Part 36 (2/2)

He uttered a name which the generation before had made ill.u.s.trious in French diplomacy.

At the sound of the name Barbier's face contracted. He started up in his bed upon one arm.

”Hus.h.!.+” he cried. A most extraordinary change had come over him in a second. His eyes protruded, his mouth hung half open, his face was frozen into immobility by horror. ”There is some one on the stairs,”

he whispered, ”coming up--some one treading very lightly--but coming up--coming up.” He inclined his head in the strained att.i.tude of one listening with a great concentration and intentness, an image of terror and suspense. ”Yes, coming up--coming up! Don't lock the door!

That betrays all. Turn out the lights! Quickly! So. Oh, will this night ever pa.s.s!”

He ended with a groan of despair. Very gently Stretton laid him down again in the bed and covered him over with the clothes. The sweat rolled in drops from Barbier's forehead.

”He never tells us more, my colonel,” said Stretton. ”His real name-yes!--he betrayed that once to me. But of this night nothing more than the dread that it will never pa.s.s. Always he ends with those words. Yet it was that night, no doubt, which tossed him beyond the circle of his friends and dropped him down here, a man without a name, amongst the soldiers of the Legion.”

Often Stretton's imagination had sought to pierce the mystery. What thing of horror had been done upon that night? In what town of France?

Had the some one on the stairs turned the handle and entered the room when all the lights were out? Had he heard Barbier's breathing in the silent darkness of the room? Stretton could only reconstruct the scene. The stealthy footsteps on the stairs, the cautious turning of the door handle, the opening of the door, and the impenetrable blackness with one man, perhaps more than one, holding his breath somewhere, and crouching by the wall. But no hint escaped the sick man's lips of what there was which must needs be hidden, nor whether the thing which must needs be hidden was discovered by the one who trod so lightly on the stairs. Was it a dead man? Was it a dead woman?

Or a woman alive? There was no answer. There was no knowledge to be gained, it seemed, but this--that because of that night a man in evening dress, who bore an ill.u.s.trious name, had fled at daybreak on a summer morning to the nearest barracks, and had buried his name and all of his past life in the Foreign Legion.

As it happened, there was just a little more knowledge to be gained by Stretton. He learned it that morning from his colonel.

”When you told me who 'Barbier' really was, sergeant,” said the colonel, ”I made inquiries. Barbier's father died two years ago; but an uncle and a sister lived. I wrote to both, offering to send their relation back to them. Well, the mail has this morning come in from France.”

”There is an answer, sir?” asked Stretton.

”From the uncle,” replied the colonel. ”Not a word from the sister; she does not mean to write. The uncle's letter makes that clear, I think. Read!” He handed the letter to Stretton. A cheque was enclosed, and a few words were added.

”See, if you please, that Barbier wants for nothing which can minister to body and soul.”

That was all. There was no word of kindliness or affection. Barbier was dying. Let him, therefore, have medicine and prayers. Love, wishes for recovery, a desire that he should return to his friends, forgiveness for the thing which he had done, pity for the sufferings which had fallen to him--these things Fusilier Barbier must not expect. Stretton, reading the letter by the sick man's bed, thought it heartless and callous as no letter written by a human hand had ever been. Yet--yet, after all, who knew what had happened on that night?

The uncle, evidently. It might be something which dishonoured the family beyond all reparation, which, if known, would have disgraced a great name, so that those who bore it in pride must now change it for very shame. Perhaps the father had died because of it, perhaps the sister had been stricken down. Stretton handed the letter back to his colonel.

”It is very sad, sir,” he said.

”Yes, it is very sad,” returned the colonel. ”But for us this letter means nothing at all. Never speak of it, obliterate it from your memories.” He tore the paper into the tiniest shreds. ”We have no reproaches, no accusations for what Barbier did before Barbier got out of the train at Sidi Bel-Abbes. That is not our affair. For us the soldier of the Legion is only born on the day when he enlists.”

Thus, in one sentence, the colonel epitomised the character of the Foreign Legion. It was a fine saying, Stretton thought. He knew it to be a true one.

”I will say nothing,” said Stretton, ”and I will forget.”

”That is well. Come with me, for there is another letter which concerns you.”

He turned upon his heel and left the hospital. Stretton followed him to his quarters.

”There is a letter from the War Office which concerns you, Sergeant Ohlsen,” said the colonel, with a smile. ”You will be gazetted, under your own name, to the first lieutenancy which falls vacant. There is the notification.”

He handed the paper over to Stretton, and shook hands with him.

Stretton was not a demonstrative man. He took the notification with no more show of emotion than if it had been some unimportant order of the day.

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