Woman of Mystery

<h2 class="newchapter"><SPAN name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></SPAN>CHAPTER IX<br/> <span class="smalltext">A SPRIG OF EMPIRE</span></h2> <p>Paul clutched with convulsive fingers the heart-breaking diary to which &Eacute;lisabeth had confided her anguish:</p> <p>"The poor angel!" he thought. "What she must have gone through! And this is only the beginning of the road that led to her death. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;."</p> <p>He dreaded reading on. The hours of torture were near at hand, menacing and implacable, and he would have liked to call out to &Eacute;lisabeth:</p> <p>"Go away, go away! Don't defy Fate! I have forgotten the past. I love you."</p> <p>It was too late. He himself, through his cruelty, had condemned her to suffer; and he must go on to the bitter end and witness every station of the Calvary of which he knew the last, terrifying stage.</p> <p>He hastily turned the pages. There were first three blank leaves, those dated 20, 21 and 22 August: days of confusion during which she had been unable to write. The pages of the 23rd and 24th were missing. These no doubt recounted what had happened and contained revelations concerning the inexplicable invasion.</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</SPAN></span>The diary began again at the middle of a torn page, the page belonging to Tuesday the 25th:</p> <div class="blockquot"><p class="interrupt">"'Yes, Rosalie, I feel quite well and I thank you for looking after me so attentively.'</p> <p>"'Then there's no more fever?'</p> <p>"'No, Rosalie, it's gone.'</p> <p>"'You said the same thing yesterday, ma'am, and the fever came back .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. perhaps because of that visit. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. But the visit won't be to-day .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. it's not till to-morrow. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. I was told to let you know, ma'am. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. At 5 o'clock to-morrow. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.'</p> <p>"I made no answer. What is the use of rebelling? None of the humiliating words that I shall have to hear will hurt me more than what lies before my eyes: the lawn invaded, horses picketed all over it, baggage wagons and caissons in the walks, half the trees felled, officers sprawling on the grass, drinking and singing, and a German flag flapping from the balcony of my window, just in front of me. Oh, the wretches!</p> <p>"I close my eyes so as not to see. And that makes it more horrible still. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Oh, the memory of that night .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. and, in the morning, when the sun rose, the sight of all those dead bodies! Some of the poor fellows were still alive, with those monsters dancing round them; and I could hear the cries of the dying men asking to be put out of their misery.</p> <p>"And then. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. But I won't think of it or think of anything that can destroy my courage and my hope<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</SPAN></span>. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p>"Paul, I always have you in my mind as I write my diary. Something tells me that you will read it if anything happens to me; and so I must have strength to go on with it and to keep you informed from day to day. Perhaps you can already understand from my story what to me still seems very obscure. What is the connection between the past and the present, between the murder of long ago and the incomprehensible attack of the other night? I don't know. I have told you the facts in detail and also my theories. You will draw your conclusions and follow up the truth to the end.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Wednesday, 26 August.</i></p> <p>"There is a great deal of noise in the ch&acirc;teau. People are moving about everywhere, especially in the rooms above my bedroom. An hour ago, half a dozen motor vans and the same number of motor cars drove onto the lawn. The vans were empty. Two or three ladies sprang out of each of the cars, German women, waving their hands and laughing noisily. The officers ran up to welcome them; and there were loud expressions of delight. Then they all went to the house. What do they want?</p> <p>"But I hear footsteps in the passage. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. It is 5 o'clock. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Somebody is knocking at the door. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <hr class="thin" /> <p>"There were five of them: he first and four officers who kept bowing to him obsequiously. He said to them, in a formal tone:</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</SPAN></span>"'Attention, gentlemen. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. I order you not to touch anything in this room or in the other rooms reserved for madame. As for the rest, except in the two big drawing-rooms, it is yours. Keep anything here that you want and take away what you please. It is war and the law of war.'</p> <p>"He pronounced those words, 'The law of war,' in a tone of fatuous conviction and repeated:</p> <p>"'As for madame's private apartments, not a thing is to be moved. Do you understand? I know what is becoming.'</p> <p>"He looked at me as though to say:</p> <p>"'What do you think of that? There's chivalry for you! I could take it all, if I liked; but I'm a German and, as such, I know what's becoming.'</p> <p>"He seemed to expect me to thank him. I said:</p> <p>"'Is this the pillage beginning? That explains the empty motor vans.'</p> <p>"'You don't pillage what belongs to you by the law of war,' he answered.</p> <p>"'I see. And the law of war does not extend to the furniture and pictures in the drawing-rooms?'</p> <p>"He turned crimson. Then I began to laugh:</p> <p>"'I follow you,' I said. 'That's your share. Well chosen. Nothing but rare and valuable things. The refuse your servants can divide among them.'</p> <p>"The officers turned round furiously. He became redder still. He had a face that was quite round, hair, which was too light, plastered down with grease and divided in the middle by a faultless parting. His<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</SPAN></span> forehead was low; and I was able to guess the effort going on behind it, to find a repartee. At last he came up to me and, in a voice of triumph, said:</p> <p>"'The French have been beaten at Charleroi, beaten at Morange, beaten everywhere. They are retreating all along the line. The upshot of the war is settled.'</p> <p>"Violent though my grief was, I did not wince. I whispered:</p> <p>"'You low blackguard!'</p> <p>"He staggered. His companions caught what I said; and I saw one put his hand on his sword-hilt. But what would he himself do? What would he say? I could feel that he was greatly embarrassed and that I had wounded his self-esteem.</p> <p>"'Madame,' he said, 'I daresay you don't know who I am?'</p> <p>"'Oh, yes!' I answered. 'You are Prince Conrad, a son of the Kaiser's. And what then?'</p> <p>"He made a fresh attempt at dignity. He drew himself up. I expected threats and words to express his anger; but no, his reply was a burst of laughter, the affected laughter of a high and mighty lord, too indifferent, too disdainful to take offense, too intelligent to lose his temper.</p> <p>"'The dear little Frenchwoman! Isn't she charming, gentlemen? Did you hear what she said? The impertinence of her! There's your true Parisian, gentlemen, with all her roguish grace.'</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</SPAN></span>"And, making me a great bow, with not another word, he stalked away, joking as he went:</p> <p>"'Such a dear little Frenchwoman! Ah, gentlemen, those little Frenchwomen! .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.'</p> <hr class="thin" /> <p>"The vans were at work all day, going off to the frontier laden with booty. It was my poor father's wedding present to us, all his collections so patiently and fondly brought together; it was the dear setting in which Paul and I were to have lived. What a wrench the parting means to me!</p> <p>"The war news is bad! I cried a great deal during the day.</p> <p class="enddiary">"Prince Conrad came. I had to receive him, for he sent me word by Rosalie that, if I refused to see him, the inhabitants of Ornequin would suffer the consequences."</p> </div> <p>Here &Eacute;lisabeth again broke off her diary. Two days later, on the 29th, she went on:</p> <div class="blockquot"><p class="interrupt">"He came yesterday. To-day also. He tries to appear witty and cultured. He talks literature and music, Goethe, Wagner and so on. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. I leave him to do his own talking, however; and this throws him in such a state of fury that he ended by exclaiming:</p> <p>"'Can't you answer? It's no disgrace, even for a Frenchwoman, to talk to Prince Conrad of Prussia!'</p> <p>"'A woman doesn't talk to her gaoler.'</p> <p>"He protested briskly:</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</SPAN></span>"'But, dash it all, you're not in prison!'</p> <p>"'Can I leave the ch&acirc;teau?'</p> <p>"'You can walk about .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. in the grounds. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.'</p> <p>"'Between four walls, therefore, like a prisoner.'</p> <p>"'Well, what do you want to do?'</p> <p>"'To go away from here and live .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. wherever you tell me to: at Corvigny, for instance.'</p> <p>"'That is to say, away from me!'</p> <p>"As I did not answer, he bent forward a little and continued, in a low voice:</p> <p>"'You hate me, don't you? Oh, I'm quite aware of it! I've made a study of women. Only, it's Prince Conrad whom you hate, isn't it? It's the German, the conqueror. For, after all, there's no reason why you should dislike the man himself. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. And, at this moment, it's the man who is in question, who is trying to please you .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. do you understand? .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. So. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.'</p> <p class="enddiary">"I had risen to my feet and faced him. I did not speak a single word; but he must have seen in my eyes so great an expression of disgust that he stopped in the middle of his sentence, looking absolutely stupid. Then, his nature getting the better of him, he shook his fist at me, like a common fellow, and went off slamming the door and muttering threats. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;."</p> </div> <p>The next two pages of the diary were missing. Paul was gray in the face. He had never suffered to such an extent as this. It seemed to him as though<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</SPAN></span> his poor dear &Eacute;lisabeth were still alive before his eyes and feeling his eyes upon her. And nothing could have upset him more than the cry of distress and love which marked the page headed:</p> <div class="blockquot"><p class="date"><i>1 September.</i></p> <p class="enddiary">"Paul, my own Paul, have no fear. Yes, I tore up those two pages because I did not wish you ever to know such revolting things. But that will not estrange you from me, will it? Because a savage dared to insult me, that is no reason, surely, why I should not be worthy of your love? Oh, the things he said to me, Paul, only yesterday: his offensive remarks, his hateful threats, his even more infamous promises .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. and then his rage! .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. No, I will not repeat them to you. In making a confidant of this diary, I meant to confide to you my daily acts and thoughts. I believed that I was only writing down the evidence of my grief. But this is something different; and I have not the courage. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Forgive my silence. It will be enough for you to know the offense, so that you may avenge me later. Ask me no more. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;."</p> </div> <p>And, pursuing this intention, &Eacute;lisabeth now ceased to describe Prince Conrad's daily visits in detail; but it was easy to perceive from her narrative that the enemy persisted in hovering round her. It consisted of brief notes in which she no longer let herself go as before, notes which she jotted down at<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</SPAN></span> random, marking the days herself, without troubling about the printed headings.</p> <p>Paul trembled as he read on. And fresh revelations aggravated his dread:</p> <div class="blockquot"><p class="date">"<i>Thursday.</i></p> <p>"Rosalie asks them the news every morning. The French retreat is continuing. They even say that it has developed into a rout and that Paris has been abandoned. The government has fled. We are done for.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Seven o'clock in the evening.</i></p> <p>"He is walking under my windows as usual. He has with him a woman whom I have already seen many times at a distance and who always wears a great peasant's cloak and a lace scarf which hides her face. But, as a rule, when he walks on the lawn he is accompanied by an officer whom they call the major. This man also keeps his head concealed, by turning up the collar of his gray cloak.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Friday.</i></p> <p>"The soldiers are dancing on the lawn, while their band plays German national hymns and the bells of Ornequin are kept ringing with all their might. They are celebrating the entrance of their troops into Paris. It must be true, I fear! Their joy is the best proof of the truth.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Saturday.</i></p> <p>"Between my rooms and the boudoir where moth<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</SPAN></span>er's portrait used to hang is the room that was mother's bedroom. This is now occupied by the major. He is an intimate friend of the prince and an important person, so they say. The soldiers know him only as Major Hermann. He does not humble himself in the prince's presence as the other officers do. On the contrary, he seems to address him with a certain familiarity.</p> <p>"At this minute they are walking side by side on the gravel path. The prince is leaning on Major Hermann's arm. I feel sure that they are talking about me and that they are not at one. It looks almost as if Major Hermann were angry.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Ten o'clock in the morning.</i></p> <p>"I was right. Rosalie tells me that they had a violent scene.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Tuesday, 8 September.</i></p> <p>"There is something strange in the behavior of all of them. The prince, the major and the other officers appear to be nervous about something. The soldiers have ceased singing. There are sounds of quarreling. Can things be turning in our favor?"</p> <p class="date">"<i>Thursday.</i></p> <p>"The excitement is increasing. It seems that couriers keep on arriving at every moment. The officers have sent part of their baggage into Germany. I am full of hope. But, on the other hand. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p>"Oh, my dear Paul, if you knew the torture those visits cause me! .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. He is no longer the bland<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</SPAN></span> and honey-mouthed man of the early days. He has thrown off the mask. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. But, no, no, I will not speak of that! .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Friday.</i></p> <p>"The whole of the village of Ornequin has been packed off to Germany. They don't want a single witness to remain of what happened during the awful night which I described to you.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Sunday evening.</i></p> <p>"They are defeated and retreating far from Paris. He confessed as much, grinding his teeth and uttering threats against me as he spoke. I am the hostage on whom they are revenging themselves. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Tuesday.</i></p> <p>"Paul, if ever you meet him in battle, kill him like a dog. But do those people fight? Oh, I don't know what I'm saying! My head is going round and round. Why did I stay here? You ought to have taken me away, Paul, by force. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p>"Paul, what do you think he has planned? Oh, the dastard! They have kept twelve of the Ornequin villagers as hostages; and it is I, it is I who am responsible for their lives! .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Do you understand the horror of it? They will live, or they will be shot, one by one, according to my behavior. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. The thing seems too infamous to believe. Is he only trying to frighten me? Oh, the shamefulness of such a threat! What a hell to find one's self in! I would rather die. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p class="date"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</SPAN></span>"<i>Nine o'clock in the evening.</i></p> <p>"Die? No! Why should I die? Rosalie has been. Her husband has come to an understanding with one of the sentries who will be on duty to-night at the little door in the wall, beyond the chapel. Rosalie is to wake me up at three in the morning and we shall run away to the big wood, where J&eacute;r&ocirc;me knows of an inaccessible shelter. Heavens, if we can only succeed! .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p class="date">"<i>Eleven o'clock.</i></p> <p>"What has happened? Why have I got up? It's only a nightmare. I am sure of that; and yet I am shaking with fever and hardly able to write. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. And why am I afraid to drink the glass of water by my bedside, as I am accustomed to do when I cannot sleep?</p> <p>"Oh, such an abominable nightmare! How shall I ever forget what I saw while I slept? For I was asleep, that is certain. I had lain down to get a little rest before running away; and I saw that woman's ghost in a dream. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. A ghost? It must have been one, for only ghosts can enter through a bolted door; and her steps made so little noise as she crept over the floor that I scarcely heard the faintest rustling of her skirt.</p> <p>"What had she come to do? By the glimmer of my night-light I saw her go round the table and walk up to my bed, cautiously, with her head lost in the darkness of the room. I was so frightened that I<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</SPAN></span> closed my eyes, in order that she might believe me to be asleep. But the feeling of her very presence and approach increased within me; and I was able clearly to follow all her doings. She stooped over me and looked at me for a long time, as though she did not know me and wanted to study my face. How was it that she did not hear the frantic beating of my heart? I could hear hers and also the regular movement of her breath. The agony I went through! Who was the woman? What was her object?</p> <p>"She ceased her scrutiny and went away, but not very far. Through my eyelids I could half see her bending beside me, occupied in some silent task; and at last I became so certain that she was no longer watching me that I gradually yielded to the temptation to open my eyes. I wanted, if only for a second, to see her face and what she was doing.</p> <p>"I looked; and Heaven only knows by what miracle I had the strength to keep back the cry that tried to force its way through my lips! The woman who stood there and whose features I was able to make out plainly by the light of the night-light was. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p>"Ah, I can't write anything so blasphemous! If the woman had been beside me, kneeling down, praying, and I had seen a gentle face smiling through its tears, I should not have trembled before that unexpected vision of the dead. But this distorted, fierce, infernal expression, hideous with hatred and wickedness: no sight in the world could have filled me with greater terror. And it is perhaps for this reason,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</SPAN></span> because the sight was so extravagant and unnatural, that I did not cry out and that I am now almost calm. <i>At the moment when my eyes saw, I understood that I was the victim of a nightmare.</i></p> <p>"Mother, mother, you never wore and you never can wear that expression. You were kind and gentle, were you not? You used to smile; and, if you were still alive, you would now be wearing that same kind and gentle look? Mother, darling, since the terrible night when Paul recognized your portrait, I have often been back to that room, to learn to know my mother's face, which I had forgotten: I was so young, mother, when you died! And, though I was sorry that the painter had given you a different expression from the one I should have liked to see, at least it was not the wicked and malignant expression of just now. Why should you hate me? I am your daughter. Father has often told me that we had the same smile, you and I, and also that your eyes would grow moist with tears when you looked at me. So you do not loathe me, do you? And I did dream, did I not?</p> <p>"Or, at least, if I was not dreaming when I saw a woman in my room, I was dreaming when that woman seemed to me to have your face. It was a delirious hallucination, it must have been. I had looked at your portrait so long and thought of you so much that I gave the stranger the features which I knew; and it was she, not you, who bore that hateful expression.</p> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</SPAN></span>"And so I sha'n't drink the water. What she poured into it must have been poison .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. or perhaps a powerful sleeping-drug which would make me helpless against the prince. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. And I cannot but think of the woman who sometimes walks with him. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p>"As for me, I know nothing, I understand nothing, my thoughts are whirling in my tired brain. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p>"It will soon be three o'clock. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. I am waiting for Rosalie. It is a quiet night. There is not a sound in the house or outside. .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.</p> <p class="enddiary">"It is striking three. Ah, to be away from this! .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. To be free! .&nbsp;.&nbsp;."</p> </div> <p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</SPAN></span></p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />