Part 45 (1/2)
”Not the sort of splintery comfort I'd choose.”
He wondered what sort of a man this was. He was used to judging men at sight. He cursed inwardly the unlighted night.
”I'm not spending my time out here from choice--I can tell you that!
This does for me well enough. I told you, didn't I, that I was asleep until your stupid laughing woke me? Sacre, why did you have to laugh?
What's the joke, eh?”
”Perhaps it's my natural humor; even when I'm dead tired.” He grinned to himself. He had reached his decision. This sleepy fool sounded safe enough; besides the question itself was non-committal. He asked it: ”Say, do you know the way to Charvel?”
”You're miles from Charvel, my friend. You've surely lost all sense of direction.”
”Right. I don't know where I'm at. It's this d.a.m.ned blackness. Never saw such an infernal night. Started to walk from Chalet Corneille this afternoon. Didn't count on its getting dark so early. Then I lost my way. Been wandering about for hours. Probably in a circle. And now I'm half dead. G.o.d! I'm all in!”
”It's almost morning. If you wait for the light, you'll not miss your road again; but I shouldn't counsel you to try to find it till dawn.”
He wondered if he dared to go to sleep with this man beside him. There were the papers carefully concealed in his right boot-leg; the papers Jans was waiting for. The man sounded plain-spoken and courteous enough, considering he had been aroused from supposedly sound slumber.
He felt he wasn't a soldier. That is, he couldn't be one of Their men.
He knew what Their men were like. Despite Their world reputation he had heard they were anything but courteous. But then one never knew. And anyway hadn't this man spoken to him in irreproachable French? Still, French was the language of the country and his own gift of languages was rather p.r.o.nounced. Of course it tended to make him a bit suspicious; but logically he couldn't lay much stress on it. If only he had gotten beyond Their lines before night, everything would have been all right.
As it was he must have been wandering round and round, covering the self-same ground and getting no nearer to Charvel, where Jans was waiting for him and the papers.
Taking all in all into consideration, he decided it best not to let himself sleep; even if the staying awake was not an easy plan for a man utterly tired. He would have to do it somehow or other.
”You're a native of these parts?” He asked, trying to keep any trace of speculation as to what the man really was out of his voice.
”Sacre, but I thought you were about to sleep.” The tone sounded as if it might be angry. ”I a.s.sure you it will soon be morning.”
”Don't feel like sleeping. If you don't want to talk I can easily be quiet.”
”No--no! It makes no difference to me. I've had my forty winks. We'll talk, if you want. Not that I was ever one for doing much talking. I'm too little of a fool for that--still--Why don't you lean back here beside me against this beam?”
He wriggled backwards and propped his drooping head stiffly against the wood of the cross.
”I can't see you at all.” He closed his eyes; it wasn't worth the throbbing strain of it to try to penetrate the obliterating, dripping darkness. He couldn't do it. ”I'd like to see you.”
”I'd like to see you, my friend. But what good are wishes, eh? Do you say you live at Chalet Corneille?”
On the instant he was alert.
”Why do you ask?”
”Curiosity, my friend. I know of some good people there by name of Fornier. Perhaps they might be friends of yours.”
”Don't think I know them.” He paused to collect his wits. He had been startled by the man's suave question. He wondered if he was going to try to trap him. He thought he couldn't have done it more neatly himself.
This job of stalling when he was almost too tired to think wasn't an easy thing to do. He called upon his imagination. ”I'm an artist,” he lied smoothly. ”Sent over here to paint war scenes. I couldn't miss the chance of a ransacked village. Its picturesque value is tremendous. I've just finished my painting of Chalet Corneille.”
He waited tentatively. Surely if the man were just some simple, sleepy fool he'd say something now to give an inkling of what he was.
”One week ago it was splashed in blood--Soldiers too, in their way, are artists,” was all he said.
”Then you're not a soldier?”