CHAPTER X
A PROGRESSIVE FRIENDSHIP
Neither Madame Gilbert nor Captain Rust are very communicativeconcerning their adventures, until they begin to speak of that daywhen first they met one another in the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel.They both then become voluble. I rather gather--though I did notcross-examine them at all closely--that they had been a good dealbored. Their instructions were so very vague, and the best method ofcarrying them out so far from clear to their ingenious minds, thatthey wandered aimlessly about the resorts most affected by officers onleave, spent much money, made a good many pleasant acquaintances, butprogressed not at all in their researches. Madame did not meet withany French or Belgian flying officers who seemed likely to be Germanagents, and Captain Rust failed to discover a siren who appeared to beFrench and yet was not French, and who aroused any plausible suspicionthat she dwelt in the central web of German intrigue. Madame began tothink that for once the impeccable Dawson had despatched her upon awild goose chase, and Rust became convinced that Froissart's vividlonging to score off the detested Dawson had misled him in theselection of the means to bring about this much-desired consummation.They told me little of these wanderings, but when I asked for detailsof their first meeting, the one with the other, and their subsequentrather startling proceedings, they broke into eager speech. It was notuntil my keen and curious eye began to penetrate the delicatemysteries surrounding their surprising week-end visit to Brighton thatRust again became tongue-tied. He reprehensibly slurred over the mostentertaining details. Madame Gilbert, on the other hand, revealedeverything with that plain-spoken frankness which, in any other woman,would appear to be brazen. Madame is thirty-two; Captain Rust no morethan twenty-six. He is a modest young man in spite of his Frenchtraining; she, I am afraid, is a hussy. But I would not have her otherthan she is.
Madame Gilbert was taking tea alone in the courtyard of the Savoy. Sheoccupied one place at a table laid for four. It was a fine afternoonin late spring, motors and taxis ran in and out unceasingly, theopen-air restaurant began to fill up, but none ventured to approachany one of three empty places at Madame's table. She was, as usual,perfectly dressed--though she assures me that her clothes cost next tonothing. "It is the wearing of them, my friend, not the cost whichcounts." I fancy that her unshakable temper and her gay humour, likeher beauty, are really based, as she says, upon her complete freedomfrom ailments. She loves life, and this, perhaps, is why life lovesher.
Madame Gilbert, though to the unobservant eye intent upon her tea andcakes, saw every one who came and went. Many officers were in therestaurant, but one only attracted her special notice. He was a younghandsome man in the field-service kit of the French Army, and upon hissleeves and cap were the wings of the Flying Corps. This young man waslooking for a table, but could not find one that was empty. She waiteduntil he paused not far from her, and then, sweeping her eyes slowlyover the crowded tables, brought them to rest upon his face. He wasquite an attractive-looking young man. There was an appeal in his darkeyes as they met hers; he was imploring her of her gracious kindnessto permit him to occupy one of her superfluous seats, and shetelegraphed to him an encouraging reply. The French officerapproached, saluted, and bowed: "Is it permitted, madame, toinconvenience you?" he asked humbly. "The tables are very full, or Iwould not venture to intrude." He spoke in careful, accurate English,and with an accent markedly French.
"Please favour me by sitting down at once," replied Madame. "I feelmyself to be very selfish with my four places and one small person."She spoke in careful, accurate English, and with an accent markedlyFrench.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, seating himself opposite to her, and breaking intoFrench. "Madame is of my country, is it not so?"
"But certainly," said Madame in the same language, which was to her asecond mother-tongue. "I am of Paris. If you had not been French Ishould not have dared to hint to you that a place at this table mightbe taken."
For a few minutes they talked together in the ceremonious style forwhich the French language is the perfect medium, and then dropped intomore easy friendly speech. Madame, when she likes the look of a man,becomes intimate at the shortest notice, and Rust, like every man bornof woman, succumbed helplessly, instantly, to the wiles of Madame.Though she had finished tea, she urged Rust not to be hurried; therewas plenty of time, and one did not often have the happiness to meet aFrench officer in this dreary London. She enveloped him in her meshesof kindliness, and he responded by thinking to himself that she wasthe loveliest, most friendly creature whom he had ever met. Madameknows a great deal more of military details than most male civilians,but when she talked to Captain Rust at the Savoy, her ignorance of theFlying Corps was absolute. She asked questions, quite intelligentquestions, and he bubbled over with eagerness to answer them. PoorRust; I can picture the humbling scene. He made an ass of himself, ofcourse, but not a greater ass than I always make of myself--and I amnot far from double his age--whenever Madame gets to work upon me.
Within ten minutes she had wheedled out of him an account of hisaccident. "I was out on patrol duty," he explained, "spotting forsubmarines between the Straits and Zeebrugge. When the weather is finewe can see deep down into the water, a hundred feet or so, and quiteeasily make out a submerged U boat. I was testing a new plane fittedwith a 90 h.p. R.A.F. engine--" He paused and quickly glanced at her,for he realised his blunder the instant the slip had been made. Madamewas all eager attention--what did she know of the marques of aeroplaneengines!--"It was a day of rotten luck for me. I spotted nothing, andlate in the afternoon my engine began to overheat and miss fire. I didmy utmost to struggle towards Do----, Dunkirk, but the beastly thinggave out altogether, and down I dropped into the sea. I had anordinary land plane without floats, and was obliged to cut myselfclear and keep up as best I could with my air belt. It was a wearytime, waiting to be picked up, all that night and all the next day;the cold of the water struck right through me, and I was senseless,like a dead man, when at last, thirty hours afterwards, one of ourdestroyers found me floating there, picked me up, and carried me intoDover. I was in hospital for six weeks, crippled with rheumatic fever,and my heart went wrong. It is much better now, and I hope soon to getback to flying again. I am still on sick leave."
"Poor heart," sighed Madame, and smiled to herself.... "He looked atme," she explained long afterwards, "as if there was still life in hispoor strained heart. It was a real kindness to give it some gentleexercise."
"And when you are well you will again fly for France?" she inquired.
"Ah, yes. I yearn for the day when the obdurate doctors will permit meto fly again--for France.... And you, madame, who are so kind to apoor crippled soldier, is it permitted to ask--"
"I am, alas, a widow." She paused, and though demurely looking at herempty tea cup, saw his eyes light up. ["The silly boy was pleased thatI was a widow," she explained. "As if that mattered."] "My poorhusband fell for France--at Le Grand Couronne. That was eight monthsago, and I am still inconsolable. I love to meet the brother officersof my dear lost husband. He was killed by a shell, close beside hisgeneral, and I do not even know where he was buried." She delicatelywiped her eyes, and Rust murmured broken words of the deepestsympathy. Yet he was not sorry to hear that his new friend was awidow. It must have been a most pathetic scene.
Madame recovered from her sudden rush of grief--brought on by thoughtsof that unknown grave upon Le Grand Couronne!--and began to pull onher gloves. "And you, my friend?" she asked gently.
"No one lives who will grieve for me," he replied sadly.
"You are young, my friend, and your heart will--recover itself. I amold, made old by illness and sorrow." She was a picture of glowinghealth! "May I ask the name by which I may remember you?"
He was clean bowled, for he, foolishly, had not prepared a plausiblename. "I am called," stammered he, "Captain Rouille." It was the bestthat he could do on the instant--the translation of his uncommonEnglish name into French.
"A strange name," she murmured, "thoug
h the sound of it is beautiful.Rouille! It signifies, for the moment, the decay of hopes, a mould ofrust obscuring ambition. But in a little while the steel of yourcourage will shine bright once more. I am Madame Gilbert; my husbandwas of the Territorial Army--a Captain also." She had thought to havemade him a Colonel on General Castelnau's staff, but refrained from sorisky a flight of imagination. An obscure Captain of Territorialsmight well be called Guilbert, and pass unidentified.
As they pressed hands at parting, Rust hesitated. "May one hope,madame, to meet you again. Your kindness has been great, and I feelthat I have made a new friend."
"And I also," sighed Madame. "I often come here to drink the Englishtea. It is a pleasing custom of London."
"To-morrow?" he inquired anxiously. "It is possible," replied Madame,very graciously.
* * * * *
"Well," said I, when Madame had told me of this meeting, "I hope thatyou had the grace to feel ashamed of yourself. To deceive an invalidedflying officer with your tale of the Captain of Territorials, blown upby a shell beside his general upon Le Grand Couronne. It wasabominable."
"It was the unknown grave which fetched him," said Madame cheerfully.
"Worse and worse. Why could you not have told him the truth?"
"Because, my stupid friend, the Captain Rouille interested me, and Iwas on duty. What was a captain in the French Flying Corps doing withan aeroplane driven by a 90 h.p. Royal Aircraft Factory engine(R.A.F.)? Why should he speak of 'our' destroyers, referring to thoseof the British, when he ought to have said the 'English' destroyers asa French officer would have done? Why again should he hesitate overhis name, and then give so impossible a one as Rouille? No, I haddiscerned plainly that M. le Capitaine Rouille, whatever he might be,was not the man he pretended that he was. He spoke French perfectly,but he was not in the French flying service. He was English. Irecollected my instructions from the great Dawson--to stick to any onewho excited my suspicions, to let him make love to me if need be, andto discover his secrets. I am, my friend, a martyr to duty. Besides,le Capitaine Rouille was a handsome young man, very attractive. I wasnot grieved at the thought that he might pursue me with hisattentions."
"Why," I asked in turn of Rust, "did you begin by telling lies to thecharming Madame Gilbert?"
"I was in French uniform," said he, "and I had to play my part."
"And a nice mess you made of it," said I rudely.
"I am afraid that I did. That slip about the R.A.F. engine wasunpardonable. But then how was I to know that the dear woman knew asmuch about aeroplanes as I did myself? She was like Desdemona at thefeet of Othello, and, of course, I lost my head. You are as crazyabout her as I am, with less excuse. Besides, I was on duty. BeforeMadame had spoken to me for five minutes, I was certain that she wasnot French. She spoke perfectly, but there was a little accent, adelightful accent, that told me she was Irish. That soupcon of abrogue which gives so delicate a spice to her English appears also inher French. My mother was an Irish woman, though I have never lived inIreland. You know that all the Irish, especially those of America orof France, are watched most carefully by the police. Many of them hatethe English, and spy upon us. When, therefore, I perceived thatMadame, though she appeared to be French was by birth Irish, Irecollected my instructions from Froissart. It was my duty to stick toher, to study her. If necessary to make love to her. It did not seemwholly disagreeable to me," he added dryly, "to make love to MadameGilbert."
"I forgive you," said I, "though, from what I learn, you somewhatexceeded your instructions."
* * * * *
If I were not a most serious writer, this veracious history of MadameGilbert and Captain Rust would tend to degenerate into comedy,possibly to reach the depths of farce. But, to one of my grave bent ofmind, wasted deception, wasted energies, and, above all, wastednational money, excite rather to tears than to laughter. What aspectacle was this which I place before the reader! Here were twotrusted members of the English Secret Service pitting against oneanother those treasures of intelligence, wit, and sensibility whichthey were employed--and paid--to exercise in the defence of theircountries. It may be conceded that one of them was more or lesshonest. Rust, I am convinced, had persuaded himself--he has no markedability or attractions of any kind that I can discern--that his dutyimpelled him to watch Madame with exceeding closeness of attention.That his strong inclinations marched with his duty may be allowed himas a privilege; the plea of duty was not, I believe, merely an excuse.But what can one say in defence of Madame, one who has stored withinher little copper-covered head enough brains to furnish a brigade,say, of the Women's Emergency Corps? She had perceived that Rust wasan English officer masquerading as a Frenchman, yet she could not havethought that he was a German spy. Why did she not ask him point blankwhat he was doing in that galley. She has never supplied me with acredible explanation, She pleads, with obvious insincerity, theinstructions of Dawson, which in the most reprehensible way granted toher the vaguest of roving commissions. She parades her duty before mein the most tattered of rags.
Upon the following afternoon, when Madame Gilbert drove up to theSavoy in a taxi-cab at half-past four, a young man, in the uniform ofa French officer, opened the door and handed her out. It was, ofcourse, Captain Rust, who had waited palpitating upon the curb forsome three-quarters of an hour. He led her to a small table which hehad reserved for another charming duet of tea, cakes, andconversation.
At this second meeting, Madame bent herself to the deftcross-examination of Rust "Had the Captain Rouille joined St. Cyr as acadet officer, or had he served in the ranks of the French Army?" Hehad served in the ranks, and broke into details of his training andgarrison service which convinced her that he really had served. Shebecame thoughtful. Rust, eager to show off his accomplishments,explained that he had been recommended for a commission and had joinedSt. Cyr. More details followed, all of a verisimilitude whollyconvincing. Madame, who knew France and the French Army up and down,became more thoughtful and more puzzled. It was plain that Rust hadreally served in the ranks of the Army, and had been at St. Cyr. Yethe was an Englishman and an officer of the English Flying Corps! Sheasked further questions, innocent, flattering questions, seeking todiscover what had happened to him after his course at St. Cyr. He didhis best, but he was of inconsiderable agility of mind and deficientin imagination. He had been, he said, with Maunoury's Sixth Army,which, emerging from Paris in red taxis, had fallen upon the exposedright wing of von Kluck. His description was accurate enough, but thelavish details of former narratives were lacking. He had been_officier de liaison_ on the Aisne; again the little intimate toucheswere lacking. He had joined the flying corps, but omitted to explainhow he had learned to fly. It had been at Farnborough, but he couldhardly admit this, and was, unhappily, quite ignorant of the Frenchflying grounds.
Madame's quick mind began to see daylight. "How came it, my friend,that you were flying upon the coast when you suffered that accident,so terrible, and paralysed that poor brave heart of yours?" Madameasked the question in the most natural, sympathetic way. It was afacer for Rust, who regretted that he had been so communicative atthat first meeting "I was lent to the Naval Wing," he explained, andavoided to particularise. By this time Madame had sorted out hisservice. She was quite sure that he had not been with Maunoury or uponthe Aisne, but that in some manner, as yet not clear, he had left St.Cyr to pass into the English Army.
When in his turn Rust sought diffidently to penetrate the mysterysurrounding Madame Gilbert, she overflowed with untruthfulparticulars. She resembles her master Dawson in this--it is unwise tobelieve one word which she wishes you to believe. Of her early life inParis she spoke with emotion. She was the beloved only child of aFrench doctor--ah, the most learned and pious of men! He died earlysmitten by disease contracted during his gratuitous practice amongstthe friendless poor. A most noble parent! Her mother, too, a saint andangel, had gone aloft shortly after seeing her daughter, Madame,happily marri
ed to a maker of caloriferes (anthracite stoves). "I amunworthy of those so noble parents," wailed Madame in broken tones. Itwas not until they were about to separate that Madame Gilbert herselfthrew him a bone of truth designed to test his appetite for curiosity."I must fly," exclaimed she; "I am a woman _tres occupee_. I work, oh,so very hard, for my belle France and to avenge the death of myglorious husband." The blown-up stove maker did not seem to Rust to bea figure of glory, yet he forced himself again to express the deepestsympathy. "Yes," went on Madame, "I would avenge him. I work,"--sheglanced round cautiously, and then whispered--"I work for the_gouvernement anglais_. I am an _agent de police_."
"Were you not rather rash," I asked of Madame Gilbert, "to giveyourself away so completely? He might not have been so thorough an assas you thought."
"My friend," said Madame calmly, "I had taken tea with him twice, andhad satisfied myself that he was not, what you call, very bright. Adear fellow, handsome, a gentleman of the English pattern, but notbright. If I had not helped him to get a move on, I might have lunchedwith him, had tea, dined with him, attended theatres, traversed inmotors your pleasant countryside, flirted, until I had become a veryold woman, and there would have been nothing to show for all myexertions. I remembered the instructions of Mr. Dawson, I recalled tomyself my duty, I was compelled to discover who and what was thisCapitaine Rouille, and I could only succeed by forcing him to revealhimself--to give himself away. When I said that I was an agent of theEnglish police, he did not believe me; but he was curious--he watchedme. I gave him much to watch and to imagine that he had discovered.Then one began to get forward."
* * * * *
I am ignorant of the diplomatic pourparlers which led up to theweek-end trip to Brighton, that remarkable trip which ended_l'affaire_ Rust. It must have been planned by Madame; it bears theunmistakable imprint of her impish wit; it was, too, a bolddevelopment of her designs for the effective speeding up of Rust. Hewould have dallied all through the summer, looking feebly for anopportunity to ravish a despatch-case which always accompanied Madameand which had become the inseparable and ostentatious "gooseberry" attheir meetings. Madame declared that it was stuffed with papers themost secret. "The English Government would be desolated if they passedfor one moment out of my hands." This despatch-case played parts quitehuman. It was perpetually provocative of Rust's curiosity, and areminder that the agreeable pastime of making love to Madame was notan end in itself, but a means whereby he might discharge his officialduties. It was, moreover, a visible sign that Madame was a woman,_tres occupee_, and a self-styled _agent de police_; it rested alwayssilent at her side as a protector of innocence. Rust becomes uneasywhen that case is mentioned, but Madame bubbles over at the thoughtsof her _petite chere portefeuille, cette idee de genie_. She brags ofher genius, of her notion _si lumineuse_, of her _guet-apens siadorable._
While Madame must have planned the Brighton trip, she contrived thatthe suggestion should come timidly, deprecatingly, from Rust. Shewould have scorned so crude an advance, one, too, falling so far shortof her high standard of womanly virtue, as a direct hint that she waswilling to pass three days in a seaside hotel with a young man! _Mais,non. Ce serait une betise incroyable_! I can imagine her hints,increasing in strength as she beat against the obtuse heaviness ofRust's intellect. But I cannot imagine how any one, least of all thebrilliant Froissart, should have conceived that lumpish soldier to becapable of the finesse needful for the Secret Service. He has sincebeen returned empty, and I do not wonder at it.
Madame must have lamented the stuffiness of London during the brightdays of early June, and painted, in her enthusiastic French fashion, apicture of southern England and the glittering Channel. "_Ma foi, monami_, what would I not give for one hour of peace and rest, away fromthis swarming hive of men and women? It is as yet too cold to swim inthat sea which washes the shores of my beautiful France--and bears theso gallant English soldiers to her help--but I would love to sit uponthe sands and gaze, gaze across the waters towards my poor bleedingland. But, alas, I am a woman _tres occupee_." After a great deal ofthis sort of thing, Rust was spurred up to suggest that he also wasweary, and that nothing could be more delightful than to sit besideMadame upon those sands and to bewail with her the woes of theircommon country. The idiot did not reflect that a woman of Madame'staste in dress does not usually mess up her Paris frocks with nastysea sand. Madame sighed. It was a charming picture, but, alas, quiteimpossible. Rust still further spurred by Madame--"Le CapitaineRouille is not very bright"--at last broke into a proposal deliveredwith many hesitations and many apologies. Why should not they travelto Brighton on the Friday evening and draw solace for their wearysouls from a Saturday, Sunday, and possibly Monday, at Brighton?Madame became a frozen statue of offended womanhood! What, _mon Dieu_,had she done that he should conceive her to be a light woman? She, thenever-to-be-comforted widow of the incomparably gallant hero ofanthracite stoves and le Grand Couronne. She had been toounsuspicious, too trustful; their pleasant acquaintance must end uponthe instant; the too-gross insult which he had put upon her couldnever be pardoned. Rust was borne away and overwhelmed in the flow ofher sad reproaches. Abjectly he grovelled: He regard the ineffableMadame Guilbert as a light woman! Perish the thought! He, to whom shehad been an angel of kindness and discretion! He cast a slur upon theshining brightness of her reputation! Rust had never in his life beenso eloquent. Madame listened with satisfaction. She might in time,after long years, forgive him, but not yet. The insult, howeverunintended, was too fresh and her heart was desolated! She scorchedand scarified Rust during two whole days, for their meetings continuedunbroken, and at last, as an undeserved concession and as evidence ofher soft forgiving heart, she consented to go to Brighton on theFriday. "We must regard closely _les convenances_. You men, so rashand so stupid, you do not understand how infinitely precious to uspoor women is the spotless bloom of our reputation." Rust protestedthat the bloom upon the unplucked peach was not, in his eyes, morestainless than the reputation of Madame. How she must have grinned! Hemade plans, rude, coarse plans, for the shielding of the so preciousreputation of dear Madame Guilbert, but she gently put them aside. "Inmy hands," she declared grandly, "le Capitaine Guilbert has left hishonour, and I will guard it with my life. Alas, what is my life whenmy heart is buried in that lonely grave upon le Grand Couronne inwhich I pray rests his much-blown-up body. I myself will devise themeans by which I can grant you a mark of my condescending forgivenessand preserve _sans reproche_ the honour of a Guilbert."
I confess that I have drawn upon my imagination for most of thistouching scene, but, knowing Madame as I do, I am sure that I havegiven the hang of it.
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