That morning the irrevocable stared at him from the head-lines of the papers. The German Ambassador was recalled. Germany had declared war on France at 6.40 the previous evening; there was an unintelligible1 allusion3, in the declaration, to French aeroplanes throwing bombs on Nuremberg and Wesel. Campton read that part of the message over two or three times.
Aeroplanes throwing bombs? Aeroplanes as engines of destruction? He had always thought of them as a kind of giant kite that fools went up in when they were tired of breaking their necks in other ways. But aeroplane bombardment as a cause for declaring war? The bad faith of it was so manifest that he threw down the papers half relieved. Of course there would be a protest on the part of the allies; a great country like France would not allow herself to be bullied4 into war on such a pretext5.
The ultimatum6 to Belgium was more serious; but Belgium’s gallant7 reply would no doubt check Germany on that side. After all, there was such a thing as international law, and Germany herself had recognized it.... So his mind spun8 on in vain circles, while under the frail9 web of his casuistry gloomed the obstinate10 fact that George was mobilised, that George was to leave the next morning.
82The day wore on: it was the shortest and yet most interminable that Campton had ever known. Paris, when he went out into it, was more dazzlingly empty than ever. In the hotel, in the hall, on the stairs, he was waylaid11 by flustered12 compatriots—“Oh, Mr. Campton, you don’t know me, but of course all Americans know you!”—who appealed to him for the very information he was trying to obtain for himself: how one could get money, how one could get hold of the concierge13, how one could send cables, if there was any restaurant where the waiters had not all been mobilised, if he had any “pull” at the Embassy, or at any of the steamship14 offices, or any of the banks. One disordered beauty blurted15 out: “Of course, with your connection with Bullard and Brant”—and was only waked to her mistake by Campton’s indignant stare, and his plunge16 past her while she called out excuses.
But the name acted as a reminder17 of his promise to go and see Mrs. Brant, and he decided18 to make his visit after lunch, when George would be off collecting last things. Visiting the Brants with George would have been beyond his capacity.
The great drawing-rooms, their awnings19 spread against the sun, their tall windows wide to the glow of the garden, were empty when he entered; but in a moment he was joined by a tall angular woman with a veil pushed up untidily above her pink nose. Campton 83reflected that he had never seen Adele Anthony in the daytime without a veil pushed up above a flushed nose, and dangling20 in irregular wisps from the back of a small hard hat of which the shape never varied21.
“Julia will be here in a minute. When she told me you were coming I waited.”
He was glad to have a word with her before meeting Mrs. Brant, though his impulse had been almost as strong to avoid the one as the other. He dreaded22 belligerent23 bluster24 as much as vain whimpering, and in the depths of his soul he had to own that it would have been easier to talk to Mr. Brant than to either of the women.
“Julia is powdering her nose,” Miss Anthony continued. “She has an idea that if you see she’s been crying you’ll be awfully25 angry.”
Campton made an impatient gesture. “If I were—much it would matter!”
“Ah, but you might tell George; and George is not to know.” She paused, and then bounced round on him abruptly26. She always moved and spoke27 in explosions, as if the wires that agitated28 her got tangled29, and then were too suddenly jerked loose.
“Does George know?”
“About his mother’s tears?”
“About this plan you’re all hatching to have him discharged?”
Campton reddened under her lashless30 blue gaze, 84and the consciousness of doing so made his answer all the curter.
“Probably not—unless you’ve told him!”
The shot appeared to reach the mark, for an answering blush suffused31 her sallow complexion32. “You’d better not put ideas into my head!” she laughed. Something in her tone reminded him of all her old dogged loyalties33, and made him ashamed of his taunt34.
“Anyhow,” he grumbled35, “his place is not in the French army.”
“That was for you and Julia to decide twenty-six years ago, wasn’t it? Now it’s up to him.”
Her capricious adoption36 of American slang, fitted anyhow into her old-fashioned and punctilious37 English, sometimes amused but oftener exasperated39 Campton.
“If you’re going to talk modern slang you ought to give up those ridiculous stays, and not wear a fringe like a mid-Victorian royalty,” he jeered40, trying to laugh off his exasperation41.
She let this pass with a smile. “Well, I wish I could find the language to make you understand how much better it would be to leave George alone. This war will be the making of him.”
“He’s made quite to my satisfaction as it is, thanks. But what’s the use of talking? You always get your phrases out of books.”
85The door opened, and Mrs. Brant came in.
Her appearance answered to Miss Anthony’s description. A pearly mist covered her face, and some reviving liquid had cleared her congested eyes. Her poor hands had suddenly grown so thin and dry that the heavy rings, slipping down to the joints42, slid back into place as she shook hands with Campton.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Oh——” he protested, helpless, and disturbed by Miss Anthony’s presence. At the moment his former wife’s feelings were more intelligible2 to him than his friend’s: the maternal43 fibre stirred in her, and made her more appealing than any elderly virgin44 on the war-path.
“I’m off, my dears,” said the elderly virgin, as if guessing his thought. Her queer shallow eyes included them both in a sweeping45 glance, and she flung back from the threshold: “Be careful of what you say to George.”
What they had to say to each other did not last many minutes. The Brants had made various efforts, but had been baffled on all sides by the general agitation46 and confusion. In high quarters the people they wanted to see were inaccessible47; and those who could be reached lent but a distracted ear. The Ambassador had at once declared that he could do nothing; others vaguely48 promised they “would see”—but hardly seemed to hear what they were being asked.
86“And meanwhile time is passing—and he’s going!” Mrs. Brant lamented49.
The reassurance50 that Campton brought from Fortin-Lescluze, vague though it was, came to her as a miraculous51 promise, and raised Campton suddenly in her estimation. She looked at him with a new confidence, and he could almost hear her saying to Brant, as he had so often heard her say to himself: “You never seem able to get anything done. I don’t know how other people manage.”
Her gratitude52 gave him the feeling of having been engaged in something underhand and pusillanimous53. He made haste to take leave, after promising54 to pass on any word he might receive from the physician; but he reminded her that he was not likely to hear anything till George had been for some days at his base.
She acknowledged the probability of this, and clung to him with trustful eyes. She was much disturbed by the preposterous55 fact that the Government had already requisitioned two of the Brant motors, and Campton had an idea that, dazzled by his newly-developed capacity to “manage,” she was about to implore56 him to rescue from the clutches of the authorities her Rolls-Royce and Anderson’s Delaunay.
He was hastening to leave when the door again opened. A rumpled-looking maid peered in, evidently perplexed57, and giving way doubtfully to a young woman who entered with a rush, and then paused as if she too 87were doubtful. She was pretty in an odd dishevelled way, and with her elaborate clothes and bewildered look she reminded Campton of a fashion-plate torn from its page and helplessly blown about the world. He had seen the same type among his compatriots any number of times in the last days.
“Oh, Mrs. Brant—yes, I know you gave orders that you were not in to anybody, but I just wouldn’t listen, and it’s not that poor woman’s fault,” the visitor began, in a plaintive58 staccato which matched her sad eyes and her fluttered veils.
“You see, I simply had to get hold of Mr. Brant, because I’m here without a penny—literally!” She dangled59 before them a bejewelled mesh-bag. “And in a hotel where they don’t know me. And at the ba............