Part 13 (1/2)

”They take their reasons from him.”

”Pardon me, that is no answer.”

”Because the Germans are pigs--all are!” interjected Madame Ribot. ”I have never met one who wasn't, even their princes. They are spoiling the Riviera.”

”Conquest, though Rome, as I read my history, never called it that,”

Phil went on, keeping to Helen's theme. ”They want their neighbours'

fields. It's a get-rich-quick sort of game in internationalism.”

”And the French?”

”Only want to keep their fields, to keep their France!” he said. ”This was in every face, it seemed to me: to keep their France.”

”So the French are in the right, not because we live with them and love them, but at the very bar of justice!” said Helen. ”All the peasants in Mervaux are in the right! Oh, I'm glad that I am not a German! And here we sit over our coffee so comfortably and those millions rus.h.i.+ng to death! What poor little mortals we are! How lacking in imagination! Each with his little concerns in his own little hole--I grieving because the war spoils my exhibition! No one thinks of the agony of black years for the mult.i.tude of mothers and wives. It is too ghastly! Not one wants to die! Who should want to die when the world is so beautiful? Yet they go out to die!”

”Helen, you are overwrought!” said her mother. ”There must be wars; there always have been wars.”

”One might say that about thistles,” Helen replied half inaudibly, staring at the tablecloth.

”And what can we do?” persisted Madame Ribot, who had held back her protests less because of the spell of Helen's fervour than from a hostess's politeness due to Phil's evident interest. ”Yes, what would you do, my dear? Become a _vivandiere_? Surely not nurse! You have admitted that your nerves could not stand the sight of blood----”

Madame Ribot broke off. She did not like to think of the sight of blood herself.

”Perhaps they would now,” said Helen with some determination, after a pause. ”This is different.”

”I am not sure!” Madame Ribot replied promptly, for her decision was made that Helen should remain at Mervaux during the war. ”And shan't we go out of doors?”

”You feel very deeply,” said Phil to Helen as they pa.s.sed into the grounds where, in utter stillness, the trees cast long shadows from the light of the half moon.

”Every one does,” she replied, ”only I forget and blurt out my feelings. Perhaps--oh, that is the great hope--the war will do good in its way--good to those who survive!”

”We'll not talk about the war!” said Madame Ribot.

With the soft air of a summer evening, the sense of security and seclusion, the glow after a good meal and bedtime approaching, Madame Ribot had not the slightest desire to think of horrors. She was content to be as she was and where she was, serene, unworried. They were not going to speak of the war, but they did, as every one would while it lasted, no matter how strong his resolution. The war was here in Mervaux, at Truckleford, at Longfield, everywhere and in every mind.

It was a maelstrom, drawing all thoughts toward it.

”When the troops come back triumphant, I want to see them march under the Arc de Triomphe,” Henriette said. ”I hope it will be in the spring, when the horse-chestnuts are in bloom.”

”You are sure that they will win?” Phil asked.

”Aren't we already in Alsace and aren't the Germans stopped at Liege?”

It did look like early victory then. Hadn't General Joffre issued his manifesto from Mulhausen? But could Madame Ribot have foreseen what was coming along the great main road one day she would not have been so serene and Helen would not have felt that she was pinioned in her helplessness in the midst of tragedy.

For Phil it was singularly restful. He had been on the go for weeks.

He had collected impressions without digesting them; and the prospect of the coming days at Mervaux was sufficient for him.

Helen had kept silence faithfully after they were out of doors. As she said good-night the hand that she gave him was strangely lifeless and her voice lacked its customary vibrant quality. When she reached her room she stood motionless for a long time, looking out at the moon.