"The captain has been strongly urging me to go away.

He is no longer cheerful. He seems very much preoccupied:

"'We are surrounded by spies,' he said. 'And there is every sign of the possibility of a speedy attack. Not a big attack, intended to force a way through to Corvigny, but an attempt to take the chateau by surprise. It is my duty to warn you, madame, that we may be compelled at any moment to fall back on Corvigny and that it would be most imprudent for you to stay.'

"I answered that nothing would change my resolution.

Jerome and Rosalie also implored me to leave. But what is the good? I intend to remain."

Once again Paul stopped. There was a page missing in this section of the diary; and the next page, the one headed 18 August, was torn at the top and the bottom and contained only a fragment of what elisabeth had written on that day:

". . . and that is why I have not spoken of it in the letter which I have just sent to Paul. He will know that I am staying on and the reasons for my decision; but he must not know of my hopes.

"Those hopes are still so vague and built on so insignificant a detail. Still, I feel overjoyed. I do not realize the meaning of that detail, but I feel its importance. The captain is hurrying about, increasing the patrols; the soldiers are polishing their arms and crying out for the battle; the enemy may be taking up his quarters at ebrecourt, as they say: what do I care? I have only one thought: have I found the key?

Am I on the right road? Let me think. . . ."

The page was torn here, at the place where elisabeth was about to explain things exactly. Was this a precautionary measure on Major Hermann's part? No doubt; but why?

The first part of the page headed 19 August was likewise torn. The nineteenth was the day before t on which the Germans had carried Ornequin, Corvigny and the whole district by a.s.sault. What had elisabeth written on that Wednesday afternoon? What had she discovered? What was preparing in the darkness?

Paul felt a dread at his heart. He remembered that the first gunshot had thundered over Corvigny at two o'clock in the morning on Thursday and it was with an anxious mind that he read, on the second half of the page:

"_11 p. m._

"I have got up and opened my window. Dogs are barking on every side. They answer one another, stop, seem to be listening and then begin howling again as I have never heard them do before. When they cease, the silence becomes impressive and I listen in my turn to try and catch the indistinct sounds that keep them awake.

"Those sounds seem to my ears also to exist. It is something different from the rustling of the leaves.

It has nothing to do with the ordinary interruption to the dead silence of the night. It comes from I can't tell where; and the impression it makes on me is so powerful that I ask myself at the same time whether I am just listening to the beating of my heart or whether I am hearing what might be the distant tramp of a marching army.

"Oh, I must be mad! A marching army! And our outposts on the frontier? And our sentries all around the chateau? Why, there would be fighting, firing! . . .

"_1 a. m._

"I did not stir from the window. The dogs were no longer barking. Everything was asleep. And suddenly I saw some one come from under the trees and go across the lawn. I at first imagined it was one of our soldiers. But, when whoever it was pa.s.sed under my window, there was just enough light in the sky for me to make out a woman's figure. I thought for a moment of Rosalie. But no, the figure was taller and moved with a lighter and quicker step.

"I was on the point of waking Jerome and giving the alarm. I did not, however. The figure had disappeared in the direction of the terrace. And all at once there came the cry of a bird, which struck me as strange.

This was followed by a light that darted into the sky, like a shooting star springing from the ground.

"After that, nothing. Silence, general restfulness.

Nothing more. And yet I dare not go back to bed. I am frightened, without knowing why. All sorts of dangers seem to come rushing from every corner of the horizon.

They draw closer, they surround me, they hem me in, they suffocate me, crush me, I can't breathe. I'm frightened . . . I'm frightened. . . ."

CHAPTER IX

A SPRIG OF EMPIRE

Paul clutched with convulsive fingers the heart-breaking diary to which elisabeth had confided her anguish:

"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. . . ."

He dreaded reading on. The hours of torture were near at hand, menacing and implacable, and he would have liked to call out to elisabeth:

"Go away, go away! Don't defy Fate! I have forgotten the past. I love you."

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.

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.

The diary began again at the middle of a torn page, the page belonging to Tuesday the 25th:

"'Yes, Rosalie, I feel quite well and I thank you for looking after me so attentively.'

"'Then there's no more fever?'

"'No, Rosalie, it's gone.'

"'You said the same thing yesterday, ma'am, and the fever came back . . . perhaps because of that visit.

. . . But the visit won't be to-day . . . it's not till to-morrow. . . . I was told to let you know, ma'am. . . . At 5 o'clock to-morrow. . . .'

"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 gra.s.s, drinking and singing, and a German flag flapping from the balcony of my window, just in front of me. Oh, the wretches!

"I close my eyes so as not to see. And that makes it more horrible still. . . . Oh, the memory of that night . . . 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.

"And then. . . . But I won't think of it or think of anything that can destroy my courage and my hope.

"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.

"_Wednesday, 26 August._

"There is a great deal of noise in the chateau. 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?

"But I hear footsteps in the pa.s.sage. . . . It is 5 o'clock. . . . Somebody is knocking at the door. . . .

"There were five of them: he first and four officers who kept bowing to him obsequiously. He said to them, in a formal tone:

"'Attention, gentlemen. . . . 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.'

"He p.r.o.nounced those words, 'The law of war,' in a tone of fatuous conviction and repeated:

"'As for madame's private apartments, not a thing is to be moved. Do you understand? I know what is becoming.'