for me and said haughtily, ’So it is _you_ who are taking upon yourself to forbid the reading of the Epistle to the Corinthians? I would have you know that I am not the man to put up with nonsense of this sort.’ ’All right,’ I replied, ’I would have you know that I am not the man to put up with an insult to my wife. If this fellow insists on reading the passage I shall say nothing in the church, out of respect for the sacred edifice, but I promise you that after the ceremony I shall box his ears.’

"Well, messiou, the bishop looked at me carefully to see if I was in earnest. Then he remembered my campaign in the Transvaal, the negro Queen, and the dangers of a scandal, and he answered me with unction, ’I do not see after all that the passage that shocks you is absolutely essential to the marriage ceremony.’"

Dr. O’Grady here came in and asked for a cup of tea.

"Who made this tea?" he demanded. "You, Aurelle? How much tea did you put in?"

"One spoonful for each cup."

"Now listen to an axiom—one spoonful for each cup and then one for the pot. It is curious that no Frenchman knows how to make tea."

Aurelle changed the subject.

"The padre was telling me about his wedding."

"A padre ought not to be married," said the doctor. "You know what St. Paul said, ’A married man seeks to please his wife and not God.’"

"You have put your foot in it now," said Aurelle. "Don’t talk to him about St. Paul; he has just been strafing him badly."

"Excuse me," said the padre, "I only strafed a bishop."

"Padre," said the doctor, "judge not——"

"Oh, I know," said the padre, "the Master said that, but He did not know any bishops." Then he returned to his old subject. "Tell me, O’Grady, you are Irish; why have the Catholic chaplains more influence than we?"

"Padre," said the doctor, "listen to a parable. It is your turn. A man had committed a murder. He was not suspected, but remorse made him restless and miserable. One day, as he was passing an Anglican church, it seemed to him that the secret would be easier to bear if he could share it with someone else, so he entered and asked the vicar to hear his confession.

"The vicar was a very well brought up young man, and had been at Eton and Oxford. Enchanted with this rare piece of luck, he said eagerly, ’Most certainly, open your heart to me; you can talk to me as if I were your father!’ The other began: ’I have killed a man.’ The vicar sprang to his feet. ’And you come here to tell me that? Horrible murderer! I am not sure that it is not my duty, as a citizen to take you to the nearest police station. In any case it is my duty as a gentleman not to keep you a moment longer under my roof.’

"And the man went away. A few miles farther on he saw a Roman Catholic church. A last hope made him enter, and he knelt down behind some old women who were waiting by the confessional. When his turn came he could just distinguish the priest praying in the shadows, his head in his hands. ’Father,’ he said, ’I am not a Catholic, but I should like to confess to you.’ ’I am listening, my son.’ ’Father, I have committed murder.’

"He awaited the effect of this terrible revelation. In the austere silence of the church the voice of the priest said simply, ’How many times, my son?’"

"Doctor," said the padre, "you know that I am Scotch. I can only take in a story eight days after I hear it."

"That one will take you longer, padre," said the doctor.

*CHAPTER X*

S. W. Tarkington, an officer of fifty-three, honorary lieutenant and quartermaster, was possessed of a vain but keen desire to win one more ribbon before retiring. The laws of nature and eighteen years of good conduct had given him the South African medal and the long service ribbon. But with a little luck even an honorary lieutenant may pick up a Military Cross if the bullets fall in the right place. That is why Tarkington was always to be found in dangerous corners where he had no business, and that is why, on the day Loos was taken, he wandered with his rheumatic old joints over the soaking battlefield and carried in eighteen wounded men on his back. But he met no general and no one knew anything about it, except the wounded, who have no influence.

From there the regiment was sent to the north and went into the line in the Ypres salient. There existed, no doubt, excellent sentimental and military reasons for defending this piece of ground, but as a winter residence it left much to be desired. Tarkington did not fear the danger—shells were part of the day’s work—but his rheumatism feared the water, and the rain falling incessantly on the greasy clay made a damp and icy paste which no doctor would recommend for the oiling of old joints. Tarkington, whose painfully swollen feet now made the shortest march a Chinese torture, finally realized that he must apply to be sent to hospital.

"It’s just my luck," he said to his confidant, the sergeant-major. "I have the pain without the wound."

So he went off limping and swearing to find the colonel in his dug-out, and told him of the state of his legs.

The colonel was in a bad temper that morning. A communication from the headquarters of the division had pointed out to him that the proportion of trench feet in his regiment had reached 3.6 per cent., whereas the average of the corps was only 2.7. And would he take the necessary precautions to reduce his percentage in the future?

The necessary precautions had been taken; he had sent for the doctor and given him the communication.

"And see here, O’Grady. You may have bronchitis, sore throats and gastric enteritis, but I do not want any more trench feet for three days."

You may imagine how Tarkington was received when he came to exhibit his paralysed feet.

"Now that’s the limit. _I_ send down an officer for trench feet? Read, Tarkington, read, and do you imagine I am going to transform 3.5 into 3.6 to please _you_? Look up, my friend, General Routine Orders No. 324—’Trench Feet result from a contraction of the superficial arteries with the consequence that the skin no longer being nourished dies and mortifies.’ Therefore, all you have to do is to watch your arteries. Tarkington, I am extremely sorry, old man, but that is all I can do for you."

"Just my luck," said the old man to his friend the sergeant-major. "I have thirty-seven years’ service; I have never been ill; and when, for the first time in my life, I ask for sick leave, it happens on the very same day that headquarters have strafed the colonel over that very subject."

His feet became red, then blue, and had begun to turn black when the colonel went away on leave. The command in his absence was taken over by Major Parker, who, being the second son of a peer, paid small attention to remarks from the brigade. He saw the distress of the unfortunate Tarkington, and sent him to the field hospital, where they decided to send him to England. It seemed that Tarkington was not the kind to be acclimatized in the Flemish marshes.

He was taken to B—— and put on board the hospital ship _Saxonia_, with the wounded, doctors and nurses. The port officials had ascertained to their annoyance the day before that a number of floating mines were in the Channel.

The authorities argued over the origin of these mines, which the N.T.O. said were those of the Allies, while the M.L.O. thought they were the enemy’s. But there was no argument about one detail: every boat that had come into contact with one had been cut in two and sunk immediately.

The captain of the _Saxonia_ was convinced that the Channel was free from mines. He risked it—and was blown up.

So Tarkington jumped into the sea. As a good soldier, his instinct was to devote his last minutes to keeping calm, and he swam about quietly with the gas mask that he had been advised never to lose hanging round his neck.

A salvage boat picked him up, unconscious, and he was taken to a hospital on the English coast. He recovered consciousness, but felt very ill from his immersion in the water.

"Just like my cursed luck!" he groaned. "They stop me starting for a month, and when at last I do get off, it is in the only ship that has gone down for a year."

"They are all alike," said the colonel, on his return from leave. "Here’s a blighter who grumbles at having his feet in water, and then takes advantage of my absence to go and have a salt-water bath!"

Now, a few months before, King George, after his accident in France, had crossed the Channel on board the _Saxonia_. The fate of the ship naturally interested His Majesty, who came to see the survivors, and, as Tarkington was the only officer, he had the inestimable privilege of quite a long conversation with the King. The result of this was that a few days afterwards a regiment "somewhere in France" received a memorandum from general headquarters asking for a statement of the services of Tarkington, S. W.

The memorandum being accompanied by certain verbal comments on the subject of "a very distinguished personage" by an officer in a red-banded gold-peaked cap, the colonel wrote nice things—which he had never said to him—of Tarkington, S. W., and the sergeant-major gave details of the brilliant conduct of the quartermaster at Loos.

The _London Gazette_ a fortnight later recapitulated these exploits in a supplement to the list of awards and honours, and Tarkington, honorary captain, M.C., meditating on his fate, found the world not such a bad place after all.

*CHAPTER XI*

The first encounter that the brigade had with the village was not happy.

The village looked distrustfully on the brigade, with its bare knees and its language like the rolling of a drum. The brigade found the village short of _estaminets_ and pretty girls. The people of Hondezeele bewailed the departure of a division of London Territorials, with their soft voices and full pockets, and wherever Aurelle went they did nothing but sing the praises of these sons of their adoption.

"Your Scotchmen, we know them. We cannot understand what they say—and my little girls can speak English."

"Scotch—Promenade—no bon!" said the little girls.

"I had the general’s chauffeur here," went on the old woman, "a nice boy, sir. Billy, they called him. He washed up for me, and pleasant spoken, too, and good manners. An officers’ Mess? Certainly not. I can make more selling fried potatoes and beer to the boys, and even eggs, although they cost me threepence each."

"Fried potatoes, two painnies a plate, aigs and bacon, one franc," chorused the little girls.

Aurelle went on to the next house, where other old women mourned other Billys, Harrys, Gingers, and Darkies.

One stout lady explained that noise gave her palpitations; another, quite seventy-five, that it was not proper for a girl living alone.

At last he found a corpulent lady whom he overwhelmed with such eloquent protestations that she could not get in a word. The next morning, he sent her the orderlies with the plate and crockery, and at lunchtime brought along Parker and O’Grady. The servants were waiting for them at the door.

"Madame is a regular witch, sir. She’s a proper fury, that’s what she is, sir."

"Madame" welcomed them with confused complaints.

"Ah! bien merci! Ah! bien merci! How I have regretted having agreed to have you. I have not had a wink of sleep with my husband abusing me. He nearly beat me, monsieur. Oh, don’t touch that! I forbid you to enter my clean kitchen. Wipe your feet, and take those boxes off there!"

"Put the boxes in the dining-room," ordered Aurelle, to conciliate her.

"Thank you! Put your dirty boxes in my dining-room, with my beautiful table and my fine dresser! I should think so, indeed!"

"But, in heaven’s name, madame," said Aurelle, quietly, "where shall I put them?"

He half opened a door at the end of the dining-room.

"Will you kindly leave that door alone! My lovely _salon_, where I do not even go myself for fear of making it dirty! And, besides, I have had enough of your Mess, I’m about tired of it."

A little later, Aurelle went into Madame Lemaire’s, the draper’s, to buy some chocolate. She had relegated all her pre-war trade to a corner of the shop, and now sold, like the rest of the village, Quaker Oats, Woodbine cigarettes, and post-cards with the words: "From your Soldier Boy."

While she was serving him, Aurelle espied behind the shop a charming, bright little apartment, decorated with plates on the wall, and a clean cloth, with green and white squares, on the table. He strolled carelessly towards the door. Madame Lemaire looked suspiciously at him and folded her arms across her enormous bust.

"Would you believe, madame, that there are in this village people so unpatriotic as to refuse to take in officers, who do not know where to eat their meals?"

"Is it possible?" said Madame Lemaire, blushing.

He told her who they were.

"Ah, the carpenter’s wife!" said Madame Lemaire, turning up her nose in disgust. "I am not surprised. They come from Moevekerke, and the people of Moevekerke are all bad."

"But it seems to me," insinuated Aurelle gently, "that you have a room here that would just do."

* * * * *

A week later the village and the brigade were tasting the pure joys of the honeymoon. In each house a Jack, a Ginger or a Darkey helped to wash up, called the old lady Granny, and joked with the girls. The London Territorials were quite forgotten. At night, in the barns, beribboned bagpipes accompanied the monotonous dances.

Aurelle had lodged the padre at Madame Potiphar’s, a lively young widow to whom the divisions, billeted in turn in the village, had handed on this nickname, like a local password.

The virtue of the padre, which had protected him against the solid charms of three young negresses, feared nothing from the manoeuvres of a village Potiphar.

Parker and O’Grady shared a large room in the inn. They called the publican and his wife Papa and Mamma. Lucie and Berthe, the daughters of the house, taught them French. Lucie was six feet high; she was pretty, slender, and fair. Berthe was more substantial and remarkably good-natured. These two fine Flemish girls, honest without prudishness, greedy of gain, lacking in culture but not in shrewdness, were the admiration of Major Parker.

Although their father was in a fair way to making a fortune by selling the Tommies English beer made in France, they never thought of asking him for money for their clothes or of making a servant work in their stead.

"One ought to be able to fight when one leaves such women at home," said the major admiringly.

The father was the same sort. He described to Aurelle the death of his son, a splendid boy, three times mentioned in despatches. He talked of him with a pride and resignation truly admirable.

Aurelle advised the publican, if he had a few hundred francs to spare, to put them in the War Loan.

"I have already put in fifty thousand francs," said the old man. "I shall wait a little now."

The whole village was rich.

Colonel Bramble gave two sous one day to Madame Lemaire’s son, an urchin of five or six.

"To buy some sweets with," Aurelle told him.

"Oh no, I don’t care for them."

"What will you do with your sous, then?"

"Put them in my money-box till I have got enough to get a deposit book in the Savings Bank; then, when I am grown up, I shall buy some land."

That evening Aurelle repeated this to Lucie and Berthe, thinking it would amuse them. He soon found out that no one was amused: jokes about money were sacrilege. The publican related a little moral story to make this clear.

"When I was small," he said, "I often used to go on messages into the town for Monsieur le curé, and each time he gave me two sous, which I took to my father. But after a time, Monsieur le curé made old Sophie, his servant, send me on his commissions and she never gave me my two sous. My father, who asked me for them, was very indignant. He consulted my grandfather, and the whole family were called in one evening to discuss the matter.

"My father said, ’The child cannot go and complain to Monsieur le curé, because if it is he who has stopped the two sous he might be offended.’ ’And if it is old Sophie who has diddled the child out of it she would box his ears,’ said my mother. My grandfather, who was no fool, hit upon the best way. He said to me, ’You will go and make your confession to Monsieur le curé. You will tell him that you have sinned by getting angry with old Sophie because she sent you to the town without giving you anything.’

"It was a great success. ’What,’ said the curé. ’The old wretch! She charged me for them every time. Release me from the secret of the confessional and I will give her a good talking-to!’ I remembered that her hand was heavy and I did not release him; but in future he always sent me himself."

The schoolmistress from Lille, who possessed the only piano in the village, explained to Aurelle that she had had to cut out of her lesson the whole chapter on economy and thrift, substituting a lesson on generosity. A little girl of eight then said to her, "I can never do that, mademoiselle. My mother is mean, and I am sure I shall be meaner than she."

Meanwhile the Highlanders were turning the King’s shillings into glasses of beer, and were showering on these economical little girls embroidered aprons, sugar-plums and post-cards, with "From Your Soldier Boy" on them, price ninepence.

The plump and active mothers of these nice little Flemish girls sold the aprons and post-cards.

"Ah, messiou," said Colonel Bramble, "before the War we used to talk about frivolous France; now it is stern and prudent France."

"Yes," added the doctor, "the French are hard and severe on themselves. I begin to understand the Boche who said, ’Man does not aspire to happiness, only Englishmen.’ There is, among your peasants of the north, an admirable voluntary asceticism."

"Did you ever see, messiou," said the padre, "in our country, before the War, the Frenchman of the music-hall? The little fellow with the black beard, who gesticulates and harangues? I believed it, messiou, and never pictured these devout and industrious villagers."

"I like to see them on Sunday morning," said the major, "when the bell for Mass starts ringing, and they all come out of their houses together, old men, women and children, as if they were going to a theatre. Ah, messiou, why didn’t you tell us all about this before the War?"

"The reason is," said Aurelle, "that we didn’t know it ourselves."

*CHAPTER XII*

Orion’s belt rose higher in the wintry sky; the roads were frozen hard. The mail vans overflowed more and more every day with enormous quantities of puddings and Christmas cards, and the festive season recalled the joys of life to the division and the village.

The preparations for the Christmas dinner occupied Aurelle and the padre for some time. The latter found a turkey worthy of the royal table at a farm; Aurelle hunted from house to house for chestnuts; Parker attended himself to the cooking, and mixed a salad of which he was very proud, but the colonel examined it long and doubtfully. As for the doctor, he was sent off with Aurelle to Bailleul to buy some champagne, and insisted on sampling several different brands, which inspired him to give vent to some strange doctrines on things in general on the way home.

He obtained permission to invite his friends Berthe and Lucie to come in at the end of dinner to drink a bumper of champagne in the Mess, and when they entered in their Sunday dresses, the colonel played "Destiny Waltz," speed 61. The orderlies had hung a great bunch of mistletoe over the door, and the girls asked ingenuously if it was not the custom in England to kiss under the mistletoe.

"Oh, certainly," said the doctor, and with his hands behind his back, he pecked Berthe on the cheek which she turned towards him. Parker, equally nervous, did the same to pretty Lucie, and Aurelle gave them both a good hug in the French way.

"That’s fine, mademoiselle?" said the little doctor.

"Yes," said Lucie with a sigh. "We wish it was always Christmas."

"Oh, but why?" said the doctor.

"Think how dull it will be for us after the War," replied Berthe, "when you are all gone! Before, one did not think of it—one saw no one—one worked, one knew no better, but now, without the boys, the village will be empty indeed. My sister and I will not stay here. We will go to Paris or London."

"Oh, but that’s a pity," said the doctor.

"No, no," said Aurelle, "you will just get married. You will marry rich farmers, you will be very busy with your beasts and your chickens and you will forget all about us."

"It’s easy to say ’get married,’" observed Berthe, "but it takes two for that. And if there are not enough young men for all the girls we shall probably get left in the lurch."

"Every man will have several wives," said Aurelle. "You will be much happier; with one husband between you two; you will only have half the housework to do."

"I do not think I should like it," said Lucie, who was very refined.

But the padre, to whom the doctor had just treacherously translated Aurelle’s cynical proposals, indignantly protested.

"_You_ ought not to criticize polygamy, padre," said the doctor. "Re-read your Bible. What have you to say about old Laban, who, having sold his two daughters to the same man, payable monthly for fourteen years, gave the purchaser in addition two waiting-maids as a bonus."

"But," said the padre, "I am not responsible for the actions of a doubtful patriarch. I have no sympathy with Laban."

"No more have I," said Aurelle. "This Dufayel of marriage has always profoundly disgusted me, but more on account of his matrimonial methods than for having gone in for the polygamy natural to his tribe. Moreover, is the number of women to be apportioned to one man a question of morals? It appears to me to be a question of arithmetic. If there are nearly as many women as men, monogamy is the rule; if for some reason the number of women is increased, polygamy is perhaps better for the general welfare."

The two girls, who understood this conversation much less than the "promenade" and the "na poo" of the Tommies, went up to the colonel, who talked to them paternally in his gruff way and got the "Caruso" record for them out of its pink cover.

"You have some weird ideas about animal psychology, Aurelle," said the doctor. "If you have observed nature, you would have proved, on the contrary, that the question of the numbers of mates is certainly not a question of arithmetic. With gnats, ten females are born to one male. Now gnats are not polygamous. Nine of those females die spinsters. It is only the old maids who bite us, from which one sees that celibacy engenders ferocity among insects as well as among women."

"I have known some charming old maids," said Aurelle.

"Indeed!" said the doctor. "But, however that may be, the number of married pairs varies simply according to the way the species feed. Rabbits, Turks, sheep, artists, and, generally speaking, all herbivorous creatures are polygamous; while foxes, Englishmen, wolves, bankers, and, generally speaking, all carnivorous animals are monogamists. That is because of the difficulty which carnivorous animals find in rearing their young until they are strong enough to kill for themselves. As for polyandry, it occurs in wretched countries like Thibet, where several men must unite forces to keep one wife and her progeny."

The howls of Caruso rendered all conversation impossible for a minute, then Aurelle said to Lucie:

"The other girls in the village will perhaps find it difficult to get husbands, it is true, but you and your sister need not worry; you are the prettiest, and you will soon have the richest father. You will have fine marriage portions."

"Yes, that’s true. Perhaps they will marry us for our money," said Berthe, who was modest.

"I should not care to be married for my money," said Lucie.

"Oh, strange creature!" said the doctor, "you would like to be loved for your face alone, that is to say, for the position in space of the albuminoids and fatty molecules placed there by the working of some Mendelian heredity, but you would dislike to be loved for your fortune, to which you have contributed by your labour and your domestic virtues."

Berthe regarded the doctor nervously and reminded her sister that they had some glasses to wash before going to bed: so they emptied their bumpers and departed.

After a restful silence, Major Parker asked Aurelle to explain the institution of the marriage _dot_, and, when he had grasped it, indignantly replied:

"What? A man receives this splendid gift, a pretty woman, and he exacts money before accepting her? But what you tell me is monstrous, Aurelle, and dangerous. Instead of marrying beautiful and good women who would have beautiful and good children, you marry ugly, quarrelsome creatures provided with a cheque-book."

"’He who has found a good wife has found great happiness,’" quoted the padre, "’but a quarrelsome woman is like a roof that lets in the rain.’"

"It is wrong to suppose the children of love-matches better made than others," interrupted the doctor, becoming rather warlike, obviously owing to champagne. "Oh, I know the old theory: every man chooses his natural complement, and thus rears children which revert to the average type of the race. Big men like little women, large noses like little snub-noses, and very feminine men fall in love with Amazons.

"As a matter of fact, a nervous, short-sighted, intellectual man marries a pedantic, nervous, short-sighted woman because their tastes are similar. Good riders make acquaintance with girls who hunt, and marry them for their sporting tastes.

"So, far from reverting to the average type, love-matches tend to exaggerate the differences. And then is it desirable for selection to operate? There are very few really brilliant men who have not had at least one madman among their ancestors. The modern world has been founded by three epileptics—Alexander, Julius Cæsar and Luther, without mentioning Napoleon, who was not altogether well balanced.

"In a thousand men of genius, how many mad relations?" asked the colonel.

"I can’t tell you, sir," said the doctor.

"You can talk nonsense to your heart’s content, doctor," said Major Parker. "But as far as I am concerned, if I ever marry, I shall only marry a very pretty woman. What’s the name of that charming cinema actress we saw together at Hazebrouck, Aurelle?

"Napierkowska, sir."

"Oh yes. Well, if I knew her I would marry her at once. And I am sure that she is if anything better and more intelligent than the average woman."

"My friend Shaw," said the doctor, "says that to desire to be perpetually in the society of a pretty woman, until the end of one’s days, is as if, because one likes good wine, one wished always to have one’s mouth full of it."

"Rather a flimsy argument," observed the major. "For surely that is better than having it always full of bad wine."

"Anyhow," the doctor replied, "women who exhibit more surely than us the underlying instincts of mankind are far from bearing out your theory; I know very few who make a point of marrying a good-looking man."

"Well, do you know the story about Frazer?" said the major.

"Which Frazer?" said the colonel. "G.R. of the 60th?"

"No, no. A.K. of the 5th Gurkhas—the one who played polo for the regiment in 1900, an awfully good-looking fellow, the finest chin in the army."

"Oh, I know him," said the colonel, "the son of old Sir Thomas. His father sold me a damned good pony, when I was a subaltern, and I only paid 200 rupees for it. Well, what is his story?"

"At the beginning of 1915," said the major, "Frazer, who was crossing London on his way home on leave, went to the theatre one evening alone. Towards the end of the first act, he felt vaguely that some one was staring at him. He looked up and saw a woman in a box looking at him. But, owing to the darkness of the theatre, he could not distinguish her features.

"In the interval, he tried to see her, but she had withdrawn to the back of her box. During the next two acts she looked at him fixedly. Frazer, decidedly intrigued, was waiting at the exit of the theatre, when a magnificent footman approached him, saying, ’A lady wishes to speak to you, sir,’ and led him to the door of a carriage which had stopped in a side street.

"’You do not know me, Captain Frazer,’ said a very pretty voice, ’but I know you; have you anything to do this evening or will you come to supper with me?’ Frazer did what we should all have done."

"He ran away?" said the padre.

"He got into the carriage," said Parker. "He was asked to allow himself to be blindfolded. When the bandage was taken off he found himself in a charming room, alone with the fair unknown, who was _decolletèe_ and wearing a mask, and who had the most beautiful shoulders in the world?"

"Is this by Dumas _père_ or R. L. Stevenson?" asked Aurelle.

"It is a story of what actually happened in January, 1915, and was told me by a man who never lies," said Major Parker. "The house was in silence. No servant appeared, but Frazer, delighted, was offered by the unknown herself what you French call, I believe, _bon souper, bon gîte et le reste_.

"At break of day, she bandaged his eyes again. He told her how much he had enjoyed himself and asked her when he could see her again. ’Never,’ she replied, ’and I take it that I have your word of honour as a gentleman and a soldier that you will never try to find me again. But in one year from now, to the day, go back to the same theatre where we met, and there will, perhaps, be a letter for you.’ Then she saw him into the carriage again, and asked him to keep his eyes blindfolded for ten minutes: when he took off the bandage, he was in Trafalgar Square.

"Frazer naturally moved heaven and earth to get leave in January, 1916, and on the evening of the anniversary of his adventure appeared at the box office of the theatre and asked for a stall. ’Have you by any chance a letter for me?’ he said, giving his name. The clerk handed him an envelope, and Frazer, eagerly opening it, read this short line: ’It is a fine boy. Thank you.’"

"What is still more strange," said the doctor with sarcasm, "is that another good-looking lad told me the same story some time before the war, and that that time he was the hero of it."

"Then this lady must have several children," said the colonel.

*CHAPTER XIII*

EXTRACTS FROM AURELLE’s DIARY

Hondezeele, January 19—.

Madame Lemaire has presented the Mess with a bottle of old brandy, and the doctor is in very good form this evening. He is the true Irish type; a lover of surprising epigrams.

He says, "We owe to the Middle Ages the two worst inventions of humanity—romantic love and gunpowder." Again, "The whole reason of this War is because the Germans have no sense of humour."

But, above all, you must hear his scientific and precise demonstration of his favourite theory: "Two telegrams contrary in sense, and from officers equal in rank, cancel one another."

January 4th.

Rode with the colonel and Parker. How delicate and clear the atmosphere is in this northern part of France! The colonel was highly indignant to hear that I have never been out hunting.

"You _must_, messiou, it is the only sport. You jump banks as high as your horse. At eighteen I had nearly broken my neck twice. It is most exciting."

"Yes," said Parker, "one day I was galloping in a wood and a branch went into my right eye. It is a miracle I wasn’t killed. Another time——"

He described how his horse fell on the top of him and broke two of his ribs. Then both of them together, certain of having convinced me:

"You must hunt after the War, messiou."

January 7th.

This morning, I do not know why, some French troops came through Hondezeele. The village and I were delighted. We like the shrill bagpipes, but no music in the world is like "Sidi-Brahim" and "Sambre-et-Meuse."

I was pleased, too, to be able to show Parker these Chasseurs à pied, as all he had seen of our army were old Territorials. He was much impressed.

"They are as fine as the Highlanders," he told me.

And then he described the Lennox as they were when he joined as second lieutenant in Egypt.

"I was forbidden to speak at Mess for six months. An excellent practice! It taught us to realize how humble we were, and the respect due to our elders.

"If some ’swelled head’ did not conform to these rules, he soon found his things all packed up in his room, labelled for England. If he still refused to understand, he was called up before a subaltern’s court-martial, and heard some home truths about himself.

"It was hard, but what _esprit de corps_ and what discipline those rough ways taught us. We shall never see a regiment again like the Lennox of 1914. The officer of to-day has seen active service, it’s true, but as a matter of fact it is quite sufficient in war to have good health and no more imagination than a fish. It is in peace-time that one ought to judge a soldier."

"You remind me," said the doctor, "of the sergeant-major in the Guards who said: ’How I wish the war would finish so that we could have real manoeuvres once more!’"

This evening, while the gramophone was raging, I forced myself to translate into French Rudyard Kipling’s admirable poem, "If."

I showed it in English to Parker whom it describes so well, and we talked about books. I made the mistake of mentioning Dickens.

"I detest Dickens," said the major. "I never could understand how anyone could find him interesting. His books are all stories of the lower classes and Bohemians. I do not want to know how they live. In the whole of Dickens’ works there is not one gentleman. No, if you wish to know the _chef-d’oeuvre_ of English novels read ’Jorrocks.’"

January 13th.

A little English telephonist who came to mend our apparatus said to me, "Telephones are like women, sir. No one really knows anything about them. One fine day, something goes wrong; you try to find out why, no good, you swear, you shake them up a bit and all is well."

January 14th.

At dinner an Irish colonel remarked: "I am very annoyed; during my last leave I rented a house for my family, and now my wife writes that it is haunted. The owners really ought to tell one these things."

"Perhaps they did not know it," said our indulgent colonel.

"They knew it very well. When my wife went to complain, they got very confused, and ended by owning up. One of their great-grandmothers has walked from the drawing-room to her old bedroom for the last hundred and fifty years. They tried to excuse themselves by saying she was perfectly harmless. That is possible and I am quite willing to believe it, but it is none the less annoying for my wife. Do you think I can cancel my lease?"

I here risked a sceptical remark, but the whole Mess jumped on me. Irish ghosts are scientific facts.

"But why do phantoms love Irish houses more than others?"

"Because," said the Irish colonel, "we are a very sensitive race and we enter into communication with them more easily."

And he crushed me with technical arguments on wireless telegraphy.

January 15th.

The colonel, having found out this morning that a motor-ambulance was going into Ypres, took me with him. In front of the hospital we found ourselves wedged in by a terrible block of waggons, under a fierce bombardment.

A horse with its carotid artery cut by a bit of shell, and only held up by the shafts, was writhing in agony close by us. The drivers were swearing. Nothing to do but wait patiently in our car, shaken by explosions.

"Dr. Johnson was right," said the colonel to me, "Whoever wants to be a hero ought to drink brandy."

Then, as a fresh explosion made the debris of the ruined town in front of us tremble, he said:

"Messiou, how many inhabitants were there in Ypres before the War?"

January 20th.

We are going to leave Hondezeele. The red-hats are getting agitated and already one sees the cyclists passing, the natural advance-guard of our migrations.

We were beginning to love this country: the village and the brigade, so distrustful of one another a month ago, had become really quite affectionate. But the gods are jealous.

... Demain, départ de la brigade:
La cornemuse et le tambour
Douneront la dernière aubade
A ces fugitives amours.

Les montagnards aux beaux genoux,
Qui mimaient la danse du sable
Avec des chants graves et doux
Vont danser la ronde du Diable.

La Victoire, un jour, les cherchant,
Les trouvera trois pieds sous terre,
Mais par ces fermes et ces champs
Flottera leur ombre légère.

Et dans nos villages des Flandres...

Interrupted by the arrival of our successors, the Canadians, regarded by Madame Lemaire and her little boy with great suspicion. _That_ won’t last long.

*CHAPTER XIV*

A great attack was in preparation; it was a terrible secret jealously guarded by headquarters; but Aurelle was informed of it several days beforehand by the German _communiqué_ published in the _Times_, and by Madame Lemaire’s little boy, who advised him not to repeat it.

However, the division was soon ordered to occupy one of the sectors in the attack. The padre, optimistic as ever, already foresaw triumphant marches, but the colonel gently reminded him that the objectives were simply a ridge, which in peace-time would be called "a slight undulation in the ground," and two villages already destroyed. The real object was to engage the forces of the enemy, who were at that moment advancing in Russia. But this information only redoubled the enthusiasm of the padre.

"You can say what you like, sir; if we hold this ridge they cannot hold out in the valley, and we shall break through their line. As for the retreat of the Russians, that’s capital. The Boche gets farther from his base, lengthens his lines of communications, and he’s done."

"He is not," said the colonel, "but he will be one day, and that’s all that matters."

The evening of the offensive, Aurelle received orders from the colonel to go and act as liaison officer between the headquarters of the division and some French batteries, which were reinforcing the British artillery in this sector. He wished the Lennox good luck and left them for a day.

He spent the night in the garden of the little château where the general was living. The bombardment thundered on without ceasing. Aurelle walked up and down the paths of this garden, which had been pretty, but was now honeycombed with trenches and dug-outs, while camouflaged huts covered the lawns.

Towards midnight, the rain, the classic rain of an offensive, began to fall in large drops. The interpreter took shelter in a shed with some chauffeurs and motorcyclists. He always liked to find himself among this class of Englishmen, with their strong language and simple minds. These, like the rest, were good fellows, careless, courageous and light-hearted. They hummed the latest music-hall airs from London, showed him photographs of their wives, sweethearts and babies, and asked him when the damned war would be over. They shared on this subject the perfect optimism of the padre.

One of them, a little, quick-witted electrician, asked Aurelle to explain the Alsatian question. And so he told them about Saverne, the march past of the Strasburg students before Kléber’s statue, the pilgrimages of the Alsatians to Belfort for the 14th of July Review, and about the young men who at the age of twenty left family and fortune to go to France and become soldiers.

They told him that they could understand anyone loving France: it was a fine country. All the same there were not enough hedges in the landscape. But they appreciated the thrifty qualities of the women, the trees along the road, and the out-of-door cafés. They talked with enthusiasm about Verdun, but many of them had only grasped the idea of the Entente through Carpentier’s victory in London.

The day dawned; the rain was now falling in torrents; on the lawn, the grass and soil was trodden into a sticky mass. Aurelle went up to the château; he met an aide-de-camp whom he knew and explained his orders.

"Oh yes," he was told. "I arranged that myself with the French liaison officer. If the telephone from the batteries happens to get cut, we shall have recourse to you. Go into the signalling room and sit down. In ten minutes from now," he added, "our men go over the top."

The signalling room was the old winter garden. On the wall, a large-scale map of the trenches showed the British lines in black, and those of the enemy in red. At two long tables six telephone operators were installed. Silent officers with red tabs paced calmly up and down the room, and Aurelle thought of one of Major Parker’s favourite remarks: "A gentleman is never in a hurry."

As five o’clock struck, the general came in and the officers stood still and said all together:

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning," said the general politely.

He was very tall; his carefully brushed grey hair, neatly parted, framed his fine features. Gold lace shone on the red facings of his well-cut tunic.

Discovering Aurelle in his corner, he very kindly gave him a little "Good morning" all to himself, and then he walked slowly, with his hands behind his back, between the two long tables of the telephonists. The noise of the guns had suddenly ceased, and nothing was heard in the room but the authoritative and measured step of the general.

A muffled bell tingled; an operator quietly made a note of the message on a pink form.

"5.5 a.m.," read the general softly, "10th Brigade. Attack begun, enemy barrage not very effective, violent machine-gun fire."

Then he passed the telegram to an officer, who stuck it on a long pin.

"Transmit it to the corps," said the general.

And the officer wrote on a white paper: "5.10 a.m. 10th Brigade reports as follows: Attack begun. Enemy barrage not very effective. Violent machine-gun fire."