Mothers of men

CHAPTER XXXII

When Von Pfaffen came into the salon, the curtains were still drawn across the windows, the chairs still awry, and on the little escritoire papers lay scattered about as they had been left the night before.

Madame had obeyed the General's orders literally, and the servants had been excluded from the house while the conference was going on.

He pushed back the heavy curtains and opened the windows. His shoulders squared as he filled his lungs with the crisp morning air. His cloak of humility was completely cast aside, but at a step in the hall, he turned quickly, again the servant.

Marie opened the door softly. As she saw him, her face blanched. She stepped back, but the man stopped her.

"Shut the door," he said peremptorily, and scarcely conscious of what she did, the girl obeyed him.

He came close to her, his lean face eagerly alight.

"Well," he said, "any news?"

"None!" Marie shrank away from him. "I haven't seen my husband yet."

Von Pfaffen's lips pulled back across his teeth in an oath, and the girl looked up at him piteously.

"Why couldn't you do it?" she pleaded. "It's your work, and honorable, I suppose, for you."

He turned on her fiercely.

"How could I?" he snarled, "with a guard at every door."

Marie looked into his cold eyes.

"Have you no mercy? Was not last night enough to ask of me?" Her memory went back again to those dreadful moments at the General's bedside. "Once I thought he was awake," she whispered, "his eyes staring straight at me. It was all I could do to prevent myself from shrieking aloud."

Von Pfaffen's jaw set, a little muscle in his cheek worked nervously.

"You're not going to fail me now? You haven't let him go without getting me that information?"

Marie shuddered under the hatred in his eyes.

"No, no," she said hastily, "he has only gone as far as the village with the other officers. He'll be back to say good-bye to me," and then she added piteously, "Must I? Must I?"

"There is no other way!" Von Pfaffen clutched her wrist in a grip of iron. "He must not leave before you know," he said almost against her face; "do you hear? If he does, and this information which means so much to our country—yes," as she tried to pull away, "yours as well as mine—if this information slips away from me, I'll——"

She struggled in his grasp.

"Oh, please, please!" she pleaded, but he went on brutally:

"I'll fling your shame in every face I meet. I'll brand you as——"

"Please! Please!"

He flung her hand away from him.

"See then that you do as I tell you, and I give you my word you are safe, otherwise——" There was a step on the gravel outside. "Hush," he whispered, "here he comes," and as Gerome stepped through the window, Von Pfaffen relapsed once more into the manner of a servant.

"Good morning, Monsieur," he said softly.

Gerome smiled into his wife's white face.

"Good morning," he said.

Von Pfaffen turned to Marie, his shoulders stooping with the meekness of Antoine, his eyes blazing with the threat he held for her if she failed him.

"Anything more, Madame?" he asked softly.

She was breathless. Why didn't he go, why couldn't he leave her alone?

"No," she said desperately, "only go!"

"Yes, Madame," adding with deep significance, "I am serving luncheon in the garden to-day," and he turned and left the room, but even while she looked up into her husband's wondering face, she knew that Von Pfaffen would be going back and forth just outside the windows, as he laid the table, going back and forth much as the sentry had done earlier in the morning, watching every move she made, everything she did. She was trapped. Her Judas-hour had come!

Gerome put his arm about her shoulders and lifted her lips to his.

"My dear," he said, "why this impatience? Poor Antoine, what must he have thought?"

She hid her face against his arm, her shoulders quivering.

"I don't know," she sobbed, "I don't care, I only know that you are going to-day—this morning—oh God, am I ever going to see you again?"

Gerome held her close.

"Marie," he murmured, "it is for you and for our beloved country!"

She clung to him. Oh, to have him with her always, to be away from everything and everybody, just they two. Why hadn't some power told her that somewhere this man was waiting for her, so that she might have come to him as pure as he thought her?

"You're all I have," she cried, "what is France, people, armies, the whole world, compared to you?"

His heart was bleeding too, with the tragedy of having to leave her now, of all times, but he must not let her see.

"My dearest," he said unsteadily, "are you a soldier's wife, and send him into battle this way? Are you going to let me go remembering only your tears?"

"I love you, I love you!" Her very soul was shaking with her grief; "you're all I have." He held her away from him and tried to force her to look into his eyes.

"Let me feel that you are sending me to fight for France and you," he pleaded, "with a smile on your lips, pride in your heart, because of the honor done me!"

Marie looked at him, all the love she had to give in her eyes. The pride he asked for was in her heart, the smile struggled to her lips, then through the window she caught sight of Von Pfaffen. He was too far off to hear what they were saying, but his eyes held hers meaningly.

The smile faded, leaving her face set and tragic.

"Where are you going?" she began desperately, "where are you going?"

He shook his head.

"That," he said seriously, "I may not tell you."

"I must know, I must know!" Von Pfaffen was watching her. She must go on. The tide was too strong, it swept her on relentlessly. "I must know!"

"Marie," he said, pressing his cheek against her hair, "Don't you know you're asking something that I must guard with my honor?"

For a moment she sobbed aloud against his shoulder. Even with her eyes hidden, she knew that Von Pfaffen was standing just beyond in the garden, meekly laying the table for luncheon, but ready to throw aside the humility of the servant and stand before her, her accuser. She must go on.

"Then it's true," she sobbed, "it's true, what I've been fearing, what I've been dreading. There is to be a terrible battle somewhere, soon. I won't know where."

"Hush, ma chérie," soothed Gerome, but she sobbed on.

"I must know! I must know!"

"Marie," it was almost more than he could bear. The agony of her grief frightened him.

"Don't you love me enough to tell me?" she pleaded. "I must know! You may be wounded, you may be killed!"

Gerome's endurance was almost worn away.

"Listen, Marie——" he began, but she shook her head.

"I must know," she begged, "you don't know what it means to me!"

Her sobs were so wild, her form shook so with their force, the man's will broke.

"Darling," he whispered passionately, "I can't bear this! Please—please—if I tell you, will you promise to be brave?"

Marie sprang away from him.

The consciousness of the awful thing she was doing overwhelmed her like a deluge. Now that the information she wanted was trembling on her husband's lips, her soul cried aloud to stop it, to prevent his telling before it was too late.

"Don't tell me," she cried, "don't tell me," but he crushed her close to him.

"Will you remember," he said tenderly, "that it is not only my honor that I am giving into your keeping, but my country's safety?"

He must not tell her, she would not listen. She cowered in his arms, but Gerome went on. It was too late.

"My loved one, listen," he whispered, "I want you to pray as you have never prayed before, that to-morrow, at dawn, before the forts of Draise, God will grant our beloved country victory!"

Marie sank into his arms.

"Ah," she breathed, "Draise—to-morrow—at dawn!"

She had nerved herself for the ordeal and it had come. A cold wave passed over her, she felt her expression alter, her features set. She seemed to hang in a great void, all the natural forces of her nature for the moment were suspended. And then she was looking into his eyes again. As from a great distance, she heard his voice.

"Marie, what is it? Don't look at me like that! I am only one of the millions and for every man who goes there is a woman who mourns. It is hard for you, I know, terribly hard, yet they endure, and so must you. In a great struggle like this, the individual is lost. He is only a stone in the rampart erected against tyranny. We do not serve our own ends, but we are united for a cause that means more to all of us than life or any personal sacrifice that man can make! I would be unworthy of your love if I were not willing to do my duty for my country at no matter what cost to me, and I know that you would do likewise."

His arms were about her, his face close to hers, there was a light in his eyes that she had never seen there before.

A veil that had obscured her clear vision was torn away. For the first time she understood how false, how wrong had been the structure on which she had built. Real sacrifice meant denying oneself so that ideals much greater than can have to do with individual affairs might be served. A country's cause, the saving or the loss of which would make millions happy or miserable, that is what she was about to jeopardize! In her weakness and miserable selfishness she had almost been tempted to do a dreadful deed.

For a moment she shuddered, then she lifted her face to his. The light in his eyes flooded into hers, sank into her heart, transfigured her. Gerome, looking at her, saw a miracle come to pass, for the weak, trembling creature, quaking with terror who had crept into his arms with the kiss of betrayal upon her lips, had passed away leaving a radiant-faced, glowing-eyed, courageous woman.

She had the information that would assure her safety, yet she knew that no matter what the consequences to her, she would never use it.

"My darling," she said, and her voice was clear and firm, "my gift to your country is the most precious thing I have, and I give it proudly!"

There was a tense silence, too sacred for words.

"I must go," he said at last, unsteadily; "kiss me again!"

She lifted her lips to his in a long kiss, wildly, passionately, a kiss that might be their last in this world, but that to her meant the sacred seal of his faith in her.

Then he tore himself away. As long as she could see him from the window, her eyes held their new light of exaltation, but when the gates had closed after him, she sank huddled into a chair, weeping bitterly.

Presently she raised her head. Von Pfaffen stood in the garden watching. His sinister stare had penetrated her consciousness and brought her back to a realization of what lay before her.

With an effort she calmed herself. It was necessary for her to think, to plan. In a few moments he would come for the information. What was she to tell him? There was no doubt that he knew she had obtained it. Would she defy him? Tell him to do his worst and take the consequences? Would she expose him to the General, give him up to arrest, and so make it impossible for him to do further harm? Or was there a better way?

In the whirling tangle of her thoughts a plan was shaping itself. Vague, formless as yet, but a plan the daring of which set her heart throbbing with the magnitude of its possibilities.

Gerome's words echoed and re-echoed in her brain.

"Draise—to-morrow—at dawn!"

Von Pfaffen's instructions had been——

"Write the name of the town and the time on a slip of paper."

Suppose she should substitute the name of some other town for the one which her husband had told her, a place far removed from the point where the attack would actually be made?

If the enemy could be given the wrong information and act upon it, would it not mean that he would turn his forces away from the point where the battle was to be fought and so assure victory for the French?

This man had taken advantage of her inexperience and had wrought evil and unhappiness in her life in the guise of a friend. He was so sure of his power over her, that he was trying to use her as an instrument against her husband and the cause for which at this moment he might be giving his life. Surely she was justified in bringing confusion to his plans which were directed against herself and those who were dear to her.

To outwit him! To make his efforts to crush her be the means of his own undoing. To prove to him that the wife of Gerome, developed and strengthened in the atmosphere of love with which she had been surrounded, was a different woman from the weak, inexperienced Marie of Vienna.

Her gentle heart had never known the desire for revenge, but as her mind reviewed all that she had suffered at the hands of Von Pfaffen, she felt for the first time the flame of bitter hatred. She would crush him as he had thought to crush her. She would give him information, but of such a nature as to ruin his career, defeat the plans of the cause he served.

But what place should she substitute for the right one? She had often heard her little maid in Paris speak of Sains, the town where she was born. She knew it was near the frontier, though some distance from Draise. Why not write Sains instead of Draise?

She well knew the nature of the man with whom she was dealing. He would never rest until he had been revenged upon her. She scarcely dared think what it would mean to her when her husband and his family knew everything. But Gerome had spoken of sacrifice. This would be hers for the cause he loved.

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes were brilliant. She hurried to the little escritoire and wrote hastily on a slip of paper:

"Sains—to-morrow—at daybreak."

As she finished Von Pfaffen entered from the garden. He came toward her, an eager gleam in his eyes, but before he could speak the door opened and Paulette entered.

"Antoine," she said, "father wishes to see you in the library."

He ground his teeth.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," he answered curtly, but as he made no move to go, Paulette, surprised, repeated:

"At once, do you hear? He is waiting!"

Again he answered, his face purple with suppressed rage:

"Yes, Mademoiselle," and with almost a military turn, he left the room.

Marie waited, breathlessly.

Paulette noticed her agitation and attributed it to her rudeness of the night before. She came over to her sister-in-law contritely.

"Marie," she began, "I was unkind yesterday. Forgive me, I can feel for you. I know what you are suffering."

Marie's fear was that the little paper on the desk might fail to serve its purpose, that something might occur to warn Von Pfaffen. She knew that he would leave as soon as he got possession of it. She was in an agony of apprehension lest this interruption now, when every moment was precious, might in some way thwart her plan.

But Paulette saw only in her distress sorrow at Gerome's going. Her heart, naturally kind, warped though it was for the time by the bitter hatred for the enemies of the man she loved, sympathized with her alien sister-in-law. Love she could understand. She must do what she could to help her. Her mother had been right.

"Let us be friends," she said. "Gerome wishes it. Let us comfort one another."

Marie stared at her blindly. Could she tell this girl? Would she have done the same thing? Her eyes looked far away.

"Paulette," she said at last, "there is nothing worth while but the love of the one you care for, is there?"

"That and his honor," answered the girl.

"His honor!" repeated Marie. Thank God she had not betrayed his honor. She took her sister-in-law's hands in hers. Perhaps after all her plan had not been the right one. Perhaps this girl could tell her a better way. "Suppose you had to choose, and you could save only one thing," she said, "Maurice's honor, or his love for you, which would it be?"

Paulette looked at her in surprise.

"I don't understand," she said, "that could not be possible. We can all only pray that they come back to us."

Marie turned away with a catch in her throat.

"Paulette," she said, "if you only understood!"

The girl put her arm about her waist.

"Come," she said soothingly, "let me take you to your room. We can be more quiet there."

With all her heart Marie prayed that the sacrifice she was making might not be in vain, that it would in some small measure make amends for what she had done in the past.

With a sigh she let Paulette lead her away.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Madame coming in later, found the room still disordered, and as she rang the bell, she shook her head over the interrupted routine of the household. Even with all the serious problems before them, the little every-day things must not be neglected.

"Nanine," she said, when the old woman answered her ring, "the General's friends are gone, and you can put the room in order now."

"Yes, Madame," the old woman looked about her, grumbling. Long before this hour the work of the household was usually finished.

"The little desk also, Nanine," Madame reminded her as she was leaving the room; "gather up all those waste papers and burn them," and she closed the door after her.

The old woman went about heavily, pulling the chairs in place and arranging the disordered table. Then she went to the desk and swept into her broad apron the loose papers. With them went the little note Marie had left for Von Pfaffen, the slip of paper that was to sacrifice her happiness for the sake of France.

But Nanine only grumbled at this extra work. This was what Antoine should do. Where was he? Why wasn't he here? She shuffled to the fireplace and emptied her apron into the grate. Stooping stiffly she struck a match and lit the little pile of papers. As they blazed up, she rested back on her heels, her shriveled old hands held out to the tiny blaze, grateful for the warmth on this crisp morning.

She didn't hear the door open, nor see the dusty, hard-ridden young soldier who entered. Her faded old eyes stared into the flames, tearless, but full of the hopeless tragedy of the peasant who gives all and must never ask why.

"Mother!" and at the word she turned with a start.

"Jacques!" she cried, scrambling to her feet. "Back so soon?"

"The message from Captain le Cerf was received at Headquarters," he told her as he kissed her, "and I was ordered to bring it here at once."

Even in her joy at seeing this dearly loved son the old woman's heart was glad for Paulette.

"So he got away?" she said; "won't my little Mam'selle be happy? When is he expected?"

Jacques stretched his dusty length in Madame's damask-covered chair, and his mother did not reprimand him. Nothing was too good for him.

"He'll be at Sains," he said, "to-morrow, at daybreak!"

"At Sains?" she said, "why, that's not far!"

Jacques held up a note.

"He arrives to-morrow at daybreak," he said; "it's written here."

She came to his side with her head as close to his as the great wings of her Breton cap would allow, and peered at the paper the boy held out to her.

"'Sains—to-morrow—at daybreak," she read slowly, her broad forefinger tracing out the words.

She laid the note down on the desk, almost on the same spot where not many minutes before had rested Marie's hasty scrawl.

"Do you have to go back at once?" she asked wistfully.

The boy patted her shoulder.

"Yes, mother," he said; "there is great work to do, and I must get back and do my share!"

"But," and her voice shook, "when will I see you again?"

"I don't know, mother," he said, "I can't tell!"

Quite suddenly the tears started from her faded eyes and trickled down the furrows of her rough checks.

"You will be careful?" she asked huskily; "you're all I have now, I'm—I'm getting a bit old and—you're all I have," she finished weakly.

Jacques patted her shoulder roughly.

"Don't worry, mother," he grinned, sheepishly conscious of the tears in his own eyes, "don't worry, I'll come back!"

The old woman clung to him fiercely, her chin quivering, her faded eyes blazing with the fire that outlasts all others.

"Why do you have to go?" she cried hoarsely, "what have we ever done? Why should you kill anyone? Why should anyone kill you? Why? What's it all for? What's it all about?" Her withered cheeks were wet, her staunch old heart was torn with a sort of bewildered sorrow. "Why should my other two boys be taken from me?" she went on. "Pierre, the finest smith in Brittany! Jean, who could lift an ox off its feet! I don't understand!"

The last of her brood shook his sturdy head. He, too, had asked himself "why?" He had heard others about him asking why, and to none had there been given an explanation.

"I don't understand myself, mother," he said; "but the country says we must go, and so we go!"

The old woman's anger flared up again.

"The ones who should suffer are those who set them on," she cried; "but they never do! They never do! It is only we mothers of strong young men. I don't see why!"

Jacques looked at her gravely. "It is for our country," he said; "they want to invade it, destroy our homes, our fine old buildings. We can't let them do that," and he squared his shoulders as his country was doing. "We'll go on fighting till they stop trying!" he said.

Nanine dried her eyes on her apron.

"I suppose you're right, Jacques," she sighed, "but I've given two."

"The officers say it will be over soon!"

"Yes," she answered, "they've said that for a long time, but it goes on, and men are being ground up like—like coffee in a mill!"

Jacques laughed.

"Not me, mother," he assured her.

"How do I know?" her heavy lips were quivering pathetically again; "when you were a prisoner I thought you were safe till it was all over. I thought I'd saved one out of the three!"

Jacques sighed. He never remembered seeing his mother break before. When the news had come about Jean, she had sat wide-eyed and silent for an hour, and then had risen and gone about her usual tasks without mentioning his death. Pierre had lain wounded for days at Neuilly. She had made the long trip to see him and the finest smith in Brittany had gasped away his life in the arms that had first held him. She had journeyed back to the little gate-house of the Château de la Motte, dry-eyed and silent. But to-day, now that this last one of her brood was leaving her perhaps forever, the strong old heart could no longer bear its burden of grief.

"I'll come back, mother," he said huskily, "I'll come back a—a—sergeant."

"Much good that'll do without arms or legs," she grunted. "I've seen a lot like that!"

Jacques laughed uneasily.

"But not me, mother!"

"I was proud to think that you got away from them," she went on, "that they couldn't hold you, but I almost wish you were back."

Jacques looked at her heaving shoulders and tragic, withered face.

"When Pierre and Jean went, you didn't take on so."

"I didn't know what it was like then," she choked, "I didn't know what it was like!"

"I must go now, mother," he muttered.

The old woman tried bravely to smile into the young face.

"Can't you stay and have something to eat?" she begged.

Jacques was hungry, very hungry. His soul yearned for the many good things his mother cooked.

"I wish I could," he said wistfully, "but it's orders."

Nanine threw her arms about his neck and rocked him back and forth.

"Be careful," she pleaded, "you're all I have. God bless you!"

The boy tore himself away.

"Good-bye, mother; be sure and give the note to Mam'selle," he called as he went through the long window into the garden. Nanine waved him a tearful good-bye, her apron held to her lips, her heart in her eyes. She watched him till he was out of sight.

What a bitter lot is woman's. The world belongs to men. For women it is only a meeting, a parting, a supreme joy for awhile, and then endless, hopeless tears. With a groan she turned heavily back into the room.

The note for her Mademoiselle must not be forgotten.

As she turned to the desk where it lay, Von Pfaffen came in. His face darkened.

"Here," he said roughly, "what are you doing?"

Nanine eyed him resentfully, her heavy Breton face flushing.

"Who are you to order me about?" she asked, in her coarsest peasant manner.

The man was furious at her insolence.

"You'll go out of here," he said, between his teeth; "this is no place for you!"

"Nom d'un chien," the old woman's voice rose in a tirade of abuse, her eyes blazed with anger; "I'll do what I please! You black coat!"

Von Pfaffen's face reddened under her insult.

"I'll teach you how to talk to your betters," he said with an oath, and crossing to her with a quick stride, he laid a rough hand on her shoulder.

She twisted under his clutch.

"You scum! You toad!" she screamed; "you leave me be——!"

Her strident, peasant voice carried out into the hall, and Madame came hurrying in.

"What is it?" she asked. "What is wrong?"

Nanine stopped her scolding and stood sullenly, while the man explained.

"I did not give her permission to come in here, Madame," he said, "and she refuses to go!"

"It is all right," said Madame quietly. "I told her to come and arrange the room. You were busy with the General. Go to Mademoiselle Paulette, Nanine, she is expecting you. Her commission has come. She wants you to help her with her costume."

The old woman started for the door, her anger at the butler making her forget for a moment the paper that Jacques had brought, and which lay on the desk.

The man opened the door. She went through heavily, turning just enough for him to see the sneer she flung at him as she left.

"Anything more, Madame?" he asked.

She shook her head, and he turned ungraciously, closing the door after him.

Madame stood for a moment by the table. Her heart was heavy. War is cruelest to women, for their wounds are of the soul; but Marie, opening the door, met a brave smile, kindly welcoming eyes. When Paulette had left her, she had promised to try and rest, but it was impossible, and nervously she paced her room, her brain in a turmoil with the thoughts that harassed her. Would her plan succeed?

It must! It must! There must be nothing to prevent it! She was filled with a breathless hope as the bewildering possibility became clear to her, that she might indeed become the instrument by means of which France was to be saved! The thought transfigured her, lifted her out of the doubt and agony which had surrounded her. To be of use to the one she loved, to save what was more to him than his life, was her mission. This accomplished, whatever happened to her was of no consequence.

There were so many things that might interfere with the success of her plan, Von Pfaffen might discover it, her note might fall into other hands. There was so little time, so much to be done. She realized that she must deliver her message as soon as possible. Perhaps he was waiting even now. She flung open her door and hurried down the stair and into the salon, but here was her husband's mother with her quiet smile and sweet, kind eyes, and on the little desk still lay the folded slip of paper that was so like the one she had placed there.

Madame's voice was compassionate as she looked into the white face.

"Come in, dear," she said. "You must try and compose yourself, your cheeks are pale. I think a walk in the garden would do us both good."

"You are so sweet to me, so kind!" murmured Marie. "I want you all to love me!"

Madame pressed her hand tenderly.

"We will, dear," she said. "You and Paulette and I will be alone for luncheon to-day. We can all learn to know each other better."

Marie looked at her wistfully.

"I do love you," she said earnestly; "no matter what happens, I want you to believe that."

Madame had divined her condition with the quick sense of the mother heart, and her kindness doubled.

"Come," she said, "and we can talk of our dear ones," but the girl was thinking of the little paper on the desk.

"I can't," she gasped, "I can't," and she shrank away.

Madame went to the bell.

"Come," she said, "Antoine shall bring us wraps. The morning air is cool."

Marie watched her, a prayer in her heart, to be able to do something to repay these people for the love they were giving her.

Presently Von Pfaffen opened the door. He shot a swift glance at the girl from under his heavy brows.

"Madame?" he asked, turning to his mistress.

"Bring the scarfs you will find in the entrance hall, Antoine."

As the man left the room, Marie sank breathlessly into a chair. Would she be able to carry out her plan? Would her pale cheeks, or anything in her manner, betray her to her tormentor's keen gaze?

Madame looked pityingly into the white face.

"Come dear, you break my heart with your tragic eyes. Remember, I am his mother!"

With a cry, the girl started to her feet, but Von Pfaffen opened the door, the scarfs over his arm, and again she subsided into her chair, waiting.

Madame took a filmy gray scarf and let him wrap it about her shoulders, and as she went toward the window, he came to Marie with the ostensible humility of a servant.

She rose to her feet, and forced herself toward this man whom she loathed.

As he slipped the wrap about her shoulders, he muttered under his breath:

"Well?"

And in a quick whisper she answered:

"On the desk!"

Madame at the window, turned.

"Coming, dear?" she asked, and as the man stepped aside Marie followed her out into the garden.

Von Pfaffen watched them disappear, then he turned hurriedly to the little desk, where he found the paper that told of Maurice's coming. Eagerly he seized it and held it close to his eyes, his face glowing with triumph.

"'Sains—to-morrow—at daybreak,'" he read. "Ah, my Fatherland!" he breathed, then lifting his fist, shook it fiercely at his surroundings. "Now I am rid of all this!"

Triumphantly he went through the door, his shoulders squared, the cloak of the servant dropped forever.

CHAPTER XXXIV

When Nanine and Paulette came down the great stairway a few minutes later, the girl was trembling with excitement. She was dressed in the field uniform of an army nurse. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes feverishly bright. The letter telling of her commission had just reached her that morning and the long-prepared costume was donned for the first time.

"Are you sure you remember the message, Nanine?" she asked. "Tell me again what it said."

Patiently the old woman repeated the words.

"I have told you, dearie," she said, "'Sains—to-morrow—at daybreak!'"

"Sains, that's not far away! But I must be sure, Nanine. I must be sure! I must see the note. Where is it? Where is it?"

Nanine crossed heavily to the little desk. Not finding what she sought, she uttered a sharp exclamation. The girl flew to her side.

"What is it, Nanine? What is it?" she cried fearfully.

The old woman looked up at her blankly.

"It's gone!" she gasped.

Paulette echoed her words, her eyes wide and frightened.

"Gone?"

Nanine rummaged frantically.

"Oh, my dearie," she wailed, "I put it here, a bit of paper with 'Sains—to-morrow—at daybreak' written on it. Where can it be? Where can it be?"

Paulette stood watching her breathlessly.

"Nanine," her voice shook, "there is something wrong!"

The old woman stopped in her search.

"Will harm come to him, dearie?" she quavered.

"Oh, Nanine," cried the girl, terror beating at her heart, "I don't know—I'm afraid!"

"Mon petit chou!" soothed the old woman. "What does the loss of the paper matter? I remember the words, 'Sains—to-morrow—at daybreak,'" but her deep breast rose and fell with some of the terror that was shaking her young mistress.

"Someone has stolen it!" said Paulette miserably. "What good does it do for you to remember? Maurice will be taken back to prison, perhaps shot!" The thought sent her hand to her throat in terror.

"Shot!" Nanine stared at her, frightened. "What shall we do?" she cried.

"We must get word to father."

In all Paulette's short life her father had always been her refuge in time of trouble. He would know what to do.

"Oh, Nanine, why didn't you bring it to me at once? Why didn't you?"

The old woman shook her head sadly. For the sake of those few last moments with her boy this new trouble had come upon them.

"Perhaps Madame can help us," she said; "let us ask her!"

"Where is she?" asked Paulette eagerly. "Go find her at once! I'll go to her room, she may be there!"

The old woman hurried out and Paulette had just crossed the threshold into the shadows of the outer hall when, through the long window, came Marie. Paulette turned and watched her curiously as she went straight to the little desk.

The sunlight of the garden was still in Marie's eyes, and she did not see the girl standing in the doorway. One glance was enough to show her that the note was gone. The Fate of France was on the knees of the gods. She had done her best. Turning, she found herself facing Paulette, whose eyes blazed with rage and hatred.

"So," she cried, "it's you!"

Marie recoiled. For a moment she failed to recognize the girl in her nurse's garb. When she did, her face went white.

"I knew I suspected you with reason," went on Paulette furiously, "no one else could have taken it. No one would be interested. Here, we are all friends, working for each other, but you——" and at the scorn in her voice, Marie cowered away from her.

"Don't—please," she breathed.

Paulette shook her roughly by the shoulders.

"Where is it?" she cried, "the paper that was here; where is it?"

Marie's heart stopped beating. What could Paulette know of the paper?

"God!" she gasped.

Her sister-in-law looked at her, sorrow struggling with hate.

"Why did you? Why did you?" she asked. "What have I done? What has Maurice done?"

Marie leaned away from her in astonishment.

"Maurice?" she asked.

"My sweetheart," went on Paulette, "in a German prison. He was to escape! You have stolen the note telling where he is to be. What have you done with it?"

Marie started. In a flash she understood that she and Paulette were thinking of different things. Von Pfaffen had undoubtedly found her own note. But if there had been two notes? Would this not create confusion and suspicion in his mind and so defeat her plan after all?

"Listen," she said hurriedly, "I did not take it! I swear I did not take it. If someone has it, we must get there before it is too late! We must save Maurice. Where is he?"

"How can I trust you?" began Paulette bitterly.

For a long moment the two women stared at each other. At last Marie spoke.

"Tell me—where is he?" she repeated. "Tell me, or you will regret it all your life!"

There was something so convincing in the tone of her voice that Paulette found herself believing in spite of herself. Unconsciously their positions were changed; it was Marie who now stood firm and sure of herself, Paulette who trembled.

"He will be at Sains—to-morrow—at daybreak," she whispered.

Marie's eyes slowly dilated, her face froze into the expression of an ancient Greek tragic mask. From the depths of her very soul came a groan of anguish. Tensely she repeated the words:

"Sains—to-morrow—at daybreak!"

She had thought her plan so sure, so certain to aid her husband's cause, but whichever way she turned, she seemed doomed to bring misery to those she loved. She knew that Von Pfaffen was already well on his way to the enemy. The words she had written were stamped on her memory. What evil spirit had made her choose Sains? Sains, where to-morrow at daybreak, Paulette's sweetheart, having risked his life for liberty, would only be reaching this haven of safety as the guns of the enemy were turned against its walls.

Paulette looked at her, frightened.

"What is it?" she whispered. At last Marie spoke, the words coming through her stiff lips in jerking, staccato tones:

"You must go to him," she said; "you must go now, at once."

Go to him herself! The thought staggered her. The difficulty! The danger! The horrible country she must cross before she should arrive at Sains, where battles were even now raging!

"Oh, how can I go?" she cried, covering her eyes. "Out there in the midst of all those horrors! How can I?"

"There is no time to lose," urged Marie, "you are going to the man you love."

Slowly Paulette lifted her brown head.

"Can I? Dare I?" she murmured.

In the distance she could hear the sound of the guns, which all morning had been growing louder and louder, sometimes swelling into a roar which seemed to shake the very earth.

Marie put her hand on her arm, her whole body vibrating with emotion.

"Listen," she said, "the Germans are to make an attack on Sains to-morrow at daybreak!"

Paulette uttered a cry.

"How do you know this? What are you? Who are you?"

"Don't ask me how I know," went on Marie, "don't ask me anything, only for God's sake go to Sains! Warn the town! Warn the commanding General! O hurry, hurry, there is not a moment to lose!"

Paulette stared at her fiercely, her hatred and distrust returning and blazing from her eyes.

"I knew you were a spy," she cried. "I knew I hated you with reason. Tell me how you know this, tell me, tell me!"

Into Marie's heart came a great sadness, her punishment was beginning. How could this girl believe her? Would anyone ever trust her?

"Your note was stolen," she said. "The one who has it is taking it to the enemy! I know! I tried to help my husband's cause, but in doing so I have endangered Maurice's life. Oh, Paulette, I thought that what I did was for the best. Don't look at me like that. Some day you will understand!"

Paulette was wild with rage. This woman whom they had made one of themselves, whom her parents had taken to their hearts and given the position due the wife of their beloved son, had betrayed them. But there was a punishment for such as she.

"I'll have you shot," she panted. "I'll have the soldiers drag you to prison for the spy that you are——" but Marie was at her side.

"Paulette," she said earnestly, "will you allow your hatred and distrust of me to stand in the way of doing a great service for France and saving Maurice? There is no doubt that the Germans will attack Sains to-morrow at dawn. I need not tell you what it would mean to your countrymen to know this and prepare for their coming. If you do not heed me, you will never know happiness again! This is the opportunity of your whole life to serve the cause you love. Do not cast it aside! Go to Sains! Save the city! Save your love, then come back and do whatever you will to me, only, for God's sake, hurry!"

Her voice was so earnest, so vibrant with the desire that prompted her, that in spite of her suspicion the girl paused and looked into her eyes.

"If I could only trust you," she said.

Quick to sense the momentary lowering of the barriers, Marie put a pleading hand on her arm.

"You can," she said, "oh, do believe me. The cause you love is as dear to me as to you. You must go, there is no other way!" Her eyes rested on the little insignia on the collar of the girl's costume, and mentally following her gaze, Paulette became suddenly aware of her uniform. This would be the means of reaching Maurice. Her hands would nurse him after all. He would be her first patient.

Her eyes cleared of the vision of blood and terror, the hatred and distrust died in her heart. Her shoulders squared with the strength of her father, her chin lifted with her mother's poise.

"I'll go," she said. "I am a soldier's daughter! I am to be a soldier's bride! I'll go!"

"Go now," urged Marie; "it isn't far. I swear I didn't take it. Won't you believe me? It isn't your happiness that is threatened. Oh, believe me! Believe me!"

"If I am only in time," breathed Paulette, as she turned to go.

Marie followed her to the window.

"Little sister," she pleaded, "you at least I would save unhappiness. God speed!" and suddenly, believing, Paulette turned and flung her arms about her neck, then with her head held high, she went out through the garden.

Marie watched her go. How many partings there had been in these short hours. She watched Nanine close and bar the heavy gates after the slender figure, drying her eyes with the back of her hand as she did so.

"'Sains—to-morrow—at dawn!'" the words were burned into her brain. Her head went down on her arms across the little desk.

From the depths of the garden, Madame saw the girl go through the gate, and hurried into the salon. Her quick step in the hall roused Marie. She rose to meet her.

"She has gone, ma mère," she told her gently; "she has gone to the man she loves."

"Gone—my little Paulette, gone? Out there, without a word to me," her face was suddenly old, gray, the lines about her mouth seemed drawn with a shaded pencil.

"A message came this morning," said Marie; "it told of Maurice's escape. Someone has intercepted it, and Paulette, fearing for his safety, has gone to him."

"We have been waiting for this message," said Madame, "but Paulette, alone! Out there!" She looked toward the horizon from whence came the deep-throated roar of the guns, savage and menacing.

Quite suddenly she broke down. Bowing her proud head in her hands she wept bitterly.

Marie stood beside her, silent, until just as suddenly she gained control of herself again. The white head rose proudly, the bright brown eyes shone bravely through their tears.

"I am glad she has gone," she said. "I would not have it otherwise. She must go to help the man she loves, if she can! I'm glad she was brave enough to go."

Marie looked at her wonderingly. How fine she was, how strong and true. Why could she not have been as brave as this? She saw herself as she had been, a pitiful, weak creature, almost ready to sell her soul to tie herself like a millstone about the neck of the man she loved. She knew that even now she was dreading the scorn she would see in this kind face when she knew all the truth concerning her. But she thought of Gerome, with his lofty ideals; she thought of Paulette forgetting her dread of the horrors "out there," taking her young life into her hands willingly, eagerly, to serve, if she could, both France and the man she loved, and she knew that she, too, would accept her martyrdom gladly for the cause that was theirs.

CHAPTER XXXV

The long road that led through the village and on into Sains lay before Paulette like an unexplored country. The familiar smoothness was gone, cut into by heavy army wagons and many marching feet. The fields themselves that bordered its dusty edges were trampled and bare. Even the tall poplars, standing like sentinels along its way, were draggled and unkempt.

When the gates closed on her, Paulette drew a quick breath as she looked about her. How often she had ridden through the green shadows of these familiar lanes with Maurice; now the difference frightened her.

She turned to look at the gray towers where they showed above the trees. Would she ever see them again, she wondered? Poor little Paulette, the way before her was a long and weary one, but she knew if she were only in time nothing else mattered.

Resolutely she turned her face away from her beloved home and started on her journey. The muffled roar of the guns which had been coming to them ever since the war began seemed deeper, more menacing now that she was outside the shelter of the château walls, but until she neared the village, the road was deserted. She hurried down the pretty little street that wound among the houses. Here and there soldiers lounged against the doorsteps and gazed curiously at her under their caps. Once she flattened herself against a wall to let a company swing by through the narrow street. Once she stumbled out of the way of an automobile filled with officers. Once a woman leaned out of an upper window and waved to her as she passed, but without turning her head Paulette hurried on.

At the tiny railroad station she found the platform crowded with soldiers, a detachment of men waiting to be sent along the line. The officer in charge, a tall smooth-faced youngster, greeted her politely. She showed him her orders and begged to be allowed to stop off at Sains. He piloted her down the platform, alongside of which there stood little gray box-cars. Out of the windows crowded round heads, black, brown, yellow; laughing, joking, smoking.

But with all the willingness in the world, there was no corner for her, and she was just turning away disappointed when a gray motor ambulance came alongside the platform. The driver called out, seeing her uniform:

"There's room for you," he said cheerily, reaching out a helping hand.

"I have an important message for the commanding officer at Sains," said Paulette. "Will you take me there as quickly as possible?"

She climbed up to the seat beside him. The ambulance turned about and as it swung into top speed the soldiers in the little cars waved their caps to them.

The driver and his orderly laughed and joked as the machine sped along and tried to draw her into their conversation, quite as though it were a pleasure excursion they were having.

Outside the village the road wound steeply up a hill and then dipped in a great curve down to the river bank.

She began to see more and more frequently the work of the guns which up to now she had only heard. Deep furrows cut into the fields by exploding shells, ruined barns with great gaping holes in their sides, farm houses, roofless, with empty, staring windows. She could see the dust of the supply trains crawling along the horizon, and occasionally the white cloud of a bursting shell.

Presently the ambulance drew up at a field hospital. Nurses robed like herself hurried from one to another of the shattered forms lying in the straw. Doctors with tired faces went silently to and fro. Paulette's heart shrank from the suffering about her, she tried to shut from her eyes the pitiful sights, to close her ears to the moans and cries, but they beat against her strained nerves, almost breaking them.

This ambulance was to go no further. But there was a constant stream going on toward Sains. Into one of these she climbed and in a moment they were speeding on their way again, past long lines of soldiers, some resting by the road, others trudging rhythmically along, their faces turned toward the sound of the guns. The line seemed unending. These were the men who were standing between France and unthinkable disaster.

How proud she was of them! Her courage returned. Her nostrils dilated. They represented France, and she was one of them!

This message that she bore might enable them to inflict a blow upon the enemy that would sweep him from her beloved country forever!

At last, the distant spires of Sains came in sight, and her heart was full of the hope that she might not be too late.

Back at the château, a mother's heart was following her with a prayer for her safety and another woman paced restlessly up and down, pausing frequently at the window to look with straining eyes toward Sains, hoping, praying with her whole soul that she would reach there in time.

At Draise, not many miles away, a great army was gathering quietly, secretly, waiting for the dawn and success, while here, toward the ancient spires which were their guide, another army in field gray and spiked helmets was directing its guns; and between them, on the long stretch of dusty road, cut and slashed by army wagons and many marching feet, the ambulance sped the girl on her way, the love of one of this world of men filling her heart, a prayer on her lips that the message she carried might bring victory.

When they drew up at the gates of Sains, Paulette's new uniform was dusty and soiled. The tall spires of the cathedral and the red roofs of the houses sparkled in the afternoon sunshine as she entered the town. Here and there the walls lay in crumbling heaps, reminders of the German shells. Near the gate several soldiers were lounging. One man, his cap pulled low over his eyes, his rifle against his shoulder, paced back and forth.

The sergeant in command approached her.

"Where do you wish to go, Mademoiselle?" he asked politely.

"I must go to Headquarters. I am to see the officer in command there. It is very important!"

The sergeant called one of the men.

"Guerin," he said, "conduct this lady to Headquarters. See that she is taken care of. Understand?"

The man saluted.

"This way, Mademoiselle," he said, and they hurried down one street, across another, and through a ruined archway, riddled by German shot. Sometimes they were obliged to scramble over heaps of brick and mortar and broken glass where some shell had struck. Presently they came out into the market-place. The broad, open space was deserted, save for the sentries pacing to and fro. Around the fountain in the center were piled heavy burlap bags, evidently filled with grain. The Hotel de Ville, which formed one side of the square, had part of its roof gone, and a heap of dust and mortar lay piled against one side. The Cathedral, opposite, whose spires had been their guide all day, was battered and crumpled, a great empty space where the beautiful glass of the rose window had been.

At the door of the Hotel de Ville a sentry challenged them. There was a whispered word with her guide. The man looked at her sharply and saluted.

"Pass, Mademoiselle," he said.

They stumbled up a dark stair, and across a wide, dusty hall lined with doors, closed and bolted for the most part. At the far end, Guerin bade her halt and rapped loudly on the panel of a door standing partly ajar.

"Entrez," called a hoarse voice, and he pushed it open with a jerk of his elbow and motioned her to enter.

Paulette stepped across the threshold.

In the middle of the room a man with thick iron-gray hair was writing at a table. At his side stood an orderly waiting, and under a window a young officer sat before a telegraph instrument.

He rose as they entered and came forward.

"Well?" he said and Guerin saluted stiffly.

"I am the daughter of General de la Motte. I have important information for the commanding officer," began Paulette.

He glanced at her keenly for a moment, then turned to the man at the table.

"General," he said, "Mademoiselle de la Motte has something of importance to say to you!"

The iron-gray head lifted and Paulette saw a finely formed face with a firm, resolute mouth and a pair of very keen steel-gray eyes.

He rose and bowed.

"Mademoiselle de la Motte? By any chance of the family of General Phillipe de la Motte?"

"His daughter, sir!"

A bright smile lighted his face, relieving it of all its sternness. He extended his hand.

"This is a great pleasure, Mademoiselle," he said; "pray be seated and tell me what I can do for you!"

"Thank you," she said, "but I prefer to stand. What I have to tell you is very important!" She paused for a moment and the General fixed his keen eyes upon hers. "I have just come from the château. I received information this morning that the enemy is to attack Sains to-morrow at daybreak."

The General was a man long schooled to mask his emotions, and his face gave no sign except a barely perceptible tightening of the muscles about the mouth and a deeper gleam in his clear eyes.

"This is important, Mademoiselle. Are you sure that it is authentic?"

"I have every reason to believe so, Monsieur."

"How long have you known it?" he asked.

"Just a few hours," she said. "I came here as fast as I could!"

"You say you received this information at the château this morning?" She bowed. "Can you tell me how this became known to you?"

"I regret, Monsieur, that I am not at liberty to do so!"

"How many others know of this?"

"One other, Monsieur."

"The source of your information?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

He looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Are you sure this other is loyal to our cause?"

The girl paused. Through her mind ran the events of the past few hours.

Her brother's wife was of the enemy's blood. She had hated and distrusted her, and this morning her suspicions had seemed to be confirmed. Was she sure of her loyalty? Marie's eyes seemed to look into hers. Again she heard her voice saying,

"The cause you love is as dear to me as to you!"

She raised her eyes to the General's.

"The other is loyal!" she said.

He turned from her and paced the room thoughtfully, his hands behind his back, his brows contracted.

"If what you say is true," he said at last, pausing before her, "then you have done France a great service. Wait here a moment." He crossed the room, and spoke in an undertone to the officer in waiting, who saluted and went out, accompanied by the orderly. Then he turned to Paulette, smiling. "In the name of France, I thank you, Mademoiselle, for what you have done to-day. Can I be of any service to you?"

Paulette looked at him piteously.

"Is there any news of Captain le Cerf?" she asked eagerly. "We have had word that he had escaped from Belgium and was to arrive here to-day. He is my fiancé, Monsieur."

The General smiled kindly.

"I congratulate you, Mademoiselle," he said; "the Captain and his family are dear friends of mine. I have good news for you! He has arrived safely."

He touched a bell and an orderly entered. There was a whispered word or two, and the man, saluting, left the room.

Paulette's eyes glowed. All sense of fatigue left her. She would see him soon. Her heart throbbed Suffocatingly.

The General looked at her benevolently. With a Frenchman's love of romance which is never absent, even in the face of grave danger, he watched the flush on her cheeks, her parted lips, and with a sigh for his own lost youth, he picked up his pen again and bent over his writing.

Presently, heavy steps came down the hall and a knock at the door.

"Come in," called the General without raising his head, and the young officer reentered, followed by a slim figure in a soiled uniform.

Paulette leaped to her feet. With a cry she flew across the room and into the arms of Maurice. His drawn face was almost as gray as his eyes, his shoulders thin, though now squared with hope and determination, his cheeks hollow and heavily lined. There were purple shadows under his eyes and his hands shook pitifully as he caressed her hair.

The General patted his shoulder.

"Sit down, Captain," he said kindly; "you're not strong yet, sit down," and Maurice let them lead him to a chair.

Paulette knelt beside him, her arms about his neck.

"Maurice, Maurice, I've missed you so," she murmured; "you're not going to leave me ever again!"

He held his lips tenderly against her forehead.

General de Line stood looking down on them.

"Captain," he said, "do you think you are strong enough to travel to-night? I must get you both away from Sains as soon as possible."

Something in his tone made Maurice look up at him inquiringly.