the forest of sword 19

the forest of sword 19

It was amusing to lie there and see the people, one by one, pass between

him and the light. He could easily imagine that he was an inspection

officer and that they walked by under orders from him. Two more women in

those somber dresses with the red crosses embroidered upon them, were

silhouetted for a moment against the glow and then were gone. Then a man

with his arm in a sling and his face very pale walked slowly by. A

wounded soldier! There must be many, very many of them!

 

The musical murmur ceased and he was growing weary. He closed his eyes

and then he opened them again because he felt for a moment on his face a

fragrant breath, fleeting and very light. He looked up into the eyes of

Julie Lannes. They were blue, very blue, but with infinite wistful

depths in them, and he noticed that her golden hair had faint touches of

the sun in it. It was a crown of glory. He remembered that he had seen

something like it in the best pictures of the old masters.

 

"Mademoiselle Julie!" he said.

 

"You have come back," she said gently. "We have been anxious about you.

Philip has been to see you three times."

 

He noticed that she, too, wore the somber dress with the red cross, and

he began to comprehend.

 

"A nurse," he said. "Why, you are too young for such work!"

 

"But I am strong, and the wounded are so many, hundreds of thousands,

they say. Is it not a time for the women of France to help as much as

they can?"

 

"I suppose so. I've heard that in our civil war the women passed over

the battle fields, seeking the wounded and nursed them afterward. But

you didn't come here alone, did you, Mademoiselle Julie?"

 

"Antoine Picard--you remember him--and his daughter Suzanne, are with

me. My mother would have come too, but she is ill. She will come later."

 

"How long have I been here?"

 

"Four days."

 

John thought a little. Many and mighty events had happened in four days

before he was wounded and many and mighty events may have occurred

since.

 

"Would you mind telling me where we are, Mademoiselle Julie?" he asked.

 

"I do not know exactly myself, but we are somewhere near the river,

Aisne. The German army has turned and is fortifying against us. When the

wind blows this way you can hear the rumble of the guns. Ah, there it is

now, Mr. Scott!"

 

John distinctly heard that low, sinister menace, coming from the east,

and he knew what it was. Why should he not? He had listened to it for

days and days. It was easy enough now to tell the thunder of the

artillery from real thunder. He was quite sure that it had never ceased

while he was unconscious. It had been going on so long now, as steady as

the flowing of a river.

 

"I've been asking you a lot of questions, Mademoiselle Julie, but I want

to ask you one more."

 

"What is it, Mr. Scott?"

 

"What happened to me?"

 

"They say that you were knocked down by a horse, and that when you were

falling his knee struck your head. There was a concussion but the

surgeon says that when you come out of it you will recover very fast."

 

"Is the man who says it a good surgeon, one upon whom a fellow can rely,

one of the very best surgeons that ever worked on a hurt head?"

 

"Yes, Mr. Scott. But why do you ask such a question? Is it your odd

American way?"

 

"Not at all. Mademoiselle Julie. I merely wanted to satisfy myself. He

knows that I'm not likely to be insane or weak-minded or anything of the

kind, because I got in the way of that horse's knee?"

 

"Oh, no, Mr. Scott, there is not the least danger in the world. Your

mind will be as sound as your body. Don't trouble yourself."

 

She laughed and now John knew that it was she whom he had heard singing

the chansonette in that low murmuring tone. What was that little song?

Well, it did not matter about the words. The music was that of a soft

breeze from the south blowing among roses. John's imaginings were

growing poetical. Perhaps there were yet some lingering effects from the

concussion.

 

"Here is the surgeon now," said Mademoiselle Julie. "He will take a look

at you and he will be glad to find that what he has predicted has come

true."

 

It was the man in the white jacket, and with that wonderful tangle of

black whiskers, like a patch cut out of a scrub forest.

 

"Well, my young Yankee," he said, "I see that you've come around. You've

raised an interesting question in my mind. Since a cavalry horse wasn't

able to break it, is the American skull thicker than the skulls of other

people?"

 

"A lot of you Europeans don't seem to think we're civilized."

 

"But when you fight for us we do. Isn't that so, Mademoiselle Lannes?"

 

"I think it is."

 

"War is a curious thing. While it drives people apart it also brings

them together. We learn in battle, and its aftermath, that we're very

much alike. And now, my young Yankee, I'll be here again in two hours to

change that bandage for the last time. I'll be through with you then,

and in another day you can go forward to meet the German shells."

 

"I prefer to run against a horse's knee," said John with spirit.

 

Surgeon Lucien Delorme laughed heartily.

 

"I'm confirmed in my opinion that you won't need me after another change

of bandages," he said. "We've a couple of hundred thousand cases much

worse than yours to tend, and Mademoiselle Lannes will look after you

today. She has watched over you, I understand, because you're a friend

of her brother, the great flying man, Philip Lannes."

 

"Yes," said John, "that's it, of course."

 

Julie herself said nothing.

 

Surgeon Delorme passed through the bar of brilliant light and

disappeared, his place being taken by a gigantic figure with grizzled

hair, and the stern face of the thoughtful peasant, the same Antoine

Picard who had been left as a guardian over the little house beyond the

Seine. John closed his eyes, that is nearly, and caught the glance that

the big man gave to Julie. It was protecting and fatherly, and he knew

that Antoine would answer for her at any time with his life. It was one

remnant of feudalism to which he did not object. He opened his eyes wide

and said:

 

"Well, my good Picard, perhaps you thought you were going to look at a

dead American, but you are not. Behold me!"

 

He sat up and doubled up his arm to show his muscle and power. Picard

smiled and offered to shake hands in the American fashion. He seemed

genuinely glad that John had returned to the real world, and John

ascribed it to Picard's knowledge that he was Lannes' friend.

 

Julie said some words to Picard, and with a little _au revoir_ to John,

went away. John watched her until she was out of sight. He realized

again that young French girls were kept secluded from the world, immured

almost. But the world had changed. Since a few men met around a table

six or seven weeks before and sent a few dispatches a revolution had

come. Old customs, old ideas and old barriers were going fast, and might

be going faster. War, the leveler, was prodigiously at work.

 

These were tremendous things, but he had himself to think about too, and

personality can often outweigh the universe. Julie was gone, taking a

lot of the light with her, but Picard was still there, and while he was

grizzled and stern he was a friend.

 

John sat up quite straight and Picard did not try to keep him from it.

 

"Picard," he said, "you see me, don't you?"

 

"I do, sir, with these two good eyes of mine, as good as those in the

head of any young man, and fifty is behind me."

 

"That's because you're not intellectual, Picard, but we'll return to our

lamb chops. I am here, I, a soldier of France, though an American--for

which I am grateful--laid four days upon my back by a wound. And was

that wound inflicted by a shell, shrapnel, bomb, lance, saber, bullet or

any of the other noble weapons of warfare? No, sir, it was done by a

horse, and not by a kick, either, he jostled me with his knee when he

wasn't looking. Would you call that an honorable wound?"

 

"All wounds received in the service of one's country or adopted country

are honorable, sir."

 

"You give me comfort, Picard. But spread the story that I was not hit by

a horse's knee but by a piece of shell, a very large and wicked piece of

shell. I want it to get into the histories that way. The greatest of

Frenchmen, though he was an Italian, said that history was a fable

agreed upon, and you and I want to make an agreement about myself and a

shell."

 

"I don't understand you at all, sir."

 

"Well, never mind. Tell me how long Mademoiselle Julie is going to stay

here. I'm a great friend of her brother, Lieutenant Philip Lannes. Oh,

we're such wonderful friends! And we've been through such terrible

dangers together!"

 

"Then, perhaps it's Lieutenant Lannes and not his sister, Mademoiselle

Julie, that you wish to inquire about."

 

"Don't be ironical, Picard. I was merely digressing, which I admit is

wrong, as you're apt to distract the attention of your hearer from the

real subject. We'll return to Mademoiselle Julie. Do you think she's

going to remain here long?"

 

"I would tell you if I could, sir, but no one knows. I think it depends

upon many circumstances. The young lady is most brave, as becomes one of