Part 25 (1/2)
”American,” said Jack, guardedly.
The man was apparently much relieved. He made a frank, manly apology for his intrusion, looked appealingly at Lorraine, and said, with a laugh: ”The fact is, I'm astray in the wrong camp. I rode out from the Spicheren and got mixed in the roads, and first I knew I fell in with Frossard's Corps, and I can't get away. I thought you were an Englishman; you're American, it seems, and really I may venture to feel that there is hope for me--may I not?”
”Why, yes,” said Jack; ”whatever I can do, I'll do gladly.”
”Then let me observe without hesitation,” continued the man, smiling under his crisp mustache, ”that I'm in search of a modest dinner and a shelter of even more modest dimensions. I'm a war correspondent, unattached just at present, but following the German army. My name is Archibald Grahame.”
At the name of the great war correspondent Jack stared, then impulsively held out his hand.
”Aha!” said Grahame, ”you must be a correspondent, too. Ha! I thought I was not wrong.”
He bowed again to Lorraine, who returned his manly salute very sweetly. ”If,” she thought, ”Jack is inclined to be nice to this st.u.r.dy young man in tweeds, I also will be as nice as I can.”
”My name is Marche--Jack Marche,” said Jack, in some trepidation.
”I am not a correspondent--that is, not an active one.”
”You were at Sadowa, and you've been in Oran with Chanzy,” said Grahame, quickly.
Jack flushed with pleasure to find that the great Archibald Grahame had heard of him.
”We must take Mr. Grahame up-stairs at once--must we not?--if he is hungry,” suggested Lorraine, whose tender heart was touched at the thought of a hungry human being.
They all laughed, and Grahame thanked her with that whimsical but charming courtesy that endeared him to all who knew him.
”It is awkward, now, isn't it, Mr. Marche? Here I am in France with the army I tried to keep away from, roofless, supperless, and rather expecting some of these sentinels or police agents may begin to inquire into my affairs. If they do they'll take me for a spy. I was threatened by the villagers in a little hamlet west of Saint-Avold--and how I'm going to get back to my Hohenzollerns I haven't the faintest notion.”
”There'll surely be some way. My uncle will vouch for you and get you a safe-conduct,” said Jack. ”Perhaps, Mr. Grahame, you had better come and dine in our salon up-stairs. Will you? The Emperor occupies the large dining-room, and General Frossard and his staff have the breakfast-room.”
Amused by the young fellow's doubt that a simple salon on the first floor might not be commensurate with the hospitality of Morteyn, Archibald Grahame stepped pleasantly to the other side of the road; and so, with Lorraine between them, they climbed the terrace and scaled the stairs to the little gilt salon where Lorraine's maid Marianne and the old house-keeper sat awaiting her return.
Lorraine was very wide-awake now--she was excited by the stir and the brilliant uniforms. She unconsciously took command, too, feeling that she should act the hostess in the absence of Madame de Morteyn. The old house-keeper, who adored her, supported her loyally; so, between Marianne and herself, a very delightful dinner was served to the hungry but patient Grahame when he returned with Jack from the latter's chamber, where he had left most of the dust and travel stains of a long tramp across country.
And how the great war correspondent did eat and drink! It made Jack hungry again to watch him, so with a laughing apology to Lorraine he joined in with a will, enthusiastically applauded and encouraged by Grahame.
”I could tell you were a correspondent by your appet.i.te,” said Grahame. ”Dear me! it takes a campaign to make life worth living!”
”Life is not worth living, then, without an appet.i.te?” inquired Lorraine, mischievously.
”No,” said Grahame, seriously; ”and you also will be of that opinion some day, mademoiselle.”
His kindly, humourous eyes turned inquiringly from Jack to Lorraine and from Lorraine to Jack. He was puzzled, perhaps, but did not betray it.
They were not married, because Lorraine was Mademoiselle de Nesville and Jack was Monsieur Marche. Cousins? Probably.
Engaged? Probably. So Grahame smiled benignly and emptied another bottle of Moselle with a frank abandon that fascinated the old house-keeper.
”And you don't mean to say that you are going to put me up for the night, too?” he asked Jack. ”You place me under eternal obligation, and I accept with that understanding. If you run into my Hohenzollerns, they'll receive you as a brother.”
”I don't think he will visit the Hohenzollern Regiment,” observed Lorraine, demurely.
”No--er--the fact is, I'm not doing much newspaper work now,”