Andrews put his hand on Chrisfield's shoulder.

"Let's walk slow," he said, "we don't want to get out of here too soon."

He grabbed carelessly at little cl.u.s.ter of hawthorn flowers as he pa.s.sed them, and seemed reluctant to untangle the th.o.r.n.y branches that caught in his coat and on his loosely wound puttees.

"h.e.l.l, man," said Chrisfield, "we won't have time to get a bellyful. It must be gettin' late already."

They hastened their steps again and came in a moment to the first tightly shuttered houses of the village.

In the middle of the road was an M.P., who stood with his legs wide apart, waving his "billy" languidly. He had a red face, his eyes were fixed on the shuttered upper window of a house, through the c.h.i.n.ks of which came a few streaks of yellow light. His lips were puckered up as if to whistle, but no sound came. He swayed back and forth indecisively.

An officer came suddenly out of the little green door of the house in front of the M.P., who brought his heels together with a jump and saluted, holding his hand a long while to his cap. The officer flicked a hand up hastily to his hat, s.n.a.t.c.hing his cigar out of his mouth for an instant. As the officer's steps grew fainter down the road, the M.P.

gradually returned to his former position.

Chrisfield and Andrews had slipped by on the other side, and gone in at the door of a small ramshackle house of which the windows were closed by heavy wooden shutters.

"I bet there ain't many of them b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at the front," said Chris.

"Not many of either kind of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," said Andrews laughing, as he closed the door behind them. They were in a room that had once been the parlor of a farmhouse. The chandelier with its bits of crystal and the orange-blossoms on a piece of dusty red velvet under a bell gla.s.s on the mantelpiece denoted that. The furniture had been taken out, and four square oak tables crowded in. At one of the tables sat three Americans and at another a very young olive-skinned French soldier, who sat hunched over his table looking moodily down into his gla.s.s of wine.

A girl in a faded frock of some purplish material that showed the strong curves of her shoulders and b.r.e.a.s.t.s slouched into the room, her hands in the pocket of a dark blue ap.r.o.n against which her rounded forearms showed golden brown. Her face had the same golden tan under a ma.s.s of dark blonde hair. She smiled when she saw the two soldiers, drawing her thin lips away from her ugly yellow teeth.

"Ca va bien, Antoinette?" asked Andrews.

"Oui," she said, looking beyond their heads at the French soldier who sat at the other side of the little room.

"A bottle of vin rouge, vite," said Chrisfield.

"Ye needn't be so d.a.m.n vite about it tonight, Chris," said one of the men at the other table.

"Why?"

"Ain't a-goin' to be no roll call. Corporal tole me his-self. Sarge's gone out to git stewed, an' the Loot's away."

"Sure," said another man, "we kin stay out as late's we G.o.ddam please tonight."

"There's a new M.P. in town," said Chrisfield.... "Ah saw him maself....

You did, too, didn't you, Andy?"

Andrews nodded. He was looking at the Frenchman, who sat with his face in shadow and his black lashes covering his eyes. A purplish flash had suffused the olive skin at his cheekbones.

"Oh, boy," said Chrisfield. "That ole wine sure do go down fast.... Say, Antoinette, got any cognac?"

"I'm going to have some more wine," said Andrews.

"Go ahead, Andy; have all ye want. Ah want some-thin' to warm ma guts."

Antoinette brought a bottle of cognac and two small gla.s.ses and sat down in an empty chair with her red hands crossed on her ap.r.o.n. Her eyes moved from Chrisfield to the Frenchman and back again.

Chrisfield turned a little round in his chair and looked at the Frenchman, feeling in his eyes for a moment a glance of the man's yellowish-brown eyes.

Andrews leaned back against the wall sipping his dark-colored wine, his eyes contracted dreamily, fixed on the shadow of the chandelier, which the cheap oil-lamp with its tin reflector cast on the peeling plaster of the wall opposite.

Chrisfield punched him.

"Wake up, Andy, are you asleep?"

"No," said Andy smiling.

"Have a li'l mo' cognac."

Chrisfield poured out two more gla.s.ses unsteadily. His eyes were on Antoinette again. The faded purple frock was hooked at the neck. The first three hooks were undone revealing a V-shape of golden brown skin and a bit of whitish underwear.

"Say, Andy," he said, putting his arm round his friend's neck and talking into his ear, "talk up to her for me, will yer, Andy?... Ah won't let that G.o.ddam frog get her, no, I won't, by Gawd. Talk up to her for me, Andy."

Andrews laughed.

"I'll try," he said. "But there's always the Queen of Sheba, Chris."

"Antoinette, j'ai un ami," started Andrews, making a gesture with a long dirty hand towards Chris.

Antoinette showed her bad teeth in a smile.

"Joli garcon," said Andrews.

Antoinette's face became impa.s.sive and beautiful again. Chrisfield leaned back in his chair with an empty gla.s.s in his hand and watched his friend admiringly.

"Antoinette, mon ami vous... vous admire," said Andrews in a courtly voice.

A woman put her head in the door. It was the same face and hair as Antoinette's, ten years older, only the skin, instead of being golden brown, was sallow and wrinkled.

"Viens," said the woman in a shrill voice.

Antoinette got up, brushed heavily against Chrisfield's leg as she pa.s.sed him and disappeared. The Frenchman walked across the room from his corner, saluted gravely and went out.

Chrisfield jumped to his feet. The room was like a white box reeling about him.

"That frog's gone after her," he shouted.

"No, he ain't, Chris," cried someone from the next table. "Sit tight, ole boy. We're bettin' on yer."

"Yes, sit down and have a drink, Chris," said Andy. "I've got to have somethin' more to drink. I haven't had a thing to drink all the evening." He pulled him back into his chair. Chrisfield tried to get up again. Andrews hung on him so that the chair upset. Then both sprawled on the red tiles of the floor.

"The house is pinched!" said a voice.

Chrisfield saw Judkins standing over him, a grin on his large red face.

He got to his feet and sat sulkily in his chair again. Andrews was already sitting opposite him, looking impa.s.sive as ever.

The tables were full now. Someone was singing in a droning voice.

"O the oak and the ash and the weeping willow tree, O green grows the gra.s.s in G.o.d's countree!"