O the delight of defeating such an enemy! Though reduced to half its full strength, Paul’s regiment, released like a pack of hounds, never ceased biting at the wild beast which it was hunting. The quarry seemed more vicious and formidable the nearer it approached to the frontier; and our men kept rushing at it in the mad hope of giving it the death-stroke.
One day Paul read on a sign-post at a cross-roads:
Corvigny, 14 Kil.
Ornequin, 31 Kil. 400.
The Frontier, 33 Kil. 200.
Corvigny! Ornequin! A thrill passed through his frame when he saw those unexpected words. As a rule, absorbed as he was by the heat of the conflict and by his private cares, he paid little attention to the names of the places which he passed; and he learnt them only by chance. And now suddenly he was within so short a distance of the Château d’Ornequin! “Corvigny, 14 kilometers:” less than nine miles! . . . Were the French troops making for Corvigny, for the little fortified place which the Germans had taken by assault and taken under such strange conditions?
That day, they had been fighting since daylight against an enemy whose resistance seemed to grow slacker and slacker. Paul, at the head of a squad of men, was sent to the village of Bléville with orders to enter it if the enemy had retired, but go no farther. And it was just beyond the last houses of the village that he saw the sign-post.
At the time, he was not quite easy in his mind. A Taube had flown over the country a few minutes before. There was the possibility of an ambush.
“Let’s go back to the village,” he said. “We’ll barricade ourselves while we wait.”
But there was a sudden noise behind a wooded hill that interrupted the road in the Corvigny direction, a noise that became more and more definite, until Paul recognized the powerful throb of a motor, doubtless a motor carrying a quick-firing gun.
“Crouch down in the ditch,” he cried to his men. “Hide yourselves in the haystacks. Fix bayonets. And don’t move any of you!”
He had realized the danger of that motor’s passing through the village, plunging in the midst of his company, scattering panic and then making off by some other way.
He quickly climbed the split trunk of an old oak and took up his position in the branches a few feet above the road.
The motor soon came in sight. It was, as he expected, an armored car, but one of the old pattern, which allowed the helmets and heads of the men to show above the steel plating.
It came along at a smart pace, ready to dart forward in case of alarm. The men were stooping with bent backs. Paul counted half-a-dozen of them. The barrels of two Maxim guns projected beyond the car.
He put his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the driver, a fat Teuton with a scarlet face that seemed dyed with blood. Then, when the moment came, he calmly fired.
“Charge, lads!” he cried, as he scrambled down from his tree.
But it was not even necessary to take the car by storm. The driver, struck in the chest, had had the presence of mind to apply the brakes and pull up. Seeing themselves surrounded, the Germans threw up their hands:
“Kamerad! Kamerad!”
And one of them, flinging down his arms, leapt from the motor and came running up to Paul:
“An Alsatian, sergeant, an Alsatian from Strasburg! Ah, sergeant, many’s the day that I’ve been waiting for this moment!”
While his men were taking the prisoners to the village, Paul hurriedly questioned the Alsatian:
“Where has the car come from?”
“Corvigny.”
“Any of your people there?”
“Very few. A rearguard of two hundred and fifty Badeners at the most.”
“And in the forts?”
“About the same number. They didn’t think it necessary to mend the turrets and now they’ve been taken unprepared. They’re hesitating whether to try and make a stand or to fall back on the frontier; and that’s why we were sent to reconnoiter.”
“So we can go ahead?”
“Yes, but at once, else they will receive powerful reinforcements, two divisions.”
“When?”
“To-morrow. They’re to cross the frontier, to-morrow, about the middle of the day.”
“By Jove! There’s no time to be lost!” said Paul.
While examining the guns and having the prisoners disarmed and searched, Paul was considering the best measures to take, when one of his men, who had stayed behind in the village, came and told him of the arrival of a French detachment, with a lieutenant in command.
Paul hastened to tell the officer what had happened. Events called for immediate action. He offered to go on a scouting expedition in the captured motor.
“Very well,” said the officer. “I’ll occupy the village and arrange to have the division informed as soon as possible.”
The car made off in the direction of Corvigny, with eight men packed inside. Two of them, placed in charge of the quick-firing guns, studied the mechanism. The Alsatian stood up, so as to show his helmet and uniform clearly, and scanned the horizon on every side.
All this was decided upon and done in the space of a few minutes, without discussion and without delaying over the details of the undertaking.
“We must trust to luck,” said Paul, taking his seat at the wheel. “Are you ready to see the job through, boys?”
“Yes; and further,” said a voice which he recognized, just behind him.
It was Bernard d’Andeville, Élisabeth’s brother. Bernard belonged to the 9th company; and Paul had succeeded in avoiding him, since their first meeting, or at least in not speaking to him. But he knew that the youngster was fighting well.
“Ah, so you’re there?” he said.
“In the flesh,” said Bernard. “I came along with my lieutenant; and, when I saw you getting into the motor and taking any one who turned up, you can imagine how I jumped at the chance!” And he added, in a more embarrassed tone, “The chance of doing a good stroke of work, under your orders, and the chance of talking to you, Paul . . . for I’ve been unlucky so far. . . . I even thought that . . . that you were not as well-disposed to me as I hoped. . . .”
“Nonsense,” said Paul. “Only I was bothered. . . .”
“You mean, about Élisabeth?”
“Yes.”
“I see. All the same, that doesn’t explain why there was something between us, a sort of constraint . . .”
At that moment, the Alsatian exclaimed:
“Lie low there! . . . Uhlans ahead! . . .”
A patrol came trotting down a cross-road, turning the corner of a wood. He shouted to them, as the car passed:
“Clear out, Kameraden! Fast as you can! The French are coming!”
Paul took advantage of the incident not to answer his brother-in-law. He had forced the pace; and the motor was now thundering along, scaling the hills and shooting down them like a meteor.
The enemy detachments became more numerous. The Alsatian called out to them or else by means of signs incited them to beat an immediate retreat.
“It’s the funniest thing to see,” he said, laughing. “They’re all galloping behind us like mad.” And he added, “I warn you, sergeant, that at this rate we shall dash right into Corvigny. Is that what you want to do?”
“No,” replied Paul, “we’ll stop when the town’s in sight.”
“And, if we’re surrounded?”
“By whom? In any case, these bands of fugitives won’t be able to oppose our return.”
Bernard d’Andeville spoke:
“Paul,” he said, “I don’t believe you’re thinking of returning.”
“You’re quite right. Are you afraid?”
“Oh, what an ugly word!”
But presently Paul went on, in a gentler voice:
“I’m sorry you came, Bernard.”
“Is the danger greater for me than for you and the others?”
“No.”
“Then do me the honor not to be sorry.”
Still st
anding up and leaning over the sergeant, the Alsatian pointed with his hand:
“That spire straight ahead, behind the trees, is Corvigny. I calculate that, by slanting up the hills on the left, we ought to be able to see what’s happening in the town.”
“We shall see much better by going inside,” Paul remarked. “Only it’s a big risk . . . especially for you, Alsatian. If they take you prisoner, they’ll shoot you. Shall I put you down this side of Corvigny?”
“You haven’t studied my face, sergeant.”
The road was now running parallel with the railway. Soon, the first houses of the outskirts came in sight. A few soldiers appeared.
“Not a word to these,” Paul ordered. “It won’t do to startle them . . . or they’ll take us from behind at the critical moment.”
He recognized the station and saw that it was strongly held. Spiked helmets were coming and going along the avenues that led to the town.
“Forward!” cried Paul. “If there’s any large body of troops, it can only be in the square. Are the guns ready? And the rifles? See to mine for me, Bernard. And, at the first signal, independent fire!”
The motor rushed at full speed into the square. As he expected, there were about a hundred men there, all massed in front of the church-steps, near their stacked rifles. The church was a mere heap of ruins; and almost all the houses in the square had been leveled to the ground by the bombardment.
The officers, standing on one side, cheered and waved their hands on seeing the motor which they had sent out to reconnoiter and whose return they seemed to be expecting before making their decision about the defense of the town. There were a good many of them, their number no doubt including some communication officers. A general stood a head and shoulders above the rest. A number of cars were waiting some little distance away.
The street was paved with cobble-stones and there was no raised pavement between it and the square. Paul followed it; but, when he was within twenty yards of the officers, he gave a violent turn of the wheel and the terrible machine made straight for the group, knocking them down and running over them, slanted off slightly, so as to take the stacks of rifles, and then plunged like an irresistible mass right into the middle of the detachment, spreading death as it went, amid a mad, hustling flight and yells of pain and terror.
“Independent fire!” cried Paul, stopping the car.
And the firing began from this impregnable blockhouse, which had suddenly sprung up in the center of the square, accompanied by the sinister crackle of the two Maxim guns.
In five minutes, the square was strewn with killed and wounded men. The general and several officers lay dead. The survivors took to their heels.
Paul gave the order to cease fire and took the car to the top of the avenue that led to the station. The troops from the station were hastening up, attracted by the shooting. A few volleys from the guns dispersed them.
Paul drove three times quickly round the square, to examine the approaches. On every side the enemy was fleeing along the roads and paths to the frontier. And on every hand the inhabitants of Corvigny came out of their houses and gave vent to their delight.
“Pick up and see to the wounded,” Paul ordered. “And send for the bell-ringer, or some one who understands about the bells. It’s urgent!”
An aged sacristan appeared.
“The tocsin, old man, the tocsin for all you’re worth! And, when you’re tired, have some one to take your place! The tocsin, without stopping for a second!”
This was the signal which Paul had agreed upon with the French lieutenant, to announce to the division that the enterprise had succeeded and that the troops were to advance.
It was two o’clock. At five, the staff and a brigade had taken possession of Corvigny and our seventy-fives were firing a few shells. By ten o’clock in the evening, the rest of the division having come up meantime, the Germans had been driven out of the Grand Jonas and the Petit Jonas and were concentrating before the frontier. It was decided to dislodge them at daybreak.
“Paul,” said Bernard to his brother-in-law, at the evening roll-call, “I have something to tell you, something that puzzles me, a very queer thing: you’ll judge for yourself. Just now, I was walking down one of the streets near the church when a woman spoke to me. I couldn’t make out her face or her dress at first, because it was almost dark, but she seemed to be a peasant-woman from the sound of her wooden shoes on the cobbles. ‘Young man,’ she said — and her way of expressing herself surprised me a little in a peasant-woman— ‘Young man, you may be able to tell me something I want to know.’ I said I was at her service and she began, ‘It’s like this: I live in a little village close by. I heard just now that your army corps was here. So I came, because I wanted to see a soldier who belonged to it, only I don’t know the number of his regiment. I believe he has been transferred, because I never get a letter from him; and I dare say he has not had mine. Oh, if you only happened to know him! He’s such a good lad, such a gallant fellow.’ I asked her to tell me his name; and she answered, ‘Delroze, Corporal Paul Delroze.’”
“What!” cried Paul. “Did she want me?”
“Yes, Paul, and the coincidence struck me as so curious that I just gave her the number of your regiment and your company, without telling her that we were related. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘And is the regiment at Corvigny?’ I said it had just arrived. ‘And do you know Paul Delroze?’ ‘Only by name,’ I answered. I can’t tell you why I answered like that, or why I continued the conversation so as not to let her guess my surprise: ‘He has been promoted to sergeant,’ I said, ‘and mentioned in dispatches. That’s how I come to have heard his name. Shall I find out where he is and take you to him?’ ‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘not yet. I should be too much upset.’”
“What on earth did she mean?”
“I can’t imagine. It struck me as more and more suspicious. Here was a woman looking for you eagerly and yet putting off the chance of seeing you. I asked her if she was very much interested in you and she said yes, that you were her son.”
“Her son!”
“Up to then I am certain that she did not suspect for a second that I was cross-examining her. But my astonishment was so great that she drew back into the shadow, as though to put herself on the defensive. I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulled out my little electric lamp, went up to her, pressed the spring and flung the light full in her face. She seemed disconcerted and stood for a moment without moving. Then she quickly lowered a scarf which she wore over her head and, with a strength which I should never have believed, struck me on the arm and made me drop my lamp. Then came a second of absolute silence. I couldn’t make out where she was: whether in front of me, or on the right or the left. There was no sound to tell me if she was there still or not. But I understood presently, when, after picking up my lamp and switching on the light again, I saw her two wooden shoes on the ground. She had stepped out of them and run away on her stocking-feet. I hunted for her, but couldn’t find her. She had disappeared.”
Paul had listened to his brother-in-law’s story with increasing attention.
“Then you saw her face?” he asked.
“Oh, quite distinctly! A strong face, with black hair and eyebrows and a look of great wickedness. . . . Her clothes were those of a peasant-woman, but too clean and too carefully put on: I felt somehow that they were a disguise.”
“About what age was she?”
“Forty.”
“Would you know her again?”
“Without a moment’s hesitation.”
“What was the color of the scarf you mentioned?”
“Black.”
“How was it fastened? In a knot?”
“No, with a brooch.”
“A cameo?”
“Yes, a large cameo set in gold. How did you know that?”
Paul was silent for some time and then said:
“I will show you to-morrow, in one of the rooms at Ornequin, a portrait which should bear
a striking resemblance to the woman who spoke to you, the sort of resemblance that exists between two sisters perhaps . . . or . . . or . . .” He took his brother-in-law by the arm and, leading him along, continued, “Listen to me, Bernard. There are terrible things around us, in the present and the past, things that affect my life and Élisabeth’s . . . and yours as well. Therefore, I am struggling in the midst of a hideous obscurity in which enemies whom I do not know have for twenty years been pursuing a scheme which I am quite unable to understand. In the beginning of the struggle, my father died, the victim of a murder. To-day it is I that am being threatened. My marriage with your sister is shattered and nothing can bring us together again, just as nothing will ever again allow you and me to be on those terms of friendship and confidence which we had the right to hope for. Don’t ask me any questions, Bernard, and don’t try to find out any more. One day, perhaps — and I do not wish that day ever to arrive — you will know why I begged for your silence.”
CHAPTER VI. WHAT PAUL SAW AT ORNEQUIN
PAUL DELROZE WAS awakened at dawn by the bugle-call. And, in the artillery duel that now began, he at once recognized the sharp, dry voice of the seventy-fives and the hoarse bark of the German seventy-sevens.
“Are you coming, Paul?” Bernard called from his room. “Coffee is served downstairs.”
The brothers-in-law had found two little bedrooms over a publican’s shop. While they both did credit to a substantial breakfast, Paul told Bernard the particulars of the occupation of Corvigny and Ornequin which he had gathered on the evening before:
“On Wednesday, the nineteenth of August, Corvigny, to the great satisfaction of the inhabitants, still thought that it would be spared the horrors of war. There was fighting in Alsace and outside Nancy, there was fighting in Belgium; but it looked as if the German thrust were neglecting the route of invasion offered by the valley of the Liseron. The fact is that this road is a narrow one and apparently of secondary importance. At Corvigny, a French brigade was busily pushing forward the defense-works. The Grand Jonas and the Petit Jonas were ready under their concrete cupolas. Our fellows were waiting.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 169