WHEN Martin landed at Marseilles he found the world on the brink of war. He had spent the early summer roaming about the East looking, as he had looked at Hong-Kong, for work that might lead to fortune and finding none. A touch of fever had caused a friendly doctor at Penang to pack him off to Europe by the first boat. It had been a Will o’ the Wisp chase mainly in the rains, when the Straits Settlements are not abodes of delight. It is bad enough that your boots should be mildewed every morning; but when the mildew begins to attack your bones it is best to depart. Martin embarked philosophically. He had tried the East because it was nearer to his original point of departure. Now he would try the West—America or Canada. In a temperate climate he could undertake physical labour. His muscles were solid, and save for the touch of fever of which the sea-air had soon cured him, his health was robust. He could hew wood, draw water, dig the earth. In a new country he could not starve. At the last pinch he could fall back on the profession he had learned at the H?tel des Grottes. Furthermore, by eating the bread and choosing the couch of hardship he had spent comparatively little of his capital. His vagabondage had hardened him physically and morally. He knew the world. He had mixed with all kinds and conditions of men. Egypt seemed a sensuous dream of long ago. He deafened his heart to its memories. It would take ten years to make anything of a fortune. If he succeeded, then, in ten years’ time, he would seek Lucilla. In the meanwhile he would not waste away in despair. He faced the future with confidence. While standing with his humble fellow passengers in the bows of the vessel, he felt his pulses thrill at the first sight of the blue islands of Marseilles. It was France, country almost of his adoption. He rejoiced that he had decided not to book his ticket to Southampton, but to pass through the beloved land once again before he sailed to another Hemisphere. Besides, his money and most of his personal effects (despatched from Egypt) were lying at Cook’s office in Paris. The practical therefore turned sentiment into an easy channel. He landed, carrying his bag in his hand, bought a paper on the quay from a screaming urchin, and to his stupefaction found the world on the brink of war.
At Gibraltar he had not seen a newspaper. None had penetrated to the steerage and he had not landed. He had taken it for granted that the good, comfortable old earth was rolling its usual course. Now, at Marseilles, he became aware of every one in the blazing sunshine of the quays staring at newspapers held open before them. At the modest hotel hard by, where he deposited his bag, he questioned the manager. Yes, did not he know? Austria had declared war on Servia. Germany had rejected all proposals from England for a conference. The President of the Republic had hurried from Russia. Russia would not allow Servia to be attacked by Austria. France must join Russia. It was a coup prepared by Germany. “Ca y est, c’est la guerre,” said he.
Martin went out into the streets and found a place on the crowded terrace of one of the cafés on the Cannebière. All around him was the talk of war. The rich-voiced Proven?aux do not speak in whispers. There was but one hope for peace, the successful intervention of England between Russia and Austria. But Germany would not have it. War was inevitable. Martin bribed a chasseur to find him some English papers, no matter of what date. With fervent anxiety he scanned the history of the momentous week. What he read confirmed the talk. Whatever action England might take, France would be at war in a few days. He paid for his drink and walked up the Cannebière. He saw no smiling faces. The shadow of war already overspread the joyous town. A battalion of infantry passed by, and people stood still involuntarily and watched the soldiers with looks curiously stern. And Martin stood also, and remained standing long after the clanging tram-cars temporarily held up had blocked them from his sight. And he knew that he could not go to America.
In a little spot in the heart of France lived all the friends he had in the world; all the brave souls he had learned to love. Brant?me appeared before him as in a revelation, and a consciousness of ingratitude smote him so that he drew a gasping breath. Not that he had forgotten them. He had kept up a fitful correspondence with Bigourdin who had never hinted a reproach. But until an hour or two ago he had been prepared to wipe Brant?me out of his life, to pass through France without giving it an hour of greeting—even an ave atque vale.
In the past seven months of mad folly and studied poverty, where had he met characters so strong, ideals so lofty, hearts so loyal? What had he learned among the careless superficial Anglo-American society in Egypt comparable with that which he had learned in this world-forgotten little bourgeoisie in France? Which of them had touched his nature below the layer of his vanity? What ideals had he met with in the East? Could he so term the complacent and pessimistic opportunism of the Tudsleys; the querulous grumbling of officials; the honest dulness of sea-captains and seamen? He judged superficially, it is true; for one has to strike deep before one can get at the shy soul of a Briton. But a man is but the creature of his impressions. From his own particular journeyings of seven months he had returned almost bewilderingly alone. East of Marseilles there dwelt not a human being whose call no matter how faint sounded in his ears. England, in so far as intimate personal England was concerned, had no call for him either. Nor had America, unknown, remote, unfriendly as Greenland.
Jostled, he walked along the busy thoroughfare, a man far away, treading the paths of the spirit. In this mighty convulsion that threatened the earth, there was one spot which summoned him, with a call clear and insistent. His place was there, in Périgord, to share in its hopes and its fears, its mourning and its joy.
He returned to the hotel for his bag and took the first train in the direction of Brant?me. What he would do when arrived, he had no definite notion. It was something beyond reason that drove him thither. Something irresistible; more irresistible than the force which had impelled him to Egypt. Then he had hesitated, weighed things for and against. Now, one moment had decided him. It never occurred to him to question. Through the burning south of France he sped. As yet only the shadow of war hung over the land; the awful Word had not yet gone forth. Swarthy men and women worked in the baking vineyards and gathered in the yellow harvest. But here and there on flashing glimpses of white road troops marched dustily and military waggons lumbered along. And in the narrow, wooden-seated third-class carriage on the slow and ever stopping train, the talk even of the humblest was of war. At every station some of the passengers left, some entered. There seemed to be a sudden concentration homewards. At every station were soldiers recalled from leave to their garrisons. These, during the journey, were questioned as authoritative functionaries. Yes, for sure, there would be war. Why they did not know, except that the sales bêtes of Germans were, at last, going to invade France.
Said one, “I saw an officer yesterday in our village—the son of Monsieur le Comte de Boirelles who has the big chateau là-bas—we have known each other from childhood—and he said, ‘Hein, mon brave, ca y est!’ And I said: ‘What, mon lieutenant?’ And he said, ‘V’là le son, le son du canon.’ Fight like a good son of Boirelles, or I’ll cut off your ears.’ And I replied, quasiment comme ?a: ‘You will not have the opportunity, mon lieutenant, you being in the artillery and I in the infantry.’ And he laughed with good heart. ‘Anyhow,’ said he, ‘if you return to the village, when the war is over, without the military medal, and I am alive, I’ll make my mother do it, in the courtyard of the chateau, with her own scissors.’ I tell you this to prove to you that I know there is going to be war.”
And the women, holding their blue bundles on their knees in the crowded compartment—for in democratic France demos is not allowed the luxury of luggage-racks—looked at the future with anxious eyes. What would become of them? The government would take their men. Their men would be killed or maimed. Even if the men returned safe and sound, in the meantime, how would they live? Ah, mon Dieu! Cette rosse de guerre! They cursed the war as though it were a foul and conscious entity.
The interminable journey, by day, by night, with tedious waits at great ghostly junctions, at last was over. Martin emerged from the station of Brant?me and immediately before him stood the familiar ramshackle omnibus of the H?tel des Grottes. Old Grégoire, the driver, on beholding him staggered back and almost fell over the step of the vehicle.
“Monsieur Martin! C’est vous?”
Recovering, he advanced with great, sun-glazed hand.
“Yes. It is indeed I,” laughed Martin.
“It is everybody that will be content,” cried Grégoire. “How one has talked of you, and wished you were back. And now, that this sacrée guerre is coming——”
“That’s why I’ve come,” said Martin. “How are monsieur and mademoiselle?”
Both were well. It was they who would be glad to see Monsieur Martin. The old fellow, red-faced, white-haired, clean shaven, with a comfortable gash of a mouth, clapped him on the shoulder.
“Mais v’là un solide gaillard?”
“Tu trouves?”
Why, of course Grégoire found him transformed into a stout fellow. When he had arrived a year ago he was like a bit of wet string. What a thing it was to travel. And yet he had been in China where people ate rats and dogs, which could not be nourishing food. In a fortnight, on the good meat and foie gras of Périgord, he would develop into a veritable giant. If Monsieur Martin would enter. . . . He held the door open. No one else had arrived by the train.
The omnibus jolted and swayed along the familiar road, through the familiar cobble-paved streets, along the familiar quays, past many a familiar face. They all seemed to chant the welcome of which the old driver had struck the key. Martin felt strangely happy and the tears were very near his eyes. Monsieur Richard, the butcher, catching sight of him, darted a pace or two down the pavement so as to make sure, and threw up both hands in greeting. And as they turned the corner of the hill surmounted by the dear grey tower of the old Abbey, Monsieur le Curé saw him and smiled and swept a salute with his old dusty hat, which Martin acknowledged through the end window of the omnibus.
They drew up before the familiar door of the old white inn. Baptiste was there, elderly, battered, in his green baize apron.
“Mais, mon Dieu, c’est vous?—mais—— ” He wrung Martin’s hand. And, as once before, on the return of Félise, not being able to cope with his emotions, he shouted on the threshold of the vestibule: “Monsieur, monsieur, c’est Monsieur Martin qui arrive!”
“Qu’est-ce que tu dis là?” cried a familiar voice from the bureau.
“C’est Monsieur Martin.”
Martin entered, and in the vestibule encountered Bigourdin.
“Mais mon vieux,” cried the vast man. “C’est toi? C’est vraiment toi, enfin?”
It was the instinctive, surprised and joyous greeting of the two servants. Martin stood unstrung. What had he done to deserve it? Before he could utter a word, he felt two colossal arms swung round him and a kiss implanted on each cheek. Then Bigourdin held him out and looked at him, and, like Grégoire, told him how solid he looked.
“Enfin! You’ve come back. Tell me how and when and why. Tell me all.”
Martin’s eyes were moist. “My God!” said he, with a catch in his voice, “you are a good fellow.”
“Not a bit, mon cher. We are friends, and in friendship there is something just a little bit sacred. But tell me, nom d’une pipe! all about yourself.”
“I was on my way,” said Martin, with his conscientious honesty, “from Penang to New York. At Marseilles I heard for the first time of the war in which France will be involved and of which we have so often talked. And something, I don’t know what, called me here—et me voici!”
“C’est beau. C’est bien beau de ta part,” said Bigourdin seriously. “Let us go and find Félise.”
Now, when a Frenchman characterises a deed as beau, it is in his opinion very fine indeed.
But before they could move, Euphémie rushed from her kitchen and all but embraced the wanderer and Joseph, late plongeur at the Café de l’Univers and now waiter at the h?tel, came shyly from the salle-à-manger, and the brightness of his eyes was only equalled by the lustre of the habiliments that formerly had belonged to Martin. Bigourdin despatched him in quest of Félise. Soon she came, from the fabrique, looking rather white. Joseph had shot his news at her. But she came up looking Martin straight in the eyes, her hand extended.
“Bonjour, Martin. I am glad to see you again.”
“So am I,” said he. “More than glad. It’s like coming back to one’s own people.”
She drew up her little head and asked with a certain bravura: “How is Lucilla?”
He winced; but he did not show it. He smiled. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard of her since March.”
“Neither have I,” she said. “Not since January. She seems to be a bird of passage through other people’s lives.”
Bigourdin laughed, shaking a great forefinger. “I bet that is not original. I bet you are quoting your old philosopher of a father!”
She coloured and said defiantly: “Yes. I confess it. It is none the less true.”
“And how is the good Fortinbras?” asked Martin, to turn a distressful conversation.
“A merveille! We are expecting him by any train. It is I who am making him come. To-morrow I may be called out. France will want more than the Troupes Métropolitaines and the Réserves to fight the Germans. They will want the Territorials, et c’est moi, l’armée territoriale.” He thumped his chest. “It was written that I should strike a blow for France like my fathers. But while I am striking the blow who is to look after my little Félise and the H?tel des Grottes? It is well to be prepared. When the mobilisation is ordered, there will be no more trains for civilians.”
“And what do you feel about the war, Félise?” asked Martin.
She clenched her hands: “I would give my immortal soul to be a man!” she cried.
Bigourdin hugged her. “That is a daughter of France! I am proud of our little girl. On dirait une Jeanne d’Arc. But where is the Frenchwoman now who is not animated by the spirit of La Pucelle d’Orléans?”
“In the meanwhile, mon oncle,” said Félise, disengaging herself demurely from his embrace, “Martin looks exceedingly dusty and hungry, and no one has even suggested that he should wash or eat or have his bag carried up to his room.”
Bigourdin regarded her with admiration. “She is wonderful. She thinks of everything. Baptiste. Take up Monsieur Martin’s things to the chambre d’honneur.”
“But, my dear fellow,” Martin protested, “I only want my old room in which I have slept so soundly.”
But Bigourdin............