The Isle of Unrest

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  A WOMAN OF ACTION.

  “Love ... gives to every power a double power Above their functions and their offices.”

  “Ah!” said Mademoiselle Brun, as she stepped on deck the next morning.And the contrast between the gloomy departure from Corsica and the sunnyreturn to France was strong enough, without further comment from thiswoman of few words.

  The yacht was approaching the little harbour of St. Raphael at half speedon a sea as blue and still as the Mediterranean of any poet’s dream. Thefreshness of morning was in the air--the freshness of Provence, where thedays are hot and the nights cool, and there are no mists between the oneand the other. Almost straight ahead, the little town of Fréjus (whereanother Corsican landed to set men by the ears) stood up in sharp outlineagainst the dark pinewoods of Valescure, with the thin wood-smoke curlingup from a hundred chimneys. To the left, the flat lands of Les Arcs halfhid the distant heights of Toulon; and, to the right, headland afterheadland led the eye almost to the frontier of Italy along the finestcoast-line in the world. Every shade of blue was on sky or sea ormountain, while the deep morning shadows were transparent and almostluminous. From the pinewoods a scent of resin swept seaward, mingled withthe subtle odour of the tropic foliage near the shore. The sky wascloudless. This was indeed the smiling land of France.

  Denise, who had followed mademoiselle on deck, stood still and drank itall in; for such sights and scents have a deep eloquence for the young,which older hearts can only touch from the outside, vaguely andintangibly, like the memory of a perfume.

  Denise had slept well, and Mademoiselle Brun said she had slept enoughfor an old woman. A cheery little stewardess had brought them coffee soonafter daylight, and had answered a few curt questions put to her byMademoiselle Brun.

  “Yes; the yacht was the yacht of the Baron de Mélide, and the_bête-noire_, by the same token, of madame, who hated the sea.”

  And madame was at the château near Fréjus, where Monsieur le Baron hadinstalled her on the outbreak of the war, and would assuredly be on thepier at St. Raphael to meet them. And God only knew where Monsieur leBaron was. He had gone, it was said, to the war in some civil capacity.

  As they stood on deck, Denise soon perceived the little pier where therewere, even at this early hour, a few of those indefatigable MediterraneanWaltons who fish and fish and catch nothing, all through the sunny day.Presently Mademoiselle Brun caught sight of a small dot of colour whichseemed to move spasmodically up and down.

  “I see the parasol,” she said, “of Jane de Mélide. What good friends wehave!”

  And presently they were near enough to wave a handkerchief in answer tothe Baroness de Mélide’s vigorous salutations. The yacht crept round thepier-head, and was soon made fast to a small white buoy. While a boat wasbeing lowered, the baroness, in a gay Parisian dress, walked impatientlybackwards and forwards, waved her parasol, and called out incoherentremarks, which Mademoiselle Brun answered by a curt gesture of the hand.

  “My poor friend!” exclaimed the baroness, as she embraced MademoiselleBrun. “My dear Denise, you are a brave woman. I have heard all aboutyou.”

  And her quick, dancing eyes took in at a glance that Denise had comeagainst her will, and Mademoiselle Brun had brought her. Of which Denisewas ignorant, for the sunshine and brightness of the scene affected herand made her happy.

  “Surely,” she said, as they walked the length of the pier together, “thebad news has been exaggerated. The war will soon be over and we shall behappy again.”

  “Do not talk of it,” cried the baroness. “It is a horror. I saw Lory,after Wörth, and that was enough war for me. And, figure to yourself!--Iam all alone in this great house. It is a charity to come and stay withme. Lory has gone to the front. My husband, who said he loved me--whereis he? Bonjour, and he is gone. He leaves me without a regret. And I, whocry my eyes out; or would cry them out if I were a fool--such asmademoiselle thinks me. Ah! I do not know what has come to all the men.”

  “But I do,” said mademoiselle, who had seen war before.

  And the baroness, looking at that still face, laughed her gay littleinconsequent laugh.

  A carriage was waiting for them in the shade of the trees on themarket-place, its smart horses and men forming a strong contrast to theuntidy town and slip-shod idlers. As usual, a game of bowls was inprogress, and absorbed all the attention of the local intelligence.

  “We have half an hour through the pine trees,” said the baroness,settling herself energetically on the cushions. “And, do you know, I amthankful to see you. I thought you would be prevented coming.”

  She glanced at Denise as she spoke, and with a suddenly grave face, leantforward, and whispered--

  “The news is bad--the news is bad. All this has been organized by Loryand my husband, who told me, in so many words, that they must have uswhere they can find us at a moment’s notice. In case--ah, mon Dieu! I donot know what is going to happen to us all.”

  “Then are we to be moved about, like ornaments, from one safe place toanother?” asked Denise, with a laugh which was not wholly spontaneous.

  “I have never been treated as an ornament yet,” put in Mademoiselle Brun,“and it is perhaps rather late to begin now.”

  Denise looked at her inquiringly.

  “Yes,” said the little woman, quietly. “I am going to the war--if Janewill take care of you while I am away.”

  “And why should not I go too?” asked Denise.

  “Because you are too young and too pretty, my dear--since you ask a plainquestion,” replied the baroness, impulsively. Then she turned towardsmademoiselle. “You know,” she said, “that my precious stupid isorganizing a field hospital.”

  “I thought he would find something to do,” answered mademoiselle, curtly.

  “Yes,” said the baroness, slowly, “yes--because when he was a boy he hadfor governess a certain little woman whose teaching was deeds, not words.And he is paying for it himself. And we shall all be ruined.”

  She spread out her rich dress, lay back in her luxurious carriage, andsmiled on Mademoiselle Brun with something that was not mirth at the backof her brown eyes.

  “I shall go to him,” said mademoiselle. And the baroness made no replyfor some moments.

  “Do you know what he said?” she asked. “He said we shall want women--oldones. I know one old woman who will come!”

  Mademoiselle was buttoning her cotton gloves and did not seem to hear.

  “It was, of course, Lory,” went on the baroness, “who encouraged him andtold him how to go about it. And then he went back to the front to fight.Mon Dieu! he can fight--that Lory!”

  “Where is he?” asked mademoiselle. And the baroness spread out her glovedhands.

  “At the front--I cannot tell you more.”

  And mademoiselle did not speak again. She was essentially a woman of herword. She had undertaken to find Lory and give him that odd, inexplicablemessage from the abbé. She had not undertaken much in her narrow life;but she had usually accomplished, in a quiet, mouse-like way, that towhich she set her hand. And now, as she drove through the smilingcountry, with which it was almost impossible to associate the idea ofwar, she was planning how she could get to the front and work there underthe Baron de Mélide, and find Lory de Vasselot.

  “They are somewhere near a little place called Sedan,” said the baroness.

  And Mademoiselle Brun set out that same day for the little place calledSedan; then known vaguely as a fortress on the Belgian frontier, and nowfor ever written in every Frenchman’s heart as the scene of one of thosestupendous catastrophes to which France seems liable, and from which shealone has the power of recovery. For, whatever the history of the Frenchmay be, it has never been dull reading, and she has shown the whole worldthat one may carry a brave and a light heart out of the deepest tragedy.

  By day and night Mademoiselle Brun, sitting upright in a dark corner of asecond-class carriage, made her way northward across F
rance. No onequestioned her, and she asked no one’s help. A silent little old womanassuredly attracts less attention to her comings and goings than anyother human being. And on the third day mademoiselle actually reachedChalons, which many a more important traveller might at this time havefailed to do. She found the town in confusion, the civilians bewildered,the soldiers sullen. No one knew what an hour might bring forth. It wasnot even known who was in command. The emperor was somewhere near, but noone knew where. General officers were seeking their army-corps. Privatesoldiers were wandering in the streets seeking food and quarters. Therailway station was blocked with stores which had been hastily dischargedfrom trucks wanted elsewhere. And it was no one’s business to distributethe stores.

  Mademoiselle Brun wandered from shop to shop, gathering a hundred rumoursbut no information. “The emperor is dying--Macmahon is wounded,” abutcher told her, as he mechanically sharpened his knife at her approach,though he had not as much as a bone in his shop to sell her.

  She stopped a cuirassier riding a lame horse, his own leg hastilybandaged with a piece of coloured calico.

  “What regiment?” she asked.

  “I have no regiment. There is nothing left. You see in me the colonel,and the majors, and the captains. I am the regiment,” he answered with alaugh that made mademoiselle bite her steady lip.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Can you give me a little money?”

  “I can give you a franc. I have not too much myself. Where have you comefrom?”

  “I don’t know. None of us knew where we were.”

  He thanked her, observed that he was very hungry, and rode on. She founda night’s lodging at a seed-chandler’s who had no seeds to sell.

  “They will not need them this year,” he said. “The Prussians are ridingover the corn.”

  The next morning the indomitable little woman went on her way towardsSedan in a forage-cart which was going to the front. She told thecorporal in charge that she was attached to the Baron de Mélide’s fieldhospital and must get to her work.

  “You will not like it when you get there, my brave lady,” said the man,good-humouredly, making room for her.

  “I shall like it better than doing nothing here,” she replied.

  And so they set forth through the country heavy with harvest. It was thesecond of September. The corn was ripe, the leaves were already turning;for it had been a dry summer, and since April hardly any rain had fallen.

  It was getting late in the afternoon when they met a man in a dog-cartdriving at a great pace. He pulled up when he saw them. His face was thecolour of lead, his eyes were startlingly bloodshot.

  “This parishioner has been badly scared,” muttered the soldier who wasdriving Mademoiselle Brun.

  “Where are you going?” asked the stranger in a high, thin voice.

  “To Sedan.”

  “Then turn back,” he cried; “Sedan is no place for a woman. It is a hellon earth. I saw it all, mon Dieu. I saw it all. I was at Bazeilles. I sawthe children thrown into the windows of the burning houses. I saw theBavarians shoot our women in the streets. I saw the troops rush intoSedan like rabbits into their holes, and then the Prussians bombardedthe town. They had six hundred guns all round the town, and they firedupon that little place which was packed full like a sheep-pen. It is notwar--it is butchery. What is the good God doing? What is He thinking of?”

  And the man, who had the pasty face of a clerk or a commercial traveller,raised his whip to heaven in a gesture of fierce anger. Mademoiselle Brunlooked at him with measuring eyes. He was almost a man at that moment.But perhaps her standard of manhood was too high.

  “And is Sedan taken?” she asked quietly.

  “Sedan is taken. Macmahon is wounded. The emperor is prisoner, and thewhole French army has surrendered. Ninety thousand men. The Prussians hadtwo hundred and forty thousand men. Ah! That emperor--that scoundrel!”

  Mademoiselle Brun looked at him coldly, but without surprise. She haddealt with Frenchmen all her life, and probably expected that the fallenshould be reviled--an unfortunate characteristic in an otherwise greatnational spirit.

  “And the cavalry?” she asked.

  “Ah!” cried the man, and again his dull eye flashed. “The cavalry weresplendid. They tried to cut their way out. They passed through thePrussian cavalry and actually faced the infantry, but the fire wasterrible. No man ever saw or heard anything like it. The cuirassiers weremown down like corn. The cavalry exists no longer, madame, but its nameis immortal.”

  There was nothing poetic about Mademoiselle Brun, who listened rathercoldly.

  “And you,” she asked, “what are you? you are assuredly a Frenchman?”

  “Yes--I am a Frenchman.”

  “And yet your back is turned,” said Mademoiselle Brun, “towards thePrussians.”

  “I am a writer,” explained the man--“a journalist. It is my duty to go tosome safe place and write of all that I have seen.”

  “Ah!” said Mademoiselle Brun. “Let us, my friend,” she said, turning toher companion on the forage-cart, “proceed towards Sedan. We arefortunately not in the position of monsieur.”