I have been in a stupor for hours, my mind paralyzed, my brain unable to comprehend. Instead of rereading the letter eagerly, I put it mechanically back in its envelope and wrapped it up in the little rubber-lined case I carry along with me. I do not know that I shall ever be able to bring myself to read it again. It is too hideous—too incomprehensible. Good God! Such things do not happen! But why? Why? No, I cannot realize it!
*****
For fifty-eight hours I have not lain down or closed my eyes. Ordinarily, after a second night of watchfulness, my physical nature revolts and I tumble over unconsciously. But now, at this moment, I am as keenly awake as though sleep were unknown to my brain. Inside my head, there is a feeling of a great, shining, hollow vacancy, and my little thoughts seem to rattle around in its luminous space, quite lost. I have done the strangest things, with a perfectly calm exterior. This morning I came upon a group ofpoilus, kneeling before a priest, Père Glorieux, apoilulikewise, a black robe hastilydrawn over his soiled uniform,—giving the Communion with a solemn majesty that I shall ever remember. I went and knelt among them, gazing up at the rough bearded face with eyes that shone down into my soul, quite unconscious of anything further than the instinct within me. When he came to me, he hesitated.
“Vous êtes catholique, mon fils?”
I drew up, hastily.
“Non, non, je ne suis pas catholique. Pardon.”
He bowed, hardly noticing the strangeness of my actions in the tumult about us, and I moved away, without realization either,—I was thinking of Bernoline.
*****
That afternoon I slept for the first time. One moment I had been moving around, giving orders for the storing of our kit, and the next—I must have dropped suddenly like a drunken man, for when I came to, it was late afternoon, and my orderly told me I had slept fourteen hours without moving. I remember nothing of the last four days, except,—except that letter. Yet I have been, to all intents and purposes, a rational man, moving and speaking instinctively, meeting and answering my fellow officers,—and all is a blur. I remember no more than a swimming sensation of being buffeted in contending floods of humanity; of hearing motor lorries roaring endlessly in my ears; of being thundered over, shrieked over; of being borne along on the flotsam and jetsam of human tides, with dimly remembered half-lights; of a child’s running to a dressing station, holding a broken jaw together; of a dog to whom I fed a crust; of an old woman, with red stockings, riding on an army kitchen, and I think I must have broken into a laugh!
*****
Still we are in the back wash of refugees, old men, women, cattle, woundedpoilusstraggling to the rear, tornregiments returning. They pass us like apparitions, eyes set and sullen. Only occasionally a cry from the ranks, a cry of old age or defiant youth, but the rest, the muddied human flood, rolls by, grim and inert. Fatalism! In our ranks a great deal of grumbling, but we know what that grumbling is worth. The aspect of the fields is hideous. The only thing which rouses our resentment is the passing to and fro of Boche aeroplanes and the sudden spurts of flame beneath them as they pass. We hate them, with a blind, unreasoning hatred, as the tiger must hate the weapon that slays it from a safe distance. For the rest, indifference.
*****
The attack seems stemmed. We are in the second line, ready to relieve the ——th Division when our turn comes. Our aeroplanes have swarmed in, and everywhere there are strange falcon-like encounters, under the clouds and above them. To-day, as I was seeking General La Pierre’s headquarters, Maurice de Saint Omer hailed me around a jutting wall.
“Eh, l’Americain!David,mon bon vieux! Still alive?”
I shrank from him; why, I don’t know. But the touch of his hand hurt me.
“Mais, qu’est-ce que tu as, mon vieux. Tu es blessé?”
“No—sleep!”
“Turn in here. We have a cellar as luxurious as the Ritz. Lunched?”
“Sufficiently.” I could not look at him. It seemed a dream, to be letting him chatter on so nonchalantly, with the letter that lay in my pocket. “Only just located you. How’s every one?”
“Not so bad,” he said, looking around. “Pretty warm at times. D’Arvilliers, poor fellow, blown to pieces—a few flesh wounds. We counter-attacked the day beforeyesterday. Hot work. Took a number of prisoners. The Boches are fagged out. Nothing to eat for days.”
“Have we stopped them?”
“Absolutely. Enormous losses. This time they’re done for!”
Others grumble and look serious; with him, not an instant’s wavering. Victory is his faith. There I recognize the race of Bernoline.
*****
Bernoline! For all these days I have rejected her from my mind, by some involuntary instinct of self-preservation. I think at times during that blank moment it must have been touch and go with me. Where was my mind all the while? Who knows? That I am still able to reason sanely may be due to this hideous obsession of panic and retreat which has mercifully crowded in on my struggling consciousness. Still I cannot realize it!
I have just taken out the two letters and examined the postmarks. They were mailed five weeks ago. She has been in France, then, for weeks!