 CHAPTER XX. The next morning, Martin inquiring for Miss Merritton, learned that she had already started on a sketching excursion with Hassan, the old one-eyed Drageman. Her destination was unknown, but the fact that Hassan had taken charge of a basket containing luncheon all got a late return. Martin spent a sorry forenoon at Karnak, which, deprived of the vivifying influence of the only goddess that had ever graced its precincts, seemed dead for lawn and vane. It was a day, too, of camsin, when hot stones and sand are her abomination to the gasping and perspiring scents. And yet Lucilla had gone off into the desert. She would faint at her easel. She would get sunstroke. She would be brought back dead. And anxious Martin joined a languid luncheon-table. There was talk of the absent one. If she had not been Lucilla, they would have accounted her mad. He sat through the sweltering afternoon on the eastern terrace over a novel which he could not read. Last night he had held her passionately in his arms. Her surrender had been absolute—her surrender had been absolute and eloquent avowal. Already the masculine instinct of possession spoke. Why did she now allude him? He had counted on a morning of joy that would have eclipsed the night. Why had she gone? Deep thought brought comforting solution. Tomorrow they were to migrate to Aswan. This was their last day in Luxor, where, up to now, Lucilla had not made one single sketch. Now, had she not told him in Brantome that her object in going to Egypt was to paint it? Generously she put aside her art for his sake, until the last moment. At this last moment she was taking advantage. Still, why not a little word to him? He turned to his book. But the thrill of the great kiss pulsated through his veins. He gave himself up to dreams. Later in the afternoon, Watney Holcomb, fly-whisk in one hand and handkerchief in the other, took him into the cool, darkened bar, and supplied him with icy drink, and told him tales of his early days in San Francisco. A few other men lounged in and joined them. Dessertory talk furnished an excuse for systematic imbibing of cold liquid. When Martin reached the upper air he found that Lucilla had already arrived and had gone to her room for rest. He only saw her when she came down late for dinner. She was dressed in a place-fitting charmeuse gown of a strange blue shade like an Egyptian evening. Her pleasant greeting differed nowhere from that of twenty-four hours ago. Not by the flicker of a brown eyelash did she portray recollection of last night's impassioned happenings. She talked of her excursion to the eager and reproachful group. Her sandstorm had ruined her masterpiece, her best brushes, her hair, and old Hassan's temper. She had swallowed half Sahara with her food. A very donkey, cocking round an angry eye, had called her the most appropriate term in his vocabulary, an ass. All together she had enjoyed herself immensely. "'You ought to have come, Martin,' she said coolly. He made the obvious retort. You did not give me the chance. If only you had been up at dawn!' she laughed. "'I was,' he replied. I lay awake most of the night, and I saw the sunrise from my bedroom window. Oh, dear!' she sighed. He was looking the wrong way. He was adoring the east while I was going out to the west. "'All that is very pretty, but I am dying of hunger,' said Watley Holcomb, carrying her off to the dining-room. The rest followed. At a table she sat between her captor and Dangerfield, so that Martin had no private speech with her. After dinner, Watley Holcomb and Dangerfield wanted off to the bar to play billiards. Martin, declining in invitation to join them, remained with the four ladies in the lounge. Lucilla had maneuvered herself into an unassailable position between the two married women. Martin and Maisie sat sketchily on the outskirts behind the coffee-table. The band discoursed un-exhilarating music. Talk languished. At last Maisie sprang to her feet and took Martin unceremoniously by the arm. "'If I see it here much longer, I shall sob. Come on out and do something!' Martin rose. "'What can we do? Anything. We can gaze at the stars, and you can swear that you love me, or we can go and look at Cook's steamboat.' "'Will you come with us, Lucilla?' asked Martin.' She shook her head and smiled. "'I am far too tired and lazy.' The girl, still holding his arm, swung him round. He had no choice but to obey. They walked along the key as far as the northern end of the temple. By the time of their return Lucilla had gone to bed. She had become as illusive as a dream. He did not capture her till the next morning on the railway station platform before their train started. By a chance of which he took swift advantage she stood some paces apart from the little group of friends. He carried her further away. Friends were precious. He went at once to the root of the matter. "'Lucilla, why are you avoiding me?' She opened wide eyes. "'Avoiding you, my dear Martin?' "'Yesterday you gave me no opportunity of speaking to you. This morning it has been the same. And I have been in a fever of longing for a word with you.' "'I am sorry,' she said. "'And now you have me. What is the word?' "'I love you,' said Martin. "'Hush!' she whispered, with an involuntary glance round at the red jerseyed porters and the stray passengers. This is scarcely the place for a declaration.' "'The declaration was the night before last. "'Hush!' she said again, and later a gloved hand on his arm. But he insisted. "'You haven't forgotten. Not yet. How could I? You must give me time.' "'For what?' he asked. "'To forget.' "'A horrible pain shot through him. Do you want to forget all that has passed between us?' She erased her eyes, frankly, and laughed. "'My dear boy, how can we go into such intimate matters among this rabble?' "'Oh, my dear,' said Martin. "'I am only asking a very simple question. Do you want to forget?' "'Perhaps not quite,' she replied softly. And the pain through his heart ceased, and he held up his head and laughed, and then bent it towards her and asked forgiveness. "'If I didn't forgive you, I suppose you'd be miserable?' "'Abjectly wretched,' he declared. "'That wouldn't be a fit frame of mind for a six-hour stifling and dusty railway journey. So let us be happy while we can.' At Aswan they went to the hotel on the little green island in the middle of the Nile. In the hope of her redeeming a half-promise of early descent before dinner, he dressed, be times, and waited in the long lounge, his eyes on the lift. She appeared at last, fresh, radiant, as though she had stepped out of the dawn. She sat beside him with an adorable suggestion of intimacy. "'Martin,' she said, "'I want you to make me a promise, will you?' His eyes on hers he promised blindly. "'Promise me to be good while we're here?' "'Good,' he queried. "'Yes, don't you know what good means? It means not to be tempestuous or foolish or inquisitive.' "'I see,' said Martin, with a frown between his brows. "'I mustn't,' he hesitated. "'I mustn't do what I did the other night, and I mustn't say that all my universe, earth and sun and moon and stars are packed in this.' His fingers met the drapery of her body and a fugitive, delicate touch. "'And I mustn't ask you any questions about what you may be thinking?' There was a new tone in his voice, a new expression in his eyes and about the corners of his lips, all of which she was quick to note. She cast him a swift glance of apprehension, and her smile faded. He set out the position with startling concreteness. "'I do,' said he. "'Up to a couple of days ago I worshipped you as a divine abstraction. The night before last, things, to use your words, became startlingly concrete. You are nonetheless wonderful and adorable, but you have become the concrete woman of flesh and blood I want, and would sell my soul for,' she glanced him again, anxiously, furtively, half afraid. In such terms do none but masterful men speak to women, men who from experience of a deceitful sex know how to tear away ridiculous veils, or else men who, having no knowledge of woman whatever, suddenly awaken with primitive brutality to the sex instinct. Her subtle brain worked out the rapid solution. Her charming idea of making a man of Martin had succeeded beyond her most romantic expectations. She realized that facing him dry and cold, as she was doing now, would only develop a dramatic situation which would be cut uncomfortably short by the first careless friend who stepped out of the lift. She temporized, summoning the smile to her eyes. "'Anyway, you've promised?' "'I have,' said Martin. "'You see, you can't stand with a pistol at my head whenever we meet alone. You must give me time.' "'To forget?' "'To make up my mind whether to forget or remember,' she declared radiantly. "'Now, what more do you want an embarrassed woman to say?' Swiftly she had re-assumed command. Martin yielded happily. "'If it isn't all I want,' said he. "'It's much more than I dare claim.' She rose, and he rose too. She passed her hand through his arm. "'Come and see whether anybody has had the common sense to reserve a table for dinner?' Thus, during her royal pleasure, their semi-loverlike relations were established. Rather perhaps were they nicely balanced on a knife-edge, the equilibrium depending on her skill. "'As it looks or,' said Asouan, did they to the things that those who go to Asouan do. They lounged about the hotel-garden. They took the motor-fairy to the little town on the mainland, and wandered about the tiny bazaar. They sailed on the Nile. They went to the merriest race-meetings in Heathendham, where you can back your fancy and camel, donkey, or buffalo, but are shilling upwards of the state Parimutuel. They made an expedition to the dam. The main occupation, as it is of that of most who go to Asouan, was not to pass the time, but to sit in the sun and let the time pass. A golden fortnight or so slipped by. Martin lived as freely in his goddess's company as he had done at Cairo or Luxor. She had ordained a period of probation. All his delicacy of sentiment proclaimed her justified. She comported herself as the most gracious of divinities, and the most warmly sympathetic of human women, leading him by all the delicate devices known to Olympus and to Tlappum Common, to lay bare to her his inmost soul. He told her all that he had to tell, much that he had told already, his childhood in Switzerland, his broken Cambridge career, his life at Margitz Universal College, his adventures with Carina, his waiter-dom at Brantorm, his relations with Fortenbrass, Bigoda, Felice. The only thing in his simple path that he hid was his knowledge of the tragedy in the life of Fortenbrass. And then you came, said he, and touched my dull earth, and turned into a new Jerusalem of pure gold like unto clear glass. And he told her of his consultation with the dealer in happiness, and his journey to London, and his meeting with Carina in the flimsy flat. It seemed to him that he had the divine power of taking his heart in her blue-veined hands, and making it speak like that of a child. In the world for which that heart had longed, she had the genius to create expression. In spite of all the delicious intimacy of such revelation, he observed his compact loyally. For the quivering moment it was enough that she knew and accepted his love. It was enough to realize that when she smiled on him, she must remember, unresentfully, the few holy seconds of his embrace. And yet, when alone with her, in the moonlit garden, so near that accidental touch of arm or swinging touch of skirt or other delicate physical sense of her, was an essential part of their intercourse, he wondered whether she had a notion of the madness that surged in his blood, of the density of the grip in which he held himself. And so, lotus-eating, reckless of the future, happy only in the throbbing present, he remained with Lucilla and her friends at Asuan, until the heat of spring drove them back to Cairo. There, on the terrace of Sheppards, on the noon of his arrival, he found Fortenbrass. The dealer in happiness, economically personally, though philosophically conducted, had also visited Luxor and had brought away a rich harvest of observation. He bested it liberally on Martin, who, listening with perplexed brow, wondered whether he himself had brought away but chaff. After a while Fortenbrass inquired, and the stock we what of is still blooming, Martin said, I've been inconceivably happy. Don't let us talk about it. Presently Lucilla and Mrs. Dangerfield joined them, and Fortenbrass was carried off to the Semirami to lunch. It was a gay meal. The Watney-Hulcams had gathered in a few young soldiers, and youth asserted itself joyously. Fortenbrass, urbane and debonair, laughed with the youngest. The subalterns thinking him a personage of high importance who was unbending for their benefit, paid him touching deference. He exerted himself to please, dealing out happiness lavishly. Yet his bland eyes kept keen watch on Martin and Lucilla sitting together on the opposite side of the great round table. Once he caught and held her glance for a few seconds. Then she flushed as it seemed angrily, and flung him an irrelevant question about Felice. When the meal was over and he had taken leave of his hosts, he said to Martin, who accompanied him into the west door by which he elected to emerge, �Either you will never want me again, or you will want a friendly hand more than you have wanted a friendly hand in your life before, and I am leaving this land of enchantment the day after to-morrow. Do cheers, disobey, et cetera? But dissipation is the thief of professional advancement. If a dealer in cheaper and shoddier happiness arises in the courtier, I am lost. I was already before I left a conscientious and consciously stewton who was trying to steal my thunder and retell it at the ignominious rate of a franker reverberation. I cannot afford to let things drift. Neither, my son, he tapped the young man impressively on the shoulder, neither can you. Martin straightened himself, half resentful, and twirled his trim-moustache. �It's all very well, my son,' said Fortebras, with his benevolent smile. �But all the let-hell cameirs in the world can't do anything else but intensify the fact that you're a soldier of fortune. Faint heart, you know the jingle, and faintness of heart is not the attribute of a soldier. �Good-bye, my dear Martin,' he held out his hand. �You will see me to-morrow at our usual haunt?' Fortebras waved adieu. Martin did a cigarette and sat in a far corner of the veranda. The westering sun beat heavily on the striped awning. Further along by the door a small group of visitors were gathered around an Indian jugular. For the first time almost since his landing in Egypt he permitted himself to think. �A soldier of fortune!� The words conveyed sinister significance, a predatory swash-buckler in search of any fortune to his hand. Nusila's fortune! In the two he had blinded himself to sordid considerations. He had dived, figuratively speaking, into his bag of sovereigns as into a purse of fortune-artists. The magic of destiny would provide for his material wants. What to him, soul-centred on the ineffable woman, was such unimportant to mean preoccupations? He had lived in his dream. He had lived in his intoxication. He had lived of late in the splendour of a seismic moment. And now, crash, he came to earth. �A soldier of fortune!� An adventurer, a swindler. The brutal common-sense aspect grinned in his face. On ship-board Fortibras to warn him that he was an adventurer. He had not heeded. He was a soldier of fortune. He must strike the arm while it was hot. That was what Fortibras meant. He must secure the heiress. He hated Fortibras. The sudden realisation of his position devastated his soul. And yet he loved her. He desired her as he had not dreamed it to be in a man's power to desire. At last his glance rested on the little crowd around the Indian juggler. And then suddenly he became aware of her flashing like a dove among crows. Her lips and eyes were filled with a child's laughter of the foolish conjuring. When the trick was over she turned and, seeing him, smiled. He beckoned. She complied with the afterglow of amusement on her face. But when she came near him her expression changed. �Why, what's the matter?� she asked. He pushed a chair for her. They sat. �I must speak to you once and for all� he said. �Don't you think it's rather public?� �The Indian is going� he replied with an indicating gesture. And the people, too. It's too hot for them to sit out here. �Then what about me?� she asked. He sprang to his feet with an apology. She laughed. �Never mind. We are as well here as anywhere. Sit down. �Now why this sudden tragic resolution?� An accidental word from Fortebras. He called me a soldier of fortune. The term isn't pretty. �You are a woman of great wealth. I am a man practically penniless. I have no position, no profession. I am what the world calls an adventurer.� She protested. �That's nonsense. You have been absolutely honest with me from first to last. Honest as so far as I have not concealed my material situation, but honourable. If you had known in Brantum that I had already dared to love you, would you have suggested my coming to Egypt? �Pathably not,� replied Lucilla, the shadow of an ironical smile playing about her lips. �But we can be quite frank. I don't see how you could have told me. Of course I couldn't, he admitted, but loving you as I did I ought not to have come. It was not the part of an honourable man. His elbow on the arm of the cane-share and his chin on his hand, he looked with haggard questioning into her eyes. She held his glance for a brief moment, then looked down at her blue-veined hands. �You see,� he said, �you don't deny it. That's why I call myself an adventurer.� Her eyes still downcast, she said. �You have no reason in the world to reproach yourself. As soon as you could, with decency, tell me that you love me. You did. And you made it clear to me long before you told me. And I don't think,� she added in a low voice, �that I show much indignation.� �Why didn't you?� he asked. She intertwined her fingers nervously. �Sometimes a woman feels it good to be loved, and I felt it good and wonderful all the time. Once there was a man years ago, but he's dead. Since then other men have come along, and I've turned them down as gently as I could. But no one has done the mad thing that you have done for my sake. No one has been so simple and loyal and strong. You are different. I've had the sense of being loved by a man pure and unstained. �God knows you are without blame. Then, my dear� said he, bending his head vainly so as to catch her face otherwise than in profile, and to meet the eyes hidden beneath the adorable brown lashes. What is to happen between us two? For answer� she made a little despairing gesture. �If I had the right of an honest man seeking a woman in marriage,� she said, �I would take matters into my own hand. I would follow you all over the world until I won you somehow or the other.� She turned on him in a flash of passion. �If you say such things you will make me marry you out of humiliation and remorse. God forbid I should do that,� said Martin. She averted her head again. There was a span of silence. At the extreme end of the long deserted veranda beneath the sun baked awning, with any occasional clatter of a carriage or the whir of a motor breaking the stillness of this drowsy embankment of the Nile, there might have been miles away in the desert solitude under the palm-treme of Fortebras's dream. It is I who am to blame for everything. No, let me talk. I've got the courage to talk straight, and you've got the courage to listen. You interested me at Brown Torm. Your position there was so un-English. Of course I liked you. I thought you ought to be roused from stagnation. It was just idle fancy that made me talk about Egypt. I thought it would do you good to cut everything and see the world. When I took Felice away with me and saw how she expanded and developed her, I thought of you. I've done the same often before with girls like Felice, who have never been given a chance. And it has been a fascinating amusement. I'd never made the experiment with a man. I wanted to see how you would shape what kind of impression all the new kind of life would make on you. I realize it now, but till now I haven't that all my so-called kindness to girls have been heartless experimenting. I could keep twenty girls in luxury for twenty years without considering the expense. That's the curse of unlimited money, one abuses its power. With you, of course, money didn't come in. I hadn't the insanity to ask you to be my guest, as I could ask young women. But money aside, I knew I could give you what I gave them. And from what Felice left drop, I gathered you had some little private means. So I wrote to you, on the off chance, I thought you would come. People have a way of doing what I asked them. You were going to be the most fascinating amusement of all. You see, that's how it was. She paused. His face hardened. Well, said he, go on. Can't you guess the rest? No, said he, I can't. There was a note in his voice that seemed to tear her heart. She pressed both hands to her eyes. Have you knew how I despise and hate myself? No, no, my dear, said Martin. He touched her shoulder warm and soft. Only the convention of a diaphanous flimsy sleeve gave sanction. She let his hand remain there for a moment or two, then gripped it and flung it away. With the nervous clasp of her fingers denied resentment. She turned a white face. I knew you loved me. It was good as I've told you to feel it. I meant to escape as I've escaped before. I don't excuse myself. Then came the night it looks all. I let myself go. It was a thing of the senses, something snapped, as it has done in the case of millions of women under similar conditions. You could have done what you liked with me. I shall never forget it if I live to be ninety. Do you think I have been sleeping peacefully all these nights ever since? I haven't. She looked at him defiantly, said Martin. You must care for me a little. The various little is all I dare ask for. No, it isn't, she answered, meeting his eyes. Don't allude yourself. You are asking for everything. And if I had everything to give, I would give it to you. You may think I have played with you heartlessly for the last three or four weeks. Any outsider knowing the bare facts would accuse me. Perhaps I ought to have sent you away, but I haven't the strength. There, that's a confession. Make what you will of it. All I can make of it, said Martin, treminously, is that you're the woman for me and that you know it. I do, she said, I'm up against facts and I face them squarely. On the other hand, you're not the man for me. If ever a woman has tried to love a man, I've tried to love you. That's why I've made you stay. I've plucked my heart out, all but the roots. There's a dead man there at the roots. She flung out both hands and her shoulders heaved. He's always up between us, and I can't. I can't. It's no use. I must give myself altogether or not at all. I'm not built for the half-and-half things. He said grim, feeling more astone than a man. She clutched his arm. Suppose I did marry you, by all the rules of the game I ought to. But it would only be misery for both of us. There will be twenty thousand causes for misery. What do you see? I see everything, said Martin. He rose and leaned both elbows on the verandah and faced her with bent brows. I see everything. You put your case very clearly. But suppose I say that you hadn't played the game. Suppose I say that you should have known that no man who wasn't in love with you, except an imbecile, would have followed you to Egypt as I've done. Suppose I say that you've played havoc with my life. Suppose I instance everything that has passed between us, and I assert the rules of the game, and I ask you as a man, shaken to his centre with love of you, to marry me. What would you say?" She rose and stood beside him, holding her head very proudly. Put upon my honour like that, she replied. I should have to say, yes. He took both her hands in his and raised them to his lips. That's all I want to know. As I don't reproach you, I'm not going to ask you, my dear. If I were lord of the earth, or a millionth part of the earth, I would laugh and take the risk. But as things are, I can't accept your generosity. You are the woman I love and shall always love. Goodbye, and God bless you." He wrung her hand and marched down the verandah, his head in the air, looking a very gullent fellow. After a few seconds' perplexity she ran swiftly in pursuit. Martin, she cried. He turned and awaited her approach. I feel I've behaved you like the lowest of women. I'll make amends if you like. I'll marry you. There!" Martin stood wracked with the great temptation. All his senses absorbed her beauty and her wonder. A length he asked. Do you love me? I've told you all about that. Then you don't. Yes or no, it's a matter of two lives. I've tried, and I will try again. But yes or no, he persisted. No, she said. Again he took her hands and kissed them. That ends it. If I married you, my dear, I should indeed be a soldier of fortune, and you would have every reason to despise me. Now it is really good-bye. Her gaze followed him until he disappeared into the hotel. Then she moved slowly to the balustrade, baking in the sunshine, and, leading both elbows on it, stared through a blur of tears at the detested beauty of the world. CHAPTER XXI Fort Imbrass paced the deck of the Homeward Bounds teamer deep in thought. He still wore the costume of the elderly cabinet minister, but his air was that of the cabinet minister returning to a wrecked ministry. His broad shoulders were rounded and bent. His face had fallen from its benevolent folds into fleshy haggardness. He felt old. He felt inexpressibly lonely. He had not repeated the social experiment of the voyage out. Saved in his Dutch and Russian table-neighbours, he had not the heart to speak to any one. A deep melancholy unwrapped him. After his philosophical communication with the sage Abu Mohammed, he shrank from patitudinous commerce with the profane. It was for the heart and not for the mind that he craved companionship. He was travelling, second class for economy's sake, back to the old half charlatan life. For all one's learning and wisdom one cannot easily embark on a new career in the middle fifties. He must be Marshal de Bonneur to the end. He wondered whether he would miss her seal. Such things had happened. No matter how degraded, she had been a human thing to greet him on his return from his preposterous toil. Also, her needs had been an incentive. Then sharpened the hawk's vision during the daily round of cafes and restaurants, and quickened his pounce upon the divine to five franc piece. Would he have the nerve, the unweary to patience, the bitter sense of martyrdom, were with to carry on his trade? Again, in days past his heavy heart had been uplifted by the love of a child like the wild flowers from which alpine honey is made, away in the depths of old world France. But now he had forflitted her love. She had written to him all these weeks in Egypt dutifully, irreproachably, had given him the news, such as it was of Brontorne, she had told him of the state of her uncle's health, invariably robust, of the rivals and departures of elegant mattresses, of the march of the town, decorated at the occasion of a host at Pétis-Older, amid the enthusiasm and marseillais' singing of the inhabitants, of the sudden death by apoplexy of the good Madame Chauvet, and the sudden development of business on the part of her daughters who almost immediately had taken the next shop and launched out into iron wreaths and crosses and artificial flowers and funeral inscriptions touching and pious, of the purchases of grease, of the infatuation of the elderly euphimie for the efful-waiter, as well plongeur of the capitaine de l'univers. Of all sorts and conditions of unimportant happenings. Finally, of the patrol of Monsieur Lucien Vidiot and Estelle Mazaboie, the daughter of the famous Mazaboie who had kept a great drapery establishment of Benigio. She has the diary of a princess and the head of a walking horse, so they are sure to be happy, wrote Feliz. The manner of this last announcement shocked him. Feliz had changed. She had given him all the news, but her letters had gramed self-conscious and artificial. To avoid the old, artless expressions of endearment, she rushed into a sprightly narrative and signed herself his affectionate daughter. He had lost Feliz. Yes, he felt old and lonely, unnerved for the struggle. Even Martin had forsaken him. He had encountered a stony-faced, wrong-headed young man on the terrace of Sheppard's Hotel the noon before he sailed, and found all his nostrums for happiness high-handedly rejected. Martin had been an idle woman's toy—a fiery toy, as it turned out—and when she burned her fingers she had dropped him. So much was obvious. Most of it he had foreseen. He had counted on eventual declaration and summary dismissal, but he had not reckoned on a prelude of reciprocated sentiment. Contrary to habit Martin gave him but a confused view of his state of mind. The unhappy lover would hear not a word against his peerless lady. On the other hand, his love for her had blasted his existence. This appalling fact that he did not proclaim it so heroically, he allowed Fortenbrass to apprehend. He neither reproached him for past advice nor asked for new. With the suggestion that he should return to Brontorne and accept a big order of offer, he turned to death here. He had cut himself adrift. He must go with us whoever wins and tides should carry him, and they were carrying him far from Pedy Gore. "'In what direction?' Fortenbrass had inquired. "'Thank heaven I don't know myself,' he had answered. "'Anyhow, I'm going to seek my fortune. I must have money and powers so that I can snap my fingers of the world. That's what I'm going to live for.' And soon after that declaration he wrung Fortenbrass by the hand, and Haley and Arabea had driven off into the unknown. Fortenbrass had felt like the hen whose he's a duckling brood sail away down the brook. He had lost control of his disciple. He mattered nothing to the young man setting forth on his wild goose chase after fortune. His charming little scheme had failed. He anticipated the reproaches of big order, the accusation and the eyes of Felice. "'Why did you sigh with the enemy? Why did you drive Martin away?' He felt old and lonely, a pathetic failure. So he walked to the second-class desk with listless shoulders and bowed head, his hands in his pockets. "'Dear Monsieur Fortenbrass, who would have thought it?' quite a fresh voice. He looked up and saw a dark-eyed girl, her head enveloped in a motor-veil, who extended a friendly hand. "'Mamazelle?' he began uncertainly. "'Né, oui, eugéni du bois. You must remember me. There was also Le Grand Jules, Jules Massard.' "'Yes, I remember,' he said curtiously with a warm smile. "'You sent us both from a pity mess?' "'I remember the saving, but I forget the mess. It is my rule always to forget such things.' She laughed, galey, burst into an account of herself. She was a modeste of the great Paris firm of Odile, a compagnie which had a branch at Carrot. Now she was recalled for the Paris under-London season. "'Eugéni du bois,' she plucked his sleeve and led him to a seat. "'I am in the tangle of an affair which keeps me awake at night. You fought upon me from the skies like an angel. Be good and give me a consultation.' She fished out her purse and extracted a twenty-five piazzera piece. He motioned her hand away. "'M'un enfant,' said he, "'he are an honorable little soul, "'but I don't do business on holiday, or I can't my transaffaire.' But she protested. She would not abuse his kindness, either a consultation of the regulation price or no consultation at all. At last he said, "'Evea, give me your five francs.' She obeyed. He rose. "'Come,' said he, and led the way to the stair-head by the saloon where was fixed the collecting-box in aid of the fund for ship-wrecked mariners. He slipped the coin down the slot. "'Now,' said he, "'honour is satisfied.'" But listening to her artless and complicated tale, he wondered, while a shiver ran over his frame, whether he would ever be able again to slip a five franc piece into his waist-cut pocket. He felt yet older than before, incapable of piercing to the root of youth's perplexities. He counseled with a regular vagueness, conscious of not having earned his fee. He paced the deck again. "'Where it not for Abu Muhammad,' he said, I should call it a disastrous journey. Meanwhile, Martin, lonelyly even than he, sat in the bowels of a great east-foot bound to Steamer, his eyes open to the staring facts of life. No longer must he masquerade as the man of fashion. Never again until he had bought the right. Remains of his small capital he must keep intact for the day of need. No more the luxury of first-class travel. This void in the steered was but a means of transit to the new lands where he could win his way to fortune. He needed no advice. He had spiritually and morally outgrown his tutelage. No longer, so he told himself, would he nourish his soul on dreams? He could feed a bit like Tom Memories. The man is a past. He drew the breath of an honest man. If he had taken to celerate her word and married her, what would have been his existence? Trailing about the idle world and the wake of a rich wife, dependent on her bounty even for a pair of shoelaces, eating out his heart for the love she could not give, at last perhaps quarreling desperately, or else with sapped willpower sunk in sloth, accept him from her an allowance on condition that they should live apart. He had heard of such marriages since he had mingled with the wealthy. Even had she met him with a love as passionate as his own, would the happiness have lasted? In his grim mood he thought not. He reasoned himself into the conviction that his loss had been his gain. Far better that he should be among these few poor folk who sat down to table in their shirt-sleeves than that he should be eating the flesh-pots of dishonour in the land of Egypt. He himself dined in his shirt-sleeves as he had done many a time before in the kitchen of the hotel de Grotte. Yet he hungered for her. It seemed impossible that he should never see her again. Never again watched the sweep of the adorable brown eyelashes, the subtle play of laughter around her mobile lips. Never a grain greet with delicious heart-pang the sight of her slim figure, willowy like those in the primavera. In vain he schooled himself to regard her as one dead. The witchery of her obsessed him night and day. He learned what it was to suffer. He had taken his deck-passage to Hong Kong. Why? He could scarcely tell. It sounded very far away, as far away from her as practicable. As the sultry days went on he realised that he had not reckoned on the tremendous distance of Hong Kong. It was past Bombay, Colombo, Penang and Singapore. At such port as he could he landed. But the glamour of the East had gone. He was a man who had expended his power of wonder and delight. He looked on them coldly as places he might possibly exploit should Hong Kong prove barren. Also the period of great heat had begun and he found danger in strolling about the deadly streets. On ship-board he slept on deck. As they neared Hong Kong his heart sank. The first time he wished that Floridpras were with him. Perhaps he had repaid affection with scant courtesy. He occupied himself with a long letter to his friend, setting out his case. He then imagined the reply. "'My son,' said the men in a persuasive voice, "'have you not been carrying on from thrill to thrill? The great adventure begun last August, when you threw off the chains of maggots. Have you not filled your brain and your soul with new and breathless sensations? Have you not tasted joy hitherto unimagined? Have you not been admitted to the heart of a great and loyal nation? Have you not flaunted it in the dazzling splendour of the great world? Have you not steeped your being in the gorgeous colour of the East? Have not your passes throbbed with an immortal passion for a woman of surpassing beauty? Have you not known what is only accorded to the select of the sons of men? The pre-moment of delirious joy when time stood still and space was not? Have you not lived intensely all this wonderful year? Are you the same blank-minded, starving, sold, mild negation of a man who sat as a butt for Carina's pleasantries, the Petit Cornicheaux? Have you not progressed immeasurably? Have you not gained spiritual stature, wisdom both human and Godlike? And are you not now, having passed through the fiery furnace, not only unscathed but tempered, setting out on the still greater adventure the conquest of the ends of the earth? Less than a year ago, what were you but a slave? What are you now, a free man? So through the ears of fancy ran the slonorous rhetoric of Fortenbrass. Martin tore up his letter and scattered the fragments on the sea. A day or two afterwards, with a stout heart, he landed at Victoria, the capital of Hong Kong. A half-caste clerk, to whom he had entrusted his card, returned from the inner office. Ah, Mr. Tadze was here, sir. Martin followed him into a darkened office, cooled by an electric fan, where a white-tired gaunt yellow-faced Englishman sat at a desk. The clerk closed the door and retired. The yellow-faced Englishman rose and smiled, after glancing at Martin's card on the desk before him. A mystery of a sure. What can I do for you? You can give me some work, sir Martin. Ah, I'm afraid I can't. I'm sorry, sir Martin. I must apologise for troubling you." He was about to withdraw. Mr. Tadze licked lance at him shuddery. Wait a minute. Sit down. I don't seem to place you. Who are you? Where do you come from? That's my name, sir Martin, pointed to his card, and I've just arrived from Europe, or to be more exact, from Egypt. By thee, said Oscars? Yes. Mr. Tadze's took up and scanned a typewritten sheet of paper. I don't see your name on the passenger list. Possibly not, sir Martin. I came steerage. Indeed. Martin's proust and his well-cut gray flannels look anything but a deck-passenger. What made you do that? Economy, said Martin. And why have you come to me? I made a list last night of the hotel of the leading firms in Hong Kong, and yours was among them. Haven't you any introductions? No. Then what enduce you to come to this particular little hell upon earth? Chance, said Martin. One place is pretty much the same to me as another. What kind of work are you looking for? Anything from sweeping the floor to running a business? Only coonies that sweep floors here, said Mr. Tadze, tooting back his chair and tossing his hands behind his back. I've only experienced many business-run businesses. What business have you run? None, said Martin. What business qualifications have you? None. But I'm an educated man. Cambridge. Yes, yes, one sees that. The other interrupted. There are millions of them. I'm bilingual, English and French. My German is good enough for ordinary purposes. Do you know anything of accounts? No, said Martin. Can you add up figures correctly? I daresay, said Martin. Have you ever tried? No, said Martin. Mr. Tadze, handed him a mass of tight-written papers pinched together. Do you know what that is? Martin glanced through the document. It seems to be a list of commodities. It's a bill of lading. First time you've ever seen one? Yes, said Martin. Have you any capital? Well, a little of a few hundred pounds. Then stick to it like grim death. Don't part with it here. I haven't the slightest intention of doing so, said Martin. The lean, yellow-faced man brought his chair back to normal perpendicularity and swung it round. It worked on a swivel. Mr. Overshaw said he pardoned the perfect stranger giving you advice, but you seem to be a frank, straight man. You've made a mistake in coming to Hong Kong. It's a beast of a climate. In a few days' time the rains will begin, then it will rain steadily, drearily, hopelessly, damply, swelteringly, diddlyly, day after day, hour after hour, for four months. That's one way of looking at things. There's another. I'm perfectly sure there's not a vacancy for an amateur clerk in the whole of Hong Kong. If we want a linguist, your speciality, we can get Germans by the dozen who not only know six languages, but have been trained as business experts from childhood, and we can get them for tough and tapely a month. Martin, remembering the discussions at the Café de l'Univers, replied, And when the war comes? What war? Between England and Germany. My dear fellow-in-the-world, are you talking of there's not going to be any war? Besides, he smiled undoubtedly. Suppose there was? What then? First, said Martin, he would have given the enemy an intimate knowledge of your trade, which, by the way, he's even now reporting by every mail to his government. He was quoting the dictum of a highly-placed Egyptian official whom he met at a dinner-party in Cairo. And then you would have to fall back upon Englishman. Mr. Tuddsley laughed, and rose, says to end the interview. I'll take the risk of that, he said easily, but the immediate question is, what are you to do? Have you visited any other firms? Several, said Martin. And what have they said? Much the same as you, Mr. Tuddsley, and you're not so kindly and courteously. That's all right, so Mr. Tuddsley shied the compliment. I don't see why Englishmen meeting at the other end of nowhere shouldn't be civil to each other. But my advice is, clear out of Hong Kong, there's nothing doing. What about Shanghai? That's further still from Europe. Singapore? That's better, on the way back. I must thank you, said Martin, for giving me so much of your time. Not a bit. I'm very sorry I can't give you a job or put you on to one, but you see the position, don't you?" Martin smiled wily. I'm beginning to see it with painful clearness. Goodbye, and good luck, said Mr. Tuddsley. Goodbye, said Martin. Between then and the date of the next homeward bound steamer, Martin knocked at every door in Hong Kong. Nobody wanted him. There was nothing he could do. There was no place for him on the very lowest rung of any ladder to fortune. He sailed to Singapore. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of The Wonderful Year by William John Locke. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Simon Evers. Chapter 22 When Martin landed at Marseille, he found the world on the brink of war. He spent the early summer roaming about the east, looking, as he had looked at Hong Kong, for work that might lead to fortune and finding none. A touch of fever had caused a friendly doctor at Penang to pack him off to Europe by the first boat. It had been a will-of-the-wisp chase, mainly in the rains, when the straits and settlements are not in sight. It is bad enough that your boots should be mildewed every morning, but when the mildew begins to attack your bones it is best to depart. Martin embarked philosophically. He had tried the east because it was nearer to his original point of departure. Now he would try the west, America or Canada. In a temperate time it he could undertake physical labour. His muscles were solid, the air had soon cured him. His health was robust. He could pew wood, draw water, dig the earth. In a new country he could not starve. At the last pinch he could fall back on the profession he had learned at the Hotel Ligrut. Furthermore by eating the bread and choosing the couch of hardship he had spent comparatively little of his capital. His vagabondage had hardened him physically and morally. He had mixed with all kinds of conditions of men. Egypt seemed a sensuous dream of long ago. He deftened his heart to its memories. It would take ten years to make anything of a fortune. If he succeeded then in ten years' time he would seek Lucilla. In the meantime he wouldn't waste away in despair. He faced the future with confidence. While standing with his humble fellow-passengers in the boughs he felt his pulses thrill at the first sight of the Blue Islands of Marseille. It was France, country almost of his adoption. He rejoiced that he decided not to book his ticket to Southampton, but to pass through the beloved land once again before he sailed to another hemisphere. Besides, his money and most of his personal effects dispatched from Egypt were lying at Cook's office in Paris. The practical therefore turned sentiment into an easy channel. He landed, carrying his bag in his hand, bought a paper on the key from a screaming urchin and to his duper faction found the world on the brink of war. At Gibraltar he had not seen a newspaper. None had penetrated to the steerage and he had not landed. He had taken it for granted that the good, comfortable old earth was rolling its usual course. Now, at Marseille he became aware of everyone in the blazing sunshine of the keys staring at newspapers held open before them. At the modest hotel hard by where he deposited his bag he questioned the manager. Yes, did he not know Austria had declared war on Serbia. Germany had rejected all proposals from England for a conference. The President of the Republic had hired from Russia. Russia would not allow Serbia to be attacked by Austria. France must join Russia. It was a coup prepared by Germany. Say yes, il a guerre, said he. Martin went out to the streets and found a place on the crowded terrace of one of the cafes on the Cannabier. All around him was the talk of war. The rich-voiced provisor did not speak in whispers. There was but one hope for peace for the successful intervention of England between Russia and Austria. But Germany would not have it. War was inevitable. Martin bribed a chasseur to find him some English papers no matter of what state. With fervent anxiety he scanned the history of the momentous week. What he read confirmed the talk. Whatever action England might take France will be at war in a few days. He paid for his drink and walked up the Cannabier. He saw no smiling faces. A shadow of war already overspread the joyous town. A battalion of infantry passed by and people stood still involuntarily and watched the soldiers with looks curiously stern. And Martin stood also and remained standing long after the clanging tram cars temporarily held up and blocked them from his sight. And he knew that he could not go to America. In a little spot in the heart of France lived all the friends he had in the world, all the brave souls he had learned to love. But on tome appeared before him even a revelation and a consciousness of ingratitude smote him so that he drew a gasping breath. Not that he had forgotten them. He kept up with fitful correspondents with big order who had never hinted a reproach. But until an hour or two ago he had been prepared to wiper on tome out of his life to pass through France without giving it an hour of greeting even an avai adquavale. In the past seven months of mad folly and studied poverty where had he met characters so strong, ideals so lofty, hearts so loyal? What had he learned among the careless superficial Anglo-American society in Egypt comparable to that which he had learned in his world-forgotten little bourgeoisie in France? Which of them had touched his nature below the layer of his vanity? What ideals had he met with in the East? Could he so term the complacent and pessimistic opportunism of the touchlies, the rumbling of officials, the honest dullness of sea-captains and seamen? He judged superficially it is true for one has to strike deep before one could get to the shy soul of a Briton. But a man is but the creature of his impressions. From his own particular journeyings of seven months he had returned almost bewilderingly alone. Each de Marseille had not a human being whose call no matter how faint he was. England, in so far as intimate personal England was concerned, had no call for him either nor had America, unknown, remote, unfriendly as Greenland. Jostled he walked along the busy thoroughfare a man far away treading the paths of the spirit. In this mighty convulsion the threat of the earth there was one spot which summoned him with a call clear and insistent. The place was there, in pedigal, to share in its hopes and its fears its mourning and its joy. He returned to the hotel for his bag and took the first train in the direction of Brontorne. What he would do when arrived he had no definite notion. It was something beyond reason that drove him further, something irresistible, more irresistible than the force which had impelled him to eat it. Then he had hesitated, now one moment had decided him. He never occurred to him to question. Through the burning south of France he spared. As yet only the shadow of war hung over the land. The awful word had not yet gone forth. Swarly men and women worked in the baking vineyards and gathered in the yellow harvest. But here and there on flashing glimpses of White Road troops marched dusterly and military wagons gathered along. And in the narrow wooden-seated third-class carriage on the slow and ever-stopping train the talk even of the humblest was of war. At every station some of the passengers had left, some entered. There seemed to be a sudden concentration homewards. At every station the soldiers recalled from leave to their garrisons. These during the journey were questioned as authoritative functionaries. Yes, for sure there would be war. Why they did not know? Except for the silent debt of Germans were at last going to invade France. Said one I got an officer yesterday in our village the son of Monsieur de Comte de Barré who has the big shutter there. We have known each other from childhood. And he said Ah, mon brav, ça y est And I said And he said Voila le son, le son du canon. Faita que le son de Barré est off your ears. And I replied You will not have the opportunity, mon lieutenant. You being in the artillery and I in the infantry. And he laughed with good heart. Anyhow said he If you return to the village when the war is over without the military medal and I am alive I'll make my mother do it in the court yard of the chateau with her own scissors. I did this to prove to you that I know there is going to be war. And the women are in their blue bundles on their knees in the crowded compartment. For in democratic France Demoisse is not allowed the luxury of luggage racks looked at the future with anxious eyes. What would become of them? The government would take their men their men would be killed or maimed. Even if the men returned faithful and sound in the mean time how would they live? Ah, mon Dieu, c'est frost de guerre. They cursed the war as though it were a foul and conscious entity. The interminable journey by day, by night with tedious waits at great ghostly junctions at last was over. Martin emerged from the station of Bronteau and immediately before him stood the familiar ramshackle omnibus of the Hôtel de Grotte. Old grégoire, the driver, on beholding him, stack it back and almost fell over the step of the vehicle. Monsieur Martha, single Recovering he advanced with great sun-glazed hand. Yes, it is indeed I laugh, Martin. It is everybody that would be content, cried Grégoire, how one has talked of you and wished you were back and now that this sacred girl is coming. That's why I've come, said Martin. How are Monsieur and Mamazelle? Both were well. It was they who would be glad to see Monsieur Martin. The old fellow, red-faced, red-haired, clean-shaven with a comfortable gash of a mouth, clapped him on the shoulder. Me voilà, so did Gaillard. To truth? Why, of course, Grégoire found him transformed into a stout fellow. When he'd arrived a year ago he was like a bit of wet string. What a thing it was to travel. And yet he'd been in China where people ate rats and dogs which could not be nourishing food. In a fortnight on the good meat of Périgol he would develop into a veritable jard. If Monsieur Martin would enter, he held the door open. No one else had arrived by the train. The omnibus jolted and swayed along the familiar road through the familiar cobbled paved streets along the familiar keys past many a familiar face. They all seemed to chant the welcome of which the old driver had struck the key. Martin felt strangely happy and the tears were very near his eyes. Monsieur Richard, the butcher catching sight of him, darted a pace or two down the pavement so to make sure and threw up both hands in greeting. And as they turned the corner of the hill surrounded by the dear grey tower of the old abbey Monsieur Lecure saw him and smiled and swept a salute with his old dusty hat which Martin acknowledged through the end window of the omnibus. They drew up before the familiar door of the old white inn. The tease was there elderly, battered in his green bays apron. Mais on Dieu c'est vous, mais he rung Martin's hand. And as once before on the return of Felice not being able to cope with his emotions he shouted on the threshold to the vestibule Monsieur c'est Monsieur Martin qui arrive. Qu'est-ce que tu es là? Quite a familiar voice from the bureau c'est Monsieur Martin. Martin entered and in the vestibule encountered Bigorda Mais on Dieu c'est toi? c'est très bon toi en far? It was the instinctive surprised and joyous greeting of the two servants. Martin stood un strong. What had he done to deserve it? Before he could utter a word he felt two colossal arms swung round him and a kiss implanted on each cheek. Then Bigorda held him out and like Grégoire told him how solid he looked. Au far you've come back tell me how and when and why tell me all. Martin's eyes were moist. My God said he was a catch in his voice you are a good fellow not a bit more share we are friends and in friendship there is something just a little bit sacred but tell me nom d'un peep all about yourself. I was on my way said Martin from Penang to New York I must say I have heard for the first time of the war in which France will be involved and of which we have so often talked and something I don't know what could be here a moivasi c'est beau c'est bien beau tout à part c'est Bigorda seriously let us go and find Felice now when a Frenchman characterizes a deed as a beau it is in his opinion very fine indeed but before they could move euphrymy rushed from her kitchen and all but embraced the wanderer and joseph late plonger and the capitaine Ludidaire and now waiter of the hotel came shyly from the salamanger and the brightness of his eyes was only equaled by the lustre of the habillement that formerly had belonged to Martin Bigorda dispatched him in quest of Felice soon she came from the fabric looking rather white joseph had shot his news at her but she came up looking Martin straight in the eyes her hand extended bonjour Martin, I am glad to see you again so am I, said he more than glad it's like coming back to one's own people she drew up her little head and asked for the certain blaveur how is Lucila? he winced but he did not show it he smiled I don't know, I haven't heard of her since March neither have I, she said not since Deandre she seems to be a bird of passage through other people's lives Bigorda laughed, shaking a great forefinger I bet that is not the original I bet you are quoting your old philosopher of her father she cuddled and said defiantly yes I confess it, it is nonetheless true and how is the good Forte Brass? asked Martin to turn a distressful compensation we are expecting him by any train it is I who are making him come tomorrow I may be called out France will want more than the troop metropolitain and the reserves to fight the Germans they want the territorial eh, c'est moi, l'armée territorial he thumped his chest he was written that I said strike a blow for France like my father's but while I am striking the blow who is to look after my little Feliz and the hotel de Grotte it is well to be prepared when the mobilisation is ordered there will be no more trains for civilians and what do you feel about the war Feliz? asked Martin she clenched her hands I would give my immortal soul to be a man she cried Bigorda hugged her that is a daughter of France I am proud of my little girl on diray en géant dark but where is the French woman now created by the spirit of La Pousselle d'Orléans in the meanwhile Bonancla, Saint Feliz disengaging herself to merely from his embrace Martin looks exceedingly dusty and hungry and no one has even suggested that he should wash or eat or have his bag carried up to his room Bigorda regarded her with admiration she is wonderful she thinks of everything but at least take up Monsieur Martin's thing to the chambre de l'homme my dear fellow, Martin protested I only want my old room in which I have slept so soundly but Bigorda would have none of it he was the prodigal son Égoutement, he cried snapping his thigh we have a good guard's head for Desjardins yes it's true, he laughed delightedly, the fatted calf it was fatted by our neighbour Richard c'est extraordinaire so Martin shaved and washed in the famous bathroom and changed and descended to the Salamorge the only guests were a few anxious faced commercial travellers at the centre of table all but one were old acquaintances he went around shaking hands amid cordial greetings it was the last time they said tomorrow they will be mobilised the day after they would exchange the sample box for the pack of the soldier in a week they would have the skin torn off the soles of their feet and in a month they would be blown to bits of dry shells they proclaimed a lack of a warrior spirit they had a horror of blood even a cat it screwed up one's stomach me enfin, what did not think of such unimportant things when France was in pedal if your house was in danger of being swept away by flood there was no sense of being afraid to catch cold through having your feet wet each in his way expressed the same calm fatalistic patriotism they had no yearning to be killed but if they were killed they shrugged their shoulders they were France and France was they no force could dismember them from France without France or themselves bleeding to death it was very simple Martin left them and sat down with big or down at Philly's at their table in the corner by the door it was the first time he'd ever done so Philly's at little and spoke less now and again as he told of his mild adventures in the Far East he caught a great dark eye fixed on him and he smiled unaccountably flared but always she shifted her glance and made a pretence of eating or drinking once Wimber Gorda called my ink-keeper's business to one of the commercial travelers had left the table she said you have changed one would say it was not the same man what makes you think so you talk differently there is a different expression on your face I'm sorry said he I don't see why you should be sorry said Philly's if you no longer recognise me they talked in French I must have come to you as a stranger she bit her lip and flushed I did not know what I was saying perhaps it was impertinent how could it be Philly's he asked Bendy across the table but if I've changed is it for the better or the worse would you be away to hear again Martin looked for a second into his soul no, said he voila, said Philly's but I couldn't tell you why it's not necessary said Philly's Bigorda joined them the meal ended Philly's went off to her duties Bigorda said I think I'll coffee at the café de l'univers everybody is there if it's our the last day or two we may learn some news they descended the hill and walked along the blazing keys Martin knew every house every stone, every old woman who, pausing from beating her lid in on the side of a drone waved him a welcome and then stopped him and slapped his shoulder and shook him by the hand you recognise the good heart of Bigorda Martin replied with excusable Gallic hyperbole c'est mon pays I find it again after having wandered over the earth they turned into the narrow cool Rue de Peugeot on the opposite side of the street they saw Monsieur Fourre, Jean de Merre walking furiously mopping a red forehead soft straw hat in hand he sped across them too excited to realise that Martin had gone and returned have you heard the news that Merre has received a telegram from Paris the order of mobilisation goes out today more said Bigorda the terrace of the café de l'univers was crowded with the notables of the town who in their sober way only frequented the café after dinner the special coterie had their section apart as at night they were all assembled Vigny of the company Dugas Boison, professor of vehicle Normale, the videos Father and Son Thibaud, managing director of the collies Benoit of the railway Routillard, the great chandler of Corn and Hay and they did not need the Ajoin de Merre to tell them the news the fresh arrivals providing speedily with chairs by the waiters were swallowed up in the group and Martin was assailed il m'a t'enorme longue terre qu'est-ce que elle va faire on all French lips that day until England declared war and Martin proclaimed as though inspired from Whitehall that England would fight for the moment his declaration satisfied them the talks swayed from him excitedly France at war at last after forty years held their cells they talked in the air as men willed of numbers of preparations of chances of the solidarity of the nation and there was a little pause the square-headed white-haired Monsieur Villaud rose and with a gesture imposed silence this is a moment city for every misunderstanding between loyal French hearts to be cleared up we are now brothers in the defence of our beloved country mon bras va me bigoda d'o moi d'o moi bigoda sprang up in the public street but more did that matter uncried mon vieux video and the two men embraced and kissed each other and everyone much affected cried bravo bravo and then bigoda reached over the marble tables took young Lucien video's hands and embraced him and shook him by the shoulders and cried here is a caudassier who is going to cut through the Germans like bladders of lard it was a memorable record of the situation Fortenbras arrived late at night probably by the last regular train services from the next day and for many days afterwards there were wild hurry and crowds and confusion on roads and railways all through France into the town poured all the men of the surrounding villages and the streets were filled with them and their wives and mothers and children and strange officers in motor-cars whirled through the rue de Petitjou bands of young men falling into the well-remembered step marched along the keys to the station singing the Marseillais and women stood at their doorsteps blowing them kisses as they passed and at the station the great military trains adorned with branches of trees and flowers steamed away a masked line of white faces and waving arms and old men and women young and old waved handkerchiefs until the train disappeared and then turned away weeping bitterly Martin Fortenbras and bigoda and a train to see off the flower of the youth of the little town who's young video went guarantee a good warhorse suits me better than an office stool, he laughed and Joseph, sloughing off forever Martin's shiny black raiment went off too and the younger waiters of the Capitibre d'hiver and Beauzol the young professor at the École Normale and the son of the Ajoin and the Petit Morrois who helped his mother at the debut de Tupac many a familiar face was carried away from Montaume towards some unknown battle-line of the thunder and the slaughter a familiar face which Montaume was never to see again and after a day or two the town seemed futile like a ballroom from which the last dancers had gone Grave was the evening coterie at the Capitibre d'hiver the room had gone through France that England more than hesitated Fortenbras magnificently defended England's honour he being very quiet at home tenderly shy and wistful with Felice unsuggested of paths to happiness with Martin his attitude towards intimate life one of gentlemanically he had told Martin that he had retired from business as Marshal de Bonheur he had lost the trick of it at Bigorda's urgency he had purchased an annuity which surprised his modest and philosophic needs no longer having the fierce incentive to gain the harder and five franc piece no longer involved in a scheme of things harmonious with an irregular profession he was like the singer deprived of the gift of song the telepathist stricken with inhibitory impotence for all his odd learning for all his garnered knowledge of the human heart and for all his queer heroic struggle he stood before his own soul an irremediable failure so an older on almost a broken Fortenbras had taken up his quarters of the Hotel de Grotte but stimulated by the talk of war he became once more the orator and the seer he held a breath for England and his passionate sincerity imposed itself on his hearers thank God say he afterwards I was right but in the meanwhile Martin strung in every fiber to high pitch by what he had heard by what he'd seen and by what he had felt knew that just as it was ordained that he should come to Brontorne say it was ordained that he should not stay you talk eloquently and with conviction Monsieur, said the mayor to Fortenbras there were a dozen in the familiar cafe corner tents and eager-eyed and with the cousin suck the Gascon proprietor stood by but what proof have you given us of England's cooperation? Martin with a thrill through his body said in a loud voice Monsieur le maire there is not a living Englishman with red blood in his veins who has any doubt I, the most obscure of Englishmen speak for my country kept me accepted as a volunteer the humblest foot soldier and I will fight for France take up my pledge Monsieur le maire it is the pledge of the only Englishman in Brontorne on behalf of the British Empire there are millions better than I from all ends of the earth who will be inspired by the same sentiments of Forte kept me accepted in English Martin could never have said it words would have come shyly but he was among Frenchmen attuned to French modes of expression a murmur of approbation arose yes, cried Martin I for France my life as a pledge for my country kept me accepted Monsieur le maire the maire, a lean grey-eyed bald-headed man with a straggly ingrained beard looked at him intently for a few moments c'est mieux, did he I take up your pledge I have to go tomorrow to Perigot to see Monsieur le préfet who has a certain friendliness for me he has influence with the minister de la guerre accompany me to Perigot I undertake to see that it is arranged I thank you Monsieur le maire said Martin then everybody talked at once and lifted their glasses to Martin and Monsieur le maire dispatched their glasses and sacked for the sweet champagne in which nearly a year ago they had drunk Lucien's health and the Godin embraced him and when the wine was poured out they were cries of vive longue terre, vive la France, vive Martin and the square-headed old Monsieur video set the climax of his ovation by lifting his glasses at arm's length and proclaiming vive Notre-Bond, Perigotin said for him brass, who sat next to him I would give the rest of my life to you just for the next few months my God, you must feel proud Martin's steady English blood asserted itself I don't, said he I feel a damned premature hero it is only in the lesion that fantastic romantic regiment of daredevil desperados capable of all iniquities and of all heroisms that a foreigner can enlist straight away no questions asked being incorporated into the regular army of France is another matter wires have to be pulled they were pulled, in Martin's case it was to his credit that he had served two years, gaining the stripes of a corporal in the rifle-core of the University of Cambridge at the psychological moment of pulling England declared war on Germany the resources of the British Empire men and money and ships and blood were on the side of France England and France were one a second's consideration of the request of the profet de l'Utador and a hurriedly scrawled signature constituted Martin a potential member of the French army it happened that when the notice of authorization came the first person he ran across was Fédès by the door of the fabrique he waved the paper I'm accepted she turned pale and put her hand to her heart she was surprised bravely when do you go? at once straight to Perigial to enlist and when will you come back? God knows, said he then he became aware of her standing scared with parted lips and heaving bosom of course I hope to come back sometime rather when the wall's over naturally, but she said quaveringly you may be killed so no millions, I take my chance she turned aside tapped both hands to her face and broke into a passion of weeping instinctively he put an arm round her she sobbed on his shoulder he whispered do you care so much about what happens to me? she tore herself away and faced with eyes flashing through her tears do you think I'm a stick called a stone? I am half English, half French you're going to fight for England and France don't you think women feel these things? you are a part of the Englishwoman and the Frenchwoman that is going out to fight and I would hate you if you didn't fight but I don't want you to be killed she fled and not till he left the Hotel des Grottes did he see her again alone when with Begouda and Fortebras he was about to enter the Old Omnibus to take him to the station she pinned a tricolor ribbon on his coat and then said and then saying goodbye and God bless you looked him squarely in the eyes he was in his heart to say you're worth all the Lucillas in the universe but there were Begouda and Fortebras and Euphemia and Baptiste and Gregoire and the Chambermaid and a few straggling girls from the family all standing by he said God bless you Phillies I shall never part with your ribbon as long as I live Gregoire climbed to his feet Begouda closed the door the Omnibus jolted and swayed down the road the Elfin figure of Phillies was suddenly cut off of the turn and that was the last of the Hotel des Grottes a week or so later Martin, drilling in the hot barrack square realised that just a year had passed since he first set eyes on Brontorne a year ago he'd been a spineless aimless drudge at Margret's Universal College now, wearing a French uniform he was about to fight for France and England in the greatest of all walls of the world had seen and during those 12 months through what soul-shaking experiences had he not passed truly a wonderful year N'est-ce que vous faites la Screamed the drill sergeant whereupon Martin abruptly realised the intense importance of the present moment End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of The Wonderful Year by William John Locke This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 23 The weary weeks pass by with their alternations of hopes and fears Martin, in significant speck of blue and red, was in the argon Sergeant Biguda of the Arme Territorial was up his head the history of their days is the history of the war which has yet to be written the story of their personal lives is identical with that of the personal lives of the millions of men who have looked and are looking death always in the face cut off as it were from their own souls by the curtain of war Things went drearily at the Hotel de Grotte but little manhood remained at Brontour Women worked in the fields and drove the carts and kept the shops where so few things were sold Felice busied herself in the fabrique her staff entirely composed of women Fort Imbrass made a pretense of managing the hotel to which for days together no travellers came no cars of pleasant motorists were unloaded at its door Now and then an elderly bag-man in vain quest of orders sat in the solitary Salamanger waited on him with her bane melancholy thrown intimately together father and daughter grew nearer to each other they became companions walking together on idle afternoons and sitting on mild nights on the terrace with the town twinkling peacefully below them they talked of many things Fort Imbrass drew from the rich store of his wisdom Felice from her fund of practical knowledge there were times when she forgot the harrowing mystery of her mother and only conscious of a great and yearning sympathy unlocked her heart and cried a little in close and comforting propinquity Together they read the letters from the trenches all too short all too elusive in their brave cheeriness The epistles of Martin and Bigorda were singularly alike each said much the same they had not the comforts of the hotel grotto but what would you have the war was war they were in splendid health they had enough to eat they had a sharp tussle with a Bosch and many of their men were killed but victory in the end was certain in the meanwhile they needed some warm underclothes as the nights were growing cold and would Felice enclose some chocolate and packets of bustos love to everybody and Vive la France these letters Fort Imbrass would take to the Café de l'Univers each of whom had a precisely similar letter to read The Ajouard de Maire was the first to come without a letter he produced a telegram which was passed from hand to hand in silence he'd come dry-eyed and brave but when the telegram reached him after completing its round he broke down say stupid, forgive me my friends I'm proud to have given my son to my country mais enfin, he was my son my only son for the first time I'm glad that his mother is no longer living then he raised his head valently et toi Vidiot, Lucien, how is he doing? then someone heard of the death of Bozo, the young professor of the Ecole Normale at last, after a long interval of signs came disastrous news of Bigonde lying seriously, perhaps mortally wounded in a hospital in a little northern town there followed days of anguish telegrams elicited to the information that had been shot through the lung Felice went about her work with a pinched face in course of time a letter came from Madame Clotilde Robineau at Chathra my dear niece, although your conduct towards me was ungrateful I'm actuated by the teachings of Christianity in extending to you my forgiveness now that you are alone and unprotected I hear from a friend of the Abedulope a venerable priest who is administering to the wounded the consolations of religion that your uncle Gaspard is condemned to death Christian duty and family sentiment therefore make it essential that I should offer you a home beneath my roof you left it in a fit of anger because I spoke of your father in terms of reprobation but if you had watched by the death bed of your mother, my poor sister as I did, in the terrible gala to the room Mogue Robine you would not judge me so harshly believe me dear child, I have at heart your welfare both material and spiritual if you desire guidance as to the conduct of the hotel I should be pleased to aid you with my experience no affection at all Clotilde Robineau the frigid offer well meant according to the woman's pearl lights fairly scarcely heeded father or no father uncle or no uncle protector or no protector she was capable of conducting a score of hotels the lasting in the world she needed was the guidance of her aunt Clotilde save for one phrase in the letter she would have written an immediate respectful refusal and thought nothing further of the matter but that one phrase flashed through her brain her mother had died in the room Mogue Robine they had told her that she had died in hospital things hitherto bafflingly dark to her became clear on one awful tragic hypothesis she shook with the terror of it it was the only communication the postman had brought that late afternoon she stood in the vestibule to read it fought in brass engaged in the bureau over some simple accounts looked up by chance and saw her staring at the letter with great open eyes her lips apart her bosom heaving he rose swiftly and hurrying through the side door came to her side my God not bad news she handed him the letter he read his mind not grasping at once that which to her was essential the priests are exaggerating as for the proposal the room Mogue Robine said Phidis he drew the quick breath of sudden realisation and for a long time they stood silent looking into each other's eyes at last she spoke deadly white that woman I saw who opened the door for me was my mother she had pierced to the truth no substitute she could invent had power to avail it he made a sad gesture of admission why did you hide it from me she asked you had a beautiful ideal my child that it would have been a crime to tear it away and advanced a step or so to ward him her dark eyes fearless you know what we gave you to understand when I saw her yes my child said Fortinbras you also were an ideal he smiled you loved me tenderly but I was not in your calendar of saints my dear she mastered herself swallowing a sob but the tears rolled down her cheeks you are now she said he laughed uncertainly a poor old sinner of a saint he said and later in the sonor before the fire for the autumn was damp and cold he told her the cheerless story of his life concealing nothing putting the facts before her so that she could judge she sat on the rug her arm about his knee she felt very tired as though some part of her had bled to death but a new wonder filled her heart in a way she had been prepared for the discovery in her talks with her uncle and with Martin she had been keen to mark a strange disingenuousness she had accused them of conspiracy they were concealing something what she knew not but a cloud had rested on her mother's memory if on that disastrous evening the frizzy woman of the room had revealed herself as her mother her soul would have received a shock from which recovery might have been difficult now the shock had only been mitigated by months of torturing doubt but was compensated by the thrill of her father's sacrifice when it ended she turned and wept and knelt before him crying for forgiveness calling him all manner of foolish names he said, stroking her dark hair I'm only a poor old bankrupt Marshal de Bonheur you will be Marshal de Bonheur to the end? she said and with total want of logical relevance she added see what happiness you've brought me to-night? at any rate my dear, said he we have found each other at last she went to bed and lay awake till dawn looking at a new world of wrongdoing suffering and heroism who was she, humble little girl living her sequestered life to judge men by the superficialities of their known actions she had judged her father almost of the catastrophe of love she had judged Martin bitterly what did she know of the riot in his soul now he was offering his life for a splendid ideal she felt humble beside her conception of him and her uncle Gaspar great, tender, adored was lying far, far away in the north with a bullet through his body she prayed her valent little soul out for the two of them and the next morning she rose and went to her work brave and clear-eyed with a new hope in God based upon a new faith in man a day or two later she received a wild letter from Carina Hastings Carina's letters were as frequent as blackberries in March Phyllis knitted her brows over it for a long time then she took it to her father the sense, she said, must lie in the scrabble I can't make out Fortomores put on his spectacles and when, not without difficulty he had to deciphered it he took off the spectacles and smiled the benevolent smile of the Montchante de Bonheur leave it to me, my dear, said he I will answer Carina in the tiny town of Wendellbury in the noisy bosom of her family Carina was eating her heart out during the latter days of June she had returned to the fold an impecunious failure as a matter of theory she had upheld the principles and a matter of practice in the effort to obtain it she loathed it with bitter hatred she lacked the inspiration of its overwhelming importance in sub-lunary affairs she was willing enough to do ordinary work in its interests at a living wage even to the odious extent of wearing an anemic trickle and selling newspapers in the streets but when her duties involve incendiarism, imprisonment and hunger, striking she had neither conviction nor the courage Miss Bandage reviled her for a recurrent a snake in the grass and a spineless doll and left the flat for swearing her acquaintance for ever headquarters signified disapproval of her pusillarity driven to desperation she had signified her disapproval of headquarters in unmeasured terms the end came and prospective starvation drove her home to Wendellbury when the war broke out in common with the rest of the young maidenhood of the town she yearned to do something to help the British Empire her sister Clara to satisfy this laudable craving promptly married a sub-lunary and when he was ordered to the front went to live with his people the next youngest sister Evelyn, anxious for red cross-work found herself subsidized by an aunt notoriously inimical to Corinna Corinna therefore had to thrown her lot with Margaret and Winnie chits of 15 and 13 the intervening boys having flown from the nest what was a penniless and in practical matters a feckless young woman to do she knitted socks and mufflers and went round the town collecting money for Belgian refugees so did a score of tabbies objects of Corinna's mournful railery who district visited the poor to exasperation she demanded work more glorious more haraic but lack of funds tied her to detested knitting needles as the vicar's daughter she was compelled to go to church and listen to her father's sermons on the wall compared with which inflection she totally informed her mother forcible feeding was a gay amusement once or twice she had a postcard from Martin in the Argonne she cursed herself her destiny and her sex if any she was a man she would at least have gone forth with a gun on her shoulder but she was a woman the most helpless thing in women God ever made even her mother whom she had rated low on a kind of intellectual shortcomings she began to envy at any rate she had generously performed her woman's duty she brought forth ten children five men children two of whom were rushed to take up arms in defence of their country Martin's last postcard had told Corinna of Bigoda being called away to fight in her enforced isolation for the great events of the great world she became acutely conscious that in all the great world only one individual had ever found a use for her a flash of such knowledge either scorches or illuminates the soul then early in November she received a misspelled letter laboriously written in hard pencil on thin glazed paper it was addressed from a hospital in the north of France Mum was a Corinna I have done my best to strike a blow from my beloved country it was written that I should do so and it was written perhaps that I should give my life for her I am dictating these words to my bedside neighbour who is wounded in the knee for my part a German bullet has penetrated my lung and the doctors say I may not live but while I can still speak I am anxious to tell you that on the battlefield your image has always been before my eyes that I always have in my heart a love for you tender and devoted should I live Mamazelle I pray you to forget this letter as I do not wish to cause you pain but should I die let me now have the consolation of believing that I should have a place in your thoughts as one who has died Gaspard Marie Bigorda Corinna sat for a long time frozen to her soul looking out of her bedroom window at the hopeless autumn drizzle and the sodden leaves on the paths of the village garden then with quivering lips she sat down at the rickety little desk that had been hers since childhood and wrote to Bigorda she sealed it and went out in the rain and dropped it in the nearest pillow-box when she reached her room again the realisation of the inadequacy of her words smote her she threw herself on her bed and sobbed after which she wrote her wild letter to Felice for the next few days a chastened Corinna went about the vicarage an unusual gentleness manifested itself in her demeanour and at last emboldened Mrs Hastings good kind soul to take the unprecedented step to the heart-tongued daughter's private affairs I'm afraid, Dairy, that letter you had from France contained bad news Yes, Mother said Corinna with a sigh they were alone in the drawing-room Mrs Hastings laid aside her knitting rose slowly she was a poorly woman and went across to Corinna and put her arm about her shoulders Can't you tell me what it was, Dairy? she whispered Corinna melted to the voice it awakened memories of unutterable comfort of childish years she surrendered to the embrace Yes, Mother the truest man I've ever known a Frenchman is dying over there he asked me to marry him a year ago and I was a fool, Mother of an awful fool and half an hour later she said tearfully I've been a fool in so many ways I've misjudged you so, Mother it never occurred to me that you would understand my dear, said Mrs Hastings striking her hair to bring ten children into the world and keep them going on small means to say nothing of looking after a husband isn't a bad education the next day came a telegram Re-letter Felice if you want to find yourself at last go straight to Bigorda fought in Brass the message was a lash she had not contemplated the possibility of going to France in the sleepless nights she'd ached to be with him but how? in Tierra del Fuego he would be equally inaccessible go straight to him the words were very simple of course she would go why had she waited for Fordybras to point out her duty then came the humiliating knowledge of impotence she looked in her purse and counted at her fortune of thirteen shillings and seven pence hapeny a very humble coroner showed letter and telegram to her mother for war seems to have turned everything upside down said the data he ought to go dear it's a sacred duty but how can I? I have no money, I can't ask father come upstairs said Mrs Hastings she led the way to her bedroom and from a locked drawer took an old fashion to Japan to Spatchbox which she opened all my married life she said I've managed to keep something against a rainy day take what you want dear thus came the overthrow of all coroner's scheme of values she went to France a woman with a warm and throbbing heart End of Chapter 23