Complete Works of a E W Mason

by A. E. W. Mason

  “My mother was German,” replied Faversham.

  “But you are English yourself. Now have you ever met in England a certain Miss Marian Beveridge,” and his leer was the most disagreeable thing that Faversham ever remembered to have set eyes upon.

  “No,” he answered shortly.

  “And you have not heard of her?”

  “No.”

  “Ah!”

  Captain Plessy leaned back in his chair and filled his glass. Lieutenant Faversham’s tone was not that of a man inviting confidence. But the Captain’s brains were more than a little fuddled, he repeated the name over to himself once or twice with the chuckle which asks for questions, and since the questions did not come, he must needs proceed of his own accord.

  “But I must cross to England myself. I must see this Miss Marian Beveridge. Ah, but your English girls are strange, name of Heaven, they are very strange.”

  Lieutenant Faversham made a movement. The Captain was his guest, he was bound to save him if he could from a breach of manners and saw no way but this of breaking up the party. Captain Plessy, however, was too quick for him, he lifted his hand to his breast.

  “You wish for something to smoke. It is true, we have forgotten to smoke, but I have my cigarettes and I beg you to try them, the tobacco I think is good and you will be saved the trouble of moving.”

  He opened the case and reached it over to Faversham. But as Faversham with a word of thanks took a cigarette, the Captain upset the case as though by inadvertence. There fell out upon the table under Faversham’s eyes not merely the cigarettes, but some of the Captain’s visiting-cards and a letter. The letter was addressed to Captain Plessy in a firm character but it was plainly the writing of a woman. Faversham picked it up and at once handed it back to Plessy.

  “Ah,” said Plessy with a start of surprise, “Was the letter indeed in the case?” and he fondled it in his hands and finally kissed it with the upturned eyes of a cheap opera singer. “A pigeon, Sir, flew with it into Paris. Happy pigeon that could be the bearer of such sweet messages.”

  He took out the letter from the envelope and read a line or two with a sigh, and another line or two with a laugh.

  “But your English girls are strange!” he said again. “Here is an instance, an example, fallen by accident from my cigarette-case. M. le Commandant, I will read it to you, that you may see how strange they are.”

  One of Plessy’s subalterns extended his hand and laid it on his sleeve. Plessy turned upon him angrily, and the subaltern withdrew his hand.

  “I will read it to you,” he said again to Faversham. Faversham did not protest nor did he now make any effort to move. But his face grew pale, he shivered once or twice, his eyes seemed to be taking the measure of Plessy’s strength, his brain to be calculating upon his prowess; the sweat began to gather upon his forehead.

  Of these signs, however, Plessy took no note. He had reached however inartistically the point at which he had been aiming.

  He was no longer to be baulked of reading his letter. He read it through to the end, and Faversham listened to the end. It told its own story. It was the letter of a girl who wrote in a frank impulse of admiration to a man whom she did not know. There was nowhere a trace of coquetry, nowhere the expression of a single sentimentality. Its tone was pure friendliness, it was the work of a quite innocent girl who because she knew the man to whom she wrote to be brave, therefore believed him to be honourable. She expressed her trust in the very last words. “You will not of course show this letter to any one in the world. But I wrong you even by mentioning such an impossibility.”

  “But you have shown it,” said Faversham.

  His face was now grown of an extraordinary pallor, his lips twitched as he spoke and his fingers worked in a nervous uneasy manner upon the table-cloth. Captain Plessy was in far too complacent a mood to notice such trifles. His vanity was satisfied, the world was a rosy mist with a sparkle of champagne, and he answered lightly as he unfastened another button of his tunic.

  “No, my friend, I have not shown it. I keep the lady’s wish.”

  “You have read it aloud. It is the same thing.”

  “Pardon me. Had I shown the letter I should have shown the name. And that would have been a dishonour of which a gallant man is incapable, is it not so? I read it and I did not read the name.”

  “But you took pains, Captain Plessy, that we should know the name before you read the letter.”

  “I? Did I mention a name?” exclaimed Plessy with an air of concern and a smile upon his mouth which gave the lie to the concern. “Ah, yes, a long while ago. But did I say it was the name of the lady who had written the letter? Indeed, no. You make a slight mistake, my friend. I bear no malice for it — believe me, upon my heart, no! After a dinner and a little bottle of champagne, there is nothing more pardonable. But I will tell you why I read the letter.”

  “If you please,” said Faversham, and the gravity of his tone struck upon his companion suddenly as something unexpected and noteworthy. Plessy drew himself together and for the first time took stock of his host as of a possible adversary. He remarked the agitation of his face, the beads of perspiration upon his forehead, the restless fingers, and beyond all these a certain hunted look in the eyes with which his experience had made him familiar. He nodded his head once or twice slowly as though he were coming to a definite conclusion about Faversham. Then he sat bolt upright.

  “Ah,” said he with a laugh. “I can answer a question which puzzled me a little this afternoon,” and he sank back again in his chair with an easy confidence and puffed the smoke of his cigarette from his mouth. Faversham was not sufficiently composed to consider the meaning of Plessy’s remark. He put it aside from his thoughts as an evasion.

  “You were to tell me, I think, why you read the letter.”

  “Certainly,” answered Plessy. He twirled his moustache, his voice had lost its suavity and had taken on an accent of almost contemptuous raillery. He even winked at his two brother officers, he was beginning to play with Faversham. “I read the letter to illustrate how strange, how very strange, are your English girls. Here is one of them who writes to me. I am grateful — oh, beyond words, but I think to myself what a different thing the letter would be if it had been written by a Frenchwoman. There would have been some hints, nothing definite you understand, but a suggestion, a delicate, provoking suggestion of herself, like a perfume to sting one into a desire for a nearer acquaintance. She would delicately and without any appearance of intention have permitted me to know her colour, perhaps her height, perhaps even to catch an elusive glimpse of her face. Very likely a silk thread of hair would have been left inadvertently clinging to a sheet of the paper. She would sketch perhaps her home and speak remorsefully of her boldness in writing. Oh, but I can imagine the letter, full of pretty subtleties, alluring from its omissions, a vexation and a delight from end to end. But this, my friend!” He tossed the letter carelessly upon the table-cloth. “I am grateful from the bottom of my heart, but it has no art.”

  At once Geoffrey Faversham’s hand reached out and closed upon the letter.

  “You have told me why you have read it aloud.”

  “Yes,” said Plessy, a little disconcerted by the quickness of

  Faversham’s movement.

  “Now I will tell you why I allowed you to read it to the end. I was of the same mind as that English girl whose name we both know. I could not believe that a man, brave as I knew you to be, could outside his bravery be so contemptible.”

  The words were brought out with a distinct effort. None the less they were distinctly spoken.

  A startled exclamation broke from the two subalterns. Plessy commenced to bluster.

  “Sir, do I understand you?” and he saw Faversham standing above him, in a quiver of excitement.

  “You will hold your tongue, Captain Plessy, until I have finished. I allowed you to read the letter, never thinking but that some pang of forgotten honour would paralyse your t
ongue. You read it to the end. You complain there is no art in it, that it has no delicate provocations, such as your own countrywomen would not fail to use. It should be the more sacred on that account, and I am glad to believe that you misjudge your country women. Captain Plessy, I acknowledge that as you read out that letter with its simple, friendly expression of gratitude for the spectacle of a brave man, I envied you heartily, I would have been very proud to have received it. I would have much liked to know that some deed which I had done had made the world for a moment brighter to some one a long way off with whom I was not acquainted. Captain Plessy, I shall not allow you to keep this letter. You shall not read it aloud again.”

  Faversham thrust the letter into the flame of the candle which stood between Plessy and himself. Plessy sprang up and blew the candle out; but little colourless flames were already licking along the envelope. Faversham held the letter downwards by a corner and the colourless flame flickered up into a tongue of yellow, the paper charred and curled in the track of the flames, the flames leapt to Faversham’s fingers; he dropped the burning letter on the floor and crushed it with his foot. Then he looked at Plessy and waited. He was as white as the table-cloth, his dark eyes seemed to have sunk into his head and burned unnaturally bright, every nerve in his body seemed to be twitching; he looked very like the young boy who used to sit at the dinner-table on Crimean nights and listen in a quiver to the appalling stories of his father’s guests. As he had been silent then, so he was silent now. He waited for Captain Plessy to speak. Captain Plessy, however, was in no hurry to begin. He had completely lost his air of contemptuous raillery, he was measuring Faversham warily with the eyes of a connoisseur.

  “You have insulted me,” he said abruptly, and he heard again that indrawing of the breath which he had remarked that afternoon in the cellar. He also heard Faversham speak immediately after he had drawn the breath.

  “There are reparations for insults,” said Faversham.

  Captain Plessy bowed. He was now almost as sober as when he had sat down to his dinner.

  “We will choose a time and place,” said he.

  “There can be no better time than now,” suddenly cried Faversham, “no better place than this. You have two friends of whom with your leave I will borrow one. We have a large room and a candle apiece to fight by. To-morrow my duties begin again. We will fight to-night, Captain Plessy, to-night,” and he leaned forward almost feverishly, his words had almost the accent of a prayer. The two subalterns rose from their chairs, but Plessy motioned them to keep still. Then he seized the candle which he had himself blown out, lighted it from the candle at the far end of the table and held it up above his head so that the light fell clearly upon Faversham’s face. He stood looking at Faversham for an appreciable time. Then he said quietly,

  “I will not fight you to-night.”

  One of the subalterns started up, the other merely turned his head towards Plessy, but both stared at their Captain with an unfeigned astonishment and an unfeigned disappointment. Faversham continued to plead.

  “But you must to-night, for to-morrow you cannot. To-night I am alone here, to-night I give orders, to-morrow I receive them. You have your sword at your side to-night. Will you be wearing it to-morrow? I pray you gentlemen to help me,” he said turning to the subalterns, and he began to push the heavy table from the centre of the room.

  “I will not fight you to-night, Lieutenant,” Captain Plessy replied.

  “And why?” asked Faversham ceasing from his work. He made a gesture which had more of despair than of impatience.

  Captain Plessy gave his reason. It rang false to every man in the room and indeed he made no attempt to give to it any appearance of sincerity. It was a deliberate excuse and not his reason.

  “Because you are the Prussian officer in command and the Prussian troops march into St. Denis to-morrow. Suppose that I kill you, what sort of penalty should I suffer at their hands?”

  “None,” exclaimed Faversham. “We can draw up an account of the quarrel, here now. Look here is paper and ink and as luck will have it a pen that will write. I will write an account with my own hand, and the four of us can sign it. Besides if you kill me, you can escape into Paris.”

  “I will not fight you to-night,” said Captain Plessy and he set down the candle upon the table. Then with an elaborate correctness he drew his sword from its scabbard and offered the handle of it to Faversham.

  “Lieutenant, you are in command of St. Denis. I am your prisoner of war.”

  Faversham stood for a moment or two with his hands clenched. The light had gone out of his face.

  “I have no authority to make prisoners,” he said. He took up one of the candles, gazed at his guest in perplexity.

  “You have not given me your real reason, Captain Plessy,” he said.

  Captain Plessy did not answer a word.

  “Good-night, gentlemen,” said Faversham and Captain Plessy bowed deeply as Faversham left the room.

  A silence of some duration followed upon the closing of the door. The two subalterns were as perplexed as Faversham to account for their hero’s conduct. They sat dumb and displeased. Plessy stood for a moment thoughtfully, then he made a gesture with his hands as though to brush the whole incident from his mind and taking a cigarette from his case proceeded to light it at the candle. As he stooped to the flame he noticed the glum countenances of his brother-officers, and laughed carelessly.

  “You are not pleased with me, my friends,” said he as he threw himself on to a couch which stood against the wall opposite to his companions. “You think I did not speak the truth when I gave the reason of my refusal? Well you are right. I will give you the real reason why I would not fight. It is very simple. I do not wish to be killed. I know these white-faced, trembling men — there are no men more terrible. They may run away but if they do not, if they string themselves to the point of action — take the word of a soldier older than yourselves — then is the time to climb trees. To-morrow I would very likely kill our young friend, he would have had time to think, to picture to himself the little point of steel glittering towards his heart — but to-night he would assuredly have killed me. But as I say I do not wish to be killed. You are satisfied?”

  It appeared that they were not. They sat with all the appearances of discontent. They had no words for Captain Plessy. Captain Plessy accordingly rose lightly from his seat.

  “Ah,” said he, “my good friend the Lieutenant has after all left me my sword. The table too is already pushed sufficiently on one side. There is only one candle to be sure, but it will serve. You are not satisfied, gentlemen? Then—” But both subalterns now hastened to assure Captain Plessy that they considered his conduct had been entirely justified.

  THE DESERTER.

  LIEUTENANT FEVRIER OF the 69th regiment, which belonged to the first brigade of the first division of the army of the Rhine, was summoned to the Belletonge farm just as it was getting dusk. The Lieutenant hurried thither, for the Belletonge farm opposite the woods of Colombey was the headquarters of the General of his division.

  “I have been instructed,” said General Montaudon, “to select an officer for a special duty. I have selected you.”

  Now for days Lieutenant Fevrier’s duties had begun and ended with him driving the soldiers of his company from eating unripe fruit; and here, unexpectedly, he was chosen from all the officers of his division for a particular exploit. The Lieutenant trembled with emotion.

  “My General!” he cried.

  The General himself was moved.

  “What your task will be,” he continued, “I do not known. You will go at once to the Mareschal’s headquarters when the chief of the staff, General Jarras, will inform you.”

  Lieutenant Fevrier went immediately up to Metz. His division was entrenched on the right bank of the Mosel and beyond the forts, so that it was dark before he passed through the gates. He had never once been in Metz before; he had grown used to the monotony of camps; he had expected
shuttered windows and deserted roads, and so the aspect of the town amazed him beyond measure. Instead of a town besieged, it seemed a town during a fairing. There were railway carriages, it is true, in the Place Royale doing duty as hospitals; the provision shops, too, were bare, and there were no horses visible.

  But on the other hand, everywhere was a blaze of light and a bustle of people coming and going upon the footpaths. The cafés glittered and rang with noise. Here one little fat burgher was shouting that the town-guard was worth all the red-legs in the trenches; another as loudly was criticising the tactics of Bazaine and comparing him for his invisibility to a pasha in his seraglio; while a third sprang upon a table and announced fresh victories. An army was already on the way from Paris to relieve Metz. Only yesterday MacMahon had defeated the Prussians, any moment he might be expected from the Ardennes. Nor were they only civilians who shouted and complained. Lieutenant Fevrier saw captains, majors, and even generals who had left their entrenchments to fight the siege their own way with dominoes upon the marble tables of the cabarets.

  “My poor France,” he said to himself, and a passer-by overhearing him answered:

  “True, monsieur. Ah, but if we had a man at Metz!”

  Lieutenant Fevrier turned his back upon the speaker and walked on. He at all events would not join in the criticisms. It was just, he reflected, because he had avoided the cafés of Metz that he was singled out for special distinction, and he fell to wondering what work it was he had to do that night. Was it to surprise a field-watch? Or to spike a battery? Or to capture a convoy? Lieutenant Fevrier raised his head. For any exploit in the world he was ready.

  General Jarras was writing at a table when Fevrier was admitted to his office. The Chief of the Staff inclined his lamp-shade so that the light fell full upon Fevrier’s face, and the action caused the lieutenant to rejoice. So much care in the choice of the officer meant so much more important a duty.

  “The General Montaudon tells me,” said Jarras, “that you are an obedient soldier.”