The Revellers

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XXI

  NEARING THE END

  Sixty hours elapsed before Martin was able to unwrap the puttees fromoff his stiff legs and cut the laces of boots so caked with mud that hewas too weary to untie them. In that time, as the official report putit, "enemy trenches extending from Rue du Bois to Houplines, over afront of nearly three miles, were occupied to an average depth of onethousand yards, and our troops are now consolidating the new territory."

  A bald announcement, indeed! Martin was one of the few who knew what itreally meant. He had helped to organize the victory; he could sum up itscosts. But this record is not a history of the war, nor even of oneyoung soldier's share in it. Martin himself has developed a literarystyle noteworthy for its simple directness. Some day, if he survives, hemay tell his own story.

  When the last of twelve hundred prisoners had been mustered in theGrande Place of Armentieres, when the attacking battalions had beenrelieved and the reserve artillery was shelling Fritz's hastily formedgun positions, when the last ambulance wagon of the "special" divisionhad sped over the _pave_ to the base hospital at Bailleul, Martinthought he was free to go to bed.

  As a matter of fact, he was not. Utterly spent, he had thrown himself ona cot and had slept the sleep of complete exhaustion for half an hour,when a brigade major discovered that "Captain Grant" was at liberty, anddetailed him for an immediate inquiry. The facts were set forth on ArmyForm 122: "On the night of the 10th inst. a barrel of rum, delivered atBrigade Dump No. 35, was stolen or mislaid. It was last seen in trench77. For investigation and report to D.A.Q.M.G. 50th Div." That barrelof rum will never be seen again, though it was destined to roll throughreams of variously numbered army forms during many a week.

  But it did not disturb Martin's slumbers. A brigadier general happenedto hear his name given to an orderly.

  "Who's that?" he inquired sharply. "Grant, did you say?"

  "Yes, sir," answered the brigade major.

  "Don't be such a Heaven-condemned idiot!" said the general, or, rather,he used words to that effect. "Grant was all through that push. Findsome other fellow."

  Brigade majors are necessarily inhuman. It is nothing to them what a manmay have done--they think only of the next job. They are steeled aliketo pity and reproach. This one was no exception among the tribe. Hemerely thumbed a list and said to the orderly:

  "Give that chit to Mr. Fortescue."

  So a subaltern began the chase. He smelt the rum through a whole companyof Gordons, but the barrel lies hid a fathom deep in the mud ofFlanders.

  That same afternoon Martin woke up, refreshed in mind and body. Hesecured a hot bath, "dolled up" in clean clothes, and strolled out tobuy some socks from "Madame," the famous Frenchwoman who has kept hershop open in Armentieres throughout three years of shell fire.

  A Yorkshire battalion was "standing at ease" in the street while theirofficers and color sergeants engaged in a wrangle about billets. Theregiment had taken part in the "push" and bore the outward and visiblesigns of that inward grace which had carried them beyond the third lineGerman trench. A lance corporal was playing "Tipperary" on amouth-organ.

  Someone shouted: "Give us 'Home Fires,' Jim"--and "Jim" ran apreliminary flourish before Martin recognized the musician.

  "Why, if it isn't Jim Bates!" he cried, advancing with outstretchedhand.

  The lance corporal drew himself up and saluted. His brown skin reddenedas he shook hands, for it is not every day that a staff captain greetsone of the rank and file in such democratic fashion.

  "I'm main glad te see you, sir," he said. "I read of your promotion int' _Messenger_, an' we boys of t' owd spot were real pleased. We were,an' all."

  "You're keeping fit, I see," and Martin's eye fell to a _pickelhaube_tied to the sling of Bates's rifle.

  "Pretty well, sir," grinned Bates. "I nearly had a relapse yesterdaywhen that mine went up. Did ye hear of it?"

  "If you mean the one they touched off at L'Epinette Farm, I saw it,"said Martin. "I was at the crossroads at the moment."

  "Well, fancy that, sir! I couldn't ha' bin twenty yards from you."

  "Queer things happen in war. Do you remember Mrs. Saumarez's Germanchauffeur, a man named Fritz Bauer?"

  "Quite well, sir."

  "We caught him in 'No Man's Land' three nights ago. He is a major now."

  Jim was so astonished that his mouth opened, just as it would have doneten years earlier.

  "By gum!" he cried. "That takes it! An' it's hardly a month since I sawMiss Angele in Amiens."

  Martin's pulse quickened. The mouth-organ in Bates's hand brought himback at a bound to the night when he had forbidden Jim to play forAngele's dancing. And with that memory came another thought. Mrs.Saumarez in Paris--her daughter in Amiens--why this devotion to suchnerve centers of the war?

  "Are you sure?" he said. "You would hardly recognize her. She is tenyears older--a woman, not a child."

  Bates laughed. He dropped his voice.

  "She was always a bit owd-fashioned, sir. I'm not mistakken. It kemabout this way. It was her, right enough. Our colonel's shover fellsick, so I took on the car for a week. One day I was waitin' outside theHotel dew Nord at Amiens when a French Red Cross auto drove up, an' outstepped Miss Angele. I twigged her at once. I'd know them eyes of hersanywheres. She hopped into the hotel, walkin' like a ballet-dancer.Hooiver, I goes up to her shover an' sez: 'Pardonnay moy, but ain't thatMees Angele Saumarez?' He talked a lot--these Frenchies always do--but Imed out he didn't understand. So I parlay-vooed some more, and soon Igot the hang of things. She's married now, an' I have her new name an'address in my kit-bag. But I remember 'em, all right. I can't pronounce'em, but I can spell 'em."

  And Lance Corporal Bates spelled: "La Comtesse Barthelemi de Saint-Ivoy,2 bis, Impasse Fautet, Rue Blanche, Paris."

  "It looks funny," went on Jim anxiously, "but it's just as her shoverwrote it."

  Martin affected to treat this information lightly.

  "I'm exceedingly glad I came across you," he said. "How would you liketo be a sergeant, Jim?"

  Bates grinned widely.

  "It's a lot more work, but it does mean better grub, sir," he confided.

  "Very well. Don't mention it to anyone, and I'll see what can be done.It shouldn't be difficult, since you've earned the first stripealready."

  Martin found his brigadier at the mess. A few minutes' conversation withthe great man led him to a greater in the person of the divisionalgeneral. Yet a few more minutes of earnest talk, and he was in a car,bound for General Grant's headquarters, which he reached late thatnight. It was long after midnight when the two retired, and the son'sface was almost as worn and care-lined as the father's ere thediscussion ended.

  Few problems have been so baffling and none more dangerous to the Alliedarmies in France than the German spy system. It was so perfect beforethe war, every possible combination of circumstances had been foreseenand provided against so fully, that the most thorough hunting outand ruthless punishment of enemy agents has failed to crush theorganization. The snake has been scotched, but not killed. Its venom isstill potent. Every officer on the staff and many senior regimentalofficers have been astounded time and again by the completeness andup-to-date nature of the information possessed by the Germans. Surpriseattacks planned with the utmost secrecy have found enemy trenches heldby packed reserves and swarming with additional machine-guns. Newlyestablished ammunition depots, carefully screened, have been bombed nextday by aeroplanes and subjected to high-angle fire. Troop movements byrail over long distances have become known, and their effect discounted.Flanders, in particular, is a plague-spot of espionage which has costBritain an untold sacrifice of life and an almost immeasurable waste ofeffort.

  Small wonder, then, that Martin's forehead should be seamed withforeboding. If his suspicions, which his father shared, were justified,the French Intelligence Department would quickly determine the truth,and no power on earth could save Angele and her mother from a firingparty. France knows her p
eril and stamps it out unflinchingly. Of late,too, the British authorities adopt the same rigorous measures. The spy,man or woman, is shown no mercy.

  And now the whirligig of events had placed in Martin's hands thequestion of life or death for Mrs. Saumarez and Angele. It was aloathsome burden. He rebelled against it. During the long run to Parishis very soul writhed at the thought that fate was making him theirexecutioner. He tried to steel his resolution by dwelling on themischief they might have caused by thinking rather of the gallantcomrades laid forever in the soil of France because of their murderousduplicity than of the woman who was once his friend, of the girl whosekisses had once thrilled him to the core. Worst of all, both GeneralGrant and he himself felt some measure of responsibility for theirfailure to institute a searching inquiry as to Mrs. Saumarez'swhereabouts when war broke out.

  But he was distraught and miserable. He had a notion--a well-foundedone, as it transpired--that an approving general had recommended him forthe Military Cross; but from all appearance he might have expected aletter from the War Office announcing his dismissal from the service.

  At last, after a struggle which left him so broken that at a cordon nearParis he was detained several minutes while a _sous-officier_ who didnot like his looks communicated with a superior potentate, he made uphis mind. Whate'er befell, he would give Angele and her mother onechance. If they decided to take it, well and good. If not, they mustface the cold-eyed inquisition of the Quai d'Orsay.

  Luckily, as matters turned out, he elected to call on Mrs. Saumarezfirst. For one thing, her house in the Rue Henri was not far from ahotel on the Champs Elysees where he was known to the management; foranother, he wished to run no risk of being outwitted by Angele. If sheand her mother were guilty of the ineffable infamy of betraying both thecountry of their nationality and that which sheltered them they must betrapped so effectually as to leave no room for doubt.

  He was also fortunate in the fact that his soldier chauffeur, when giventhe choice, decided to wait and drive him to the Rue Henri. The man wascandid as to his own plans for the evening.

  "When I put the car up I'll have a hot bath and go to bed, sir," hesaid. "I've not had five hours' sleep straight on end during the pastthree weeks, an' I know wot'll happen if I start hittin' it up aroundthese bullyvards. Me for the feathers at nine o'clock! So, if you don'tmind, sir----"

  Martin knew what the man meant. He wanted to be kept busy. One hour ofenforced liberty implied the risk of meeting some hilarious comrades.Even in Paris, strict as the police regulations may be, Britons from thefront are able to sit up late, and the parties are seldom "dry."

  So officer and man removed some of the marks of a long journey, ate agood meal, and about eight o'clock arrived at Mrs. Saumarez's house.Life might be convivial enough inside, but the place looked deserted,almost forbidding, externally.

  Indeed, Martin hesitated before pressing an electric bell and consulteda notebook to verify the street and number given him by the subaltern onthe night von Struben was captured. But he had not erred. His memorynever failed. There could be no doubt but that his special gift in thisdirection had been responsible for a rapid promotion, since militarytraining, on the mental side, depends largely on a letter-perfectaccuracy of recollection.

  When he rang, however, the door opened at once. A bareheaded man incivilian attire, but looking most unlike a domestic, held aside a pairof heavy curtains which shut out the least ray of light from the hall.

  "_Entrez, monsieur_," he said in reply to Martin, after a sharp glanceat the car and its driver.

  Martin heard a latch click behind him. He passed on, to find himselfbefore a sergeant of police seated at a table. Three policemen stoodnear.

  "Your name and rank, monsieur?" said this official.

  Martin, though surprised, almost startled, by these preliminaries,answered promptly. The sergeant nodded to one of his aides.

  "Take this gentleman upstairs," he said.

  "Is there any mistake?" inquired Martin. "I have come here to visit Mrs.Saumarez."

  "No mistake," said the sergeant. "Follow that man, monsieur."

  Assured now that some dramatic and wholly unexpected development hadtaken place, Martin tried to gather his wits as he mounted to thefirst floor. There, in a shuttered drawing-room, he confronted ashrewd-looking man in mufti, to whom his guide handed a written slipsent by the sergeant. Evidently, this was an official of someimportance.

  "Shall I speak English, Captain Grant?" he said, thrusting aside a pileof documents and clearing a space on the table at which he was busy.

  "Well," said Martin, smiling, "I imagine that your English is betterthan my French."

  He sat on a chair indicated by the Frenchman. He put no questions. Heguessed he was in the presence of a tragedy.

  "Is Mrs. Saumarez a friend of yours?" began the stranger.

  "Yes, in a sense."

  "Have you seen her recently?"

  "Not for ten years."

  Obviously, this answer was disconcerting. It was evident, too, thatMartin's name was not on a typed list which the other man had scannedwith a quick eye. Martin determined to clear up an involved situation.

  "I take it that you are connected with the police department?" he said."Well, I have come from the British front at Armentieres to inquire intothe uses to which this house has been put. A number of British officershave been entertained here. Our people want to know why."

  He left it at that for the time being, but the Frenchman's manner becameperceptibly more friendly.

  "May I examine your papers?" he said.

  Martin handed over the bundle of "permis de voyage," which everyonewithout exception must possess in order to move about the roads ofwestern France in wartime.

  "Ah!" said the official, his air changing now to one of marked relief,"this helps matters greatly. My name is Duchesne, Captain Grant--GustaveDuchesne. I belong to the Bureau de l'Interieur. So you people also havehad your suspicions? There can be no doubt about it--the Baroness vonEdelstein was a spy of the worst kind. The mischief that woman did wasincalculable. Of course, it was hopeless to look for any real preventivework in England before the war; but we were caught napping here. Yousee, the widow of a British officer, a lady who had the best ofcredentials, and whose means were ample, hardly came under review. Shekept open house, and had lived in Paris so long that her German originwas completely forgotten. In fact, the merest accident brought about herdownfall."

  One of the policemen came in with a written memorandum, which M.Duchesne read.

  "Your chauffeur does not give information willingly," smiled the latter."The sergeant had to threaten him with arrest before he would describeyour journey to-day."

  It was clear that the authorities were taking nothing for granted whereMrs. Saumarez and her visitors were concerned. Martin felt that he hadstumbled to the lip of an abyss. At any rate, events were out of hishands now, and for that dispensation he was profoundly thankful.

  "I think I ought to tell you what I know of Mrs. Saumarez," he said. "Idon't wish to do the unfortunate woman an injustice, and my facts are sonebulous----"

  "One moment, Captain Grant," interposed the Frenchman. "You may feelless constraint if you hear that the Baroness died this morning."

  "Good Heavens!" was Martin's involuntary cry. "Was she executed?"

  "No," said the other. "She forestalled justice by a couple of hours. Thecause of death was heart failure. She was--intemperate. Her daughter waswith her at the end."

  "Madame Barthelemi de Saint-Ivoy!"

  "You know her, then?"

  "I met her in a Yorkshire village at the same time as her mother. Theother day, by chance, I ascertained her name and address from one of ourvillage lads who recognized her in Amiens about a month ago."

  "Well, you were about to say----"

  Martin had to put forth a physical effort to regain self-control. Heplunged at once into the story of those early years. There was little totell with regard to Mrs. Saumarez and Angele. "Fri
tz Bauer" was thechief personage, and he was now well on his way to a prison camp inEngland.

  Monsieur Duchesne was amused by the map episode in its latest phase.

  "And you were so blind that you took no action?" he commented dryly.

  "No. We saw, but were invincibly confident. My father sent the map tothe Intelligence Department, with which he was connected until 1912,when he was given a command in the North. He and I believe now thatsomeone in Whitehall overlooked the connection between Mrs. Saumarez andan admitted spy. She had left England, and there was so much to do whenwar broke out."

  "Ah! If only those people in London had written us!"

  "Is the affair really so bad?"

  "Bad! This wretched creature showed an ingenuity that was devilish. Shedeceived her own daughter. That is perfectly clear. The girl married aFrench officer after the Battle of the Marne, and, as we have everyreason to believe, thought she had persuaded her mother to break offrelations with her German friends. We know now that the baroness, leftto her own devices, adopted a method of conveying information to theBoches which almost defied detection. Owing to her knowledge of theBritish army she was able to chat with your men on a plane of intimacywhich no ordinary woman could command. She found out where certainbrigades were stationed and what regiments composed them. She heard towhat extent battalions were decimated. She knew what types of guns werein use and what improvements were coming along in caliber and range. Shewas told when men were suddenly recalled from leave, and where they weregoing. Need I say what deductions the German Staff could make from suchfacts?"

  "But how on earth could she convey the information in time to be ofvalue?"

  "Quite easily. There is one weak spot on our frontier--south of theGerman line. She wrote to an agent in Pontarlier, and this mantransmitted her notes across the Swiss frontier. The rest was simple.She was caught by fate, not by us. Years ago she employed a woman fromTinchebrai as a nurse----"

  "Francoise!" broke in Martin.

  "Exactly--Francoise Dupont. Well, Madame Dupont died in 1913. But shehad spoken of her former mistress to a nephew, and this man, a cripple,is now a Paris postman. He is a sharp-witted peasant, and, as he grew inexperience, was promoted gradually to more important districts. Just aweek ago he took on this very street, and when he saw the name recalledher aunt's statements about Mrs. Saumarez. He informed the Surete atonce. Even then she gave us some trouble. Her letters were printed, notwritten, and she could post them in out-of-the-way places. However, wetrapped her within forty-eight hours. Have you a battery of four 9.2'shidden in a wood three hundred meters north-west of Pont Ballot?"

  Martin was so flabbergasted that he stammered.

  "That--is the sort of thing--we don't discuss--anywhere," he said.

  "Naturally. It happens to be also the sort of thing which Mrs. Saumarezdrew out of some too-talkative lieutenant of artillery. Luckily, thefact has not crossed the border. We have the lady's notepaper and hersecret signs, so are taking the liberty to supply the Boches withintelligence more useful to us."

  "Then you haven't grabbed the Pontarlier man?"

  "Not yet. We give him ten days. He has six left. When his time is up,the Germans will have discovered that the wire has been tapped."

  Martin forced the next question.

  "What of Madame de Saint-Ivoy?"

  "Her case is under consideration. She is working for the Croix Rouge.That is why she was in Amiens. Her husband has been recalled fromVerdun. He, by the way, is devoted to her, and she professes to hate allGermans. Thus far her record is clean."

  Martin was glad to get out into the night air, though he had a strangenotion that the quietude of the darkened Paris streets was unreal--thatthe only reality lay yonder where the shells crashed and men burrowedlike moles in the earth. His chauffeur saluted.

  "Glad to see you, sir," said the man. "Those blighters wanted to run mein."

  "No. It's all right. The police are doing good work. Take me to thehotel. I'll follow your example and go to bed."

  Martin's voice was weary. He was grateful to Providence that he hadbeen spared the ordeal which faced him when he entered the city. Butthe strain was heavier than he counted on, and he craved rest, evenfrom tumultuous memories. Before retiring, however, he wrote toElsie--guardedly, of course--but in sufficient detail that she shouldunderstand.

  Next morning, making an early start, he guided the car up the RueBlanche, as the north road could be reached by a slight detour. He sawthe Impasse Fautet, and glanced at the drawn blinds of Numero 2 bis. Inone of those rooms, he supposed, Angele was lying. He had resolved notto seek her out. When the war was over, and he and his wife visitedParis, they could inquire for her. Was she wholly innocent? He hoped so.Somehow, he could not picture her as a spy. She was a disturbinginfluence, but her nature was not mean. At any rate, her mother's deathwould scare her effectually.

  It was a fine morning, clear, and not too cold. His spirits rose as thecar sped along a good road, after the suburban traffic was left behind.The day's news was cheering. Verdun was safe, the Armentieres "push" wasan admitted gain, and the United States had reached the breaking pointwith Germany. Thank God, all would yet be well, and humanity wouldarise, blood-stained but triumphant, from the rack of torment on whichit had been stretched by Teuton oppression!

  "Hit her up!" he said when the car had passed through Crueil, and thenext cordon was twenty miles ahead. The chauffeur stepped on the gas,and the pleasant panorama of France flew by like a land glimpsed indreams.

  * * * * *

  Every day in far-off Elmsdale Elsie would walk to the White House, orJohn and Martha would visit the vicarage. If there was no letter, somecrumb of comfort could be drawn from its absence. Each morning, in bothhouseholds, the first haunted glance was at the casualty lists in thenewspapers. But none ever spoke of that, and Elsie knew what she nevertold the old couple--that the thing really to be dreaded was a longwhite envelope from the War Office, with "O.H.M.S." stamped across it,for the relatives of fallen officers are warned before the last sad itemis printed.

  Elsie lived at the vicarage. The Elms was too roomy for herself and herbaby boy, another Martin Bolland--such were the names given him at thechristening font. So it came to pass that she and the vicar, accompaniedby a nurse wheeling a perambulator, came to the White House withMartin's letter. And, heinous as were Mrs. Saumarez's faults,unforgivable though her crime, they grieved for her, since her memory inthe village had been, for the most part, one of a gracious and dignifiedwoman.

  Martha wiped her spectacles after reading the letter. The word "hotel"had a comforting sound.

  "It must ha' bin nice for t' lad te find hisself in a decent bed for anight," she said.

  Then Elsie's eyes filled with tears.

  "I only wish I had known he was there," she murmured.

  "Why, honey?"

  "Because, God help me, on one night, at least, I could have fallenasleep with the consciousness that he was safe!"

  She averted her face, and her slight, graceful body shook with anuncontrollable emotion. The vicar was so taken aback by thisunlooked-for distress on Elsie's part that his lips quivered and hedared not speak. But John Bolland's huge hand rested lightly on theyoung wife's shoulder.

  "Dinnat fret, lass," he said. "I feel it i' me bones that Martin willcome back te us. England needs such men, the whole wulld needs 'em, an'the Lord, in His goodness, will see to it that they're spared.Sometimes, when things are blackest, I liken mesen unto Job; for Jobwas a farmer an' bred stock, an' he was afflicted more than most. An'then I remember that the Lord blessed the latter end of Job, who diedold and full of days; yet I shall die a broken man if Martin is taken. OLord, my God, in Thee do I put my trust!"

  THE END

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

  Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words andintent.

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