Part 20 (1/2)

The Cossacks were for him simply one body of the Russian army--good enough soldiers, but incapable of working the miracles that everybody was expecting from them.

”That Tchernoff!” exclaimed Argensola. ”Since he hates the Czar, he thinks the entire country mad. He is a revolutionary fanatic... . And I am opposed to all fanaticisms.”

Julio was listening absent-mindedly to the news brought by his companion, the vibrating statements recited in declamatory tones, the plans of the campaign traced out on an enormous map fastened to the wall of the studio and bristling with tiny flags that marked the camps of the belligerent armies. Every issue of the papers obliged the Spaniard to arrange a new dance of the pins on the map, followed by his comments of bomb-proof optimism.

”We have entered into Alsace; very good! ... It appears now that we abandon Alsace. Splendid! I suspect the cause. It is in order to enter again in a better place, getting at the enemy from behind... . They say that Liege has fallen. What a lie! ... And if it does fall, it doesn't matter. Just an incident, nothing more! The others remain ...

the others! ... that are advancing on the Eastern side, and are going to enter Berlin.”

The news from the Russian front was his favorite, but obliged him to remain in suspense every time that he tried to find on the map the obscure names of the places where the admired Cossacks were exhibiting their wonderful exploits.

Meanwhile Julio was continuing the course of his own reflections.

Marguerite! ... She had come back at last, and yet each time seemed to be drifting further away from him... .

In the first days of the mobilization, he had haunted her neighborhood, trying to appease his longing by this illusory proximity. Marguerite had written to him, urging patience. How fortunate it was that he was a foreigner and would not have to endure the hards.h.i.+p of war! Her brother, an officer in the artillery Reserves, was going at almost any minute.

Her mother, who made her home with this bachelor son, had kept an astonis.h.i.+ng serenity up to the last minute, although she had wept much while the war was still but a possibility. She herself had prepared the soldier's outfit so that the small valise might contain all that was indispensable for campaign life. But Marguerite had divined her poor mother's secret struggles not to reveal her despair, in moist eyes and trembling hands. It was impossible to leave her alone at such a time.

... Then had come the farewell. ”G.o.d be with you, my son! Do your duty, but be prudent.” Not a tear nor a sign of weakness. All her family had advised her not to accompany her son to the railway station, so his sister had gone with him. And upon returning home, Marguerite had found her mother rigid in her arm chair, with a set face, avoiding all mention of her son, speaking of the friends who also had sent their boys to the war, as if they only could comprehend her torture. ”Poor Mama! I ought to be with her now more than ever... . To-morrow, if I can, I shall come to see you.”

When at last she returned to the rue de la Pompe, her first care was to explain to Julio the conservatism of her tailored suit, the absence of jewels in the adornment of her person. ”The war, my dear! Now it is the chic thing to adapt oneself to the depressing conditions, to be frugal and inconspicuous like soldiers. Who knows what we may expect!” Her infatuation with dress still accompanied her in every moment of her life.

Julio noticed a persistent absent-mindedness about her. It seemed as though her spirit, abandoning her body, was wandering to far-away places. Her eyes were looking at him, but she seldom saw him. She would speak very slowly, as though wis.h.i.+ng to weigh every word, fearful of betraying some secret. This spiritual alienation did not, however, prevent her slipping bodily along the smooth path of custom, although afterwards she would seem to feel a vague remorse. ”I wonder if it is right to do this! ... Is it not wrong to live like this when so many sorrows are falling on the world?” Julio hushed her scruples with:

”But if we are going to marry as soon as possible! ... If we are already the same as husband and wife!”

She replied with a gesture of strangeness and dismay. To marry! ...

Ten days ago she had had no other wish. Now the possibility of marriage was recurring less and less in her thoughts. Why think about such remote and uncertain events? More immediate things were occupying her mind.

The farewell to her brother in the station was a scene which had fixed itself ineradicably in her memory. Upon going to the studio she had planned not to speak about it, foreseeing that she might annoy her lover with this account; but alas, she had only to vow not to mention a thing, to feel an irresistible impulse to talk about it.

She had never suspected that she could love her brother so dearly. Her former affection for him had been mingled with a silent sentiment of jealousy because her mother had preferred the older child. Besides, he was the one who had introduced Laurier to his home; the two held diplomas as industrial engineers and had been close friends from their school days... . But upon seeing the boy ready to depart, Marguerite suddenly discovered that this brother, who had always been of secondary interest to her, was now occupying a pre-eminent place in her affections.

”He was so handsome, so interesting in his lieutenant's uniform! ...

He looked like another person. I will admit to you that I was very proud to walk beside him, leaning on his arm. People thought that we were married. Seeing me weep, some poor women tried to console me saying, 'Courage, Madame... . Your man will come back.' He just laughed at hearing these mistakes. The only thing that was really saddening him was thinking about our mother.”

They had separated at the door of the station. The sentries would not let her go any further, so she had handed over his sword that she had wished to carry till the last moment.

”It is lovely to be a man!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. ”I would love to wear a uniform, to go to war, to be of some real use!”

She tried not to say more about it, as though she suddenly realized the inopportuneness of her last words. Perhaps she noticed the scowl on Julio's face.

She was, however, so wrought up by the memory of that farewell that, after a long pause, she was unable to resist the temptation of again putting her thought into words.

At the station entrance, while she was kissing her brother for the last time, she had an encounter, a great surprise. ”He” had approached, also clad as an artillery officer, but alone, having to entrust his valise to a good-natured man from the crowd.

Julio shot her a questioning look. Who was ”he”? He suspected, but feigned ignorance, as though fearing to learn the truth.

”Laurier,” she replied laconically, ”my former husband.”

The lover displayed a cruel irony. It was a cowardly thing to ridicule this man who had responded to the call of duty. He recognized his vileness, but a malign and irresistible instinct made him keep on with his sneers in order to discredit the man before Marguerite. Laurier a soldier!--He must cut a pretty figure dressed in uniform!