CHAPTER XIV
THE LAST EVENING
The last evening had come. Jean was to take at Obernai a night train for Strasburg, so as to be in the barracks of St. Nicholas the next morning at seven o'clock, the regulation hour. His uniform, ordered of a Strasburg tailor, as was usual for the one-year service men, was waiting for him, blue and yellow, folded on two chairs, in the room which a month ago Madame Oberlé had taken, facing the barracks of St. Nicholas, about the middle of the rue des Balayeurs. After dinner he said to his mother: "Let me go out alone, so that I can say good-bye to the Alsheim country I shall not see again for a long time."
She smiled. M. Joseph Oberlé answered:
"My dear fellow, you will not see me again; I have bills falling due to-morrow, and I must work in my office. And besides, I do not care about useless sentiment. Well, perhaps you will not find it easy to get leave before two months. I dare say not, but that will only make you the better pleased to come home. Come! Good-bye."
More affectionately than he would have believed it possible he embraced him, and with a word from Lucienne in her clear, young voice, "Soon," he went out.
The night air was laden with moisture to a remarkable degree: not a cloud. A crescent moon, stars in thousands; but between heaven and earth a veil of mist was spread which allowed the light to penetrate, but dispersed it in such a manner that there was no object really in shadow, and none which showed brightly. Everything was bathed in a pearly atmosphere. It was warm to breathe. "How sweet my Alsace is!" said Jean, when he had opened the door of the kitchen garden, and found himself behind the village houses, facing the plain, on which the moonlight was sleeping, blotted here and there with the shadows of an apple-tree or a walnut. An immense languor escaped from the soil, into which the first rains of autumn had sunk. The perfumes of stubble and ploughed land mixed with the odours from all kinds of vegetation come to their fullness of growth and aroma. The mountain was sending out gently to the valley the odour of pine pollen on the breeze, and the mint and the dying strawberries and bilberries, and its juniper berries crushed by the feet of passers-by and flocks. Jean breathed in the odour of Alsace; he thought he could recognise the exquisite perfume of that little mountain which is near Colmar, called Florimont, where the dittany grows, and he thought, "It is the last time. Never again! Never again!"
There were no glittering points of light on the roofs; he followed the line of them on the left of the path: they seemed to have joined fraternal hands round the church, and under each Jean could picture a face known and friendly. Such were his thoughts for a while as he walked on. But as soon as he saw, grey in the middle of the fields, the big clump of trees which hid M. Bastian's house, every other thought fled. Arrived at the farm where the younger son had said to him, "It is by Grande Fontaine that you must cross the frontier," he went into the cherry avenue, and he still remembered and found the white gate. No one was passing. Besides, what did it matter? Jean opened the lattice gate, went in, and walked on the grass border, even with the great trees, to the window of the drawing-room, which was lighted, then going round the house, came to the door which opened on the side opposite the village of Alsheim.
He waited an instant, went into the vestibule, and opened the door of the large room where the Bastian family sat every evening. They were all there in the light of the lamps, just as Jean had imagined. The father was reading the paper. The two women on the other side of the brown table laden with white linen unfolded, were embroidering with initials the towels which were going into the Bastian linen press. The door had opened with no other noise than that of the pad brushing against the parquet. However, all was so calm round the dwelling and in the room, that they turned their eyes to see who was coming in. There was a moment of uncertainty for M. Bastian, and hesitation for Jean. He had fixed his gaze first of all on Odile. He had seen how she also had suffered, and that she was the first, the only one who recognised him, and how she grew pale, and that in her anguish, her raised hand, her breath, her glance, were arrested. The linen Odile was sewing slipped from her hands without her being able to make the slightest movement to lift it up.
It was perhaps by this sign that M. Bastian recognised the visitor. Emotion seized him immediately.
"What?" he asked gently, "is it you, Jean? No one showed you in. What have you come for?"
He slowly put his paper down on the table without ceasing to scrutinise the young man who was standing in the shadow, on the same spot, a step or two from the door.
"I have come to say good-bye," said Jean.
But his voice was so full of pain that M. Bastian understood something unknown, tragic, had entered his house. He rose, saying, "Why, yes, to-morrow will be the first of October. You are going to the barracks, my poor boy. No doubt you wish to speak to me?"
Already M. Bastian had advanced, had held out his hand, and the young man, drawing him back into the darkest corner of the room, had answered in a very low voice, his eyes looking into the eyes of Odile's father. Madame Bastian gazed into the shadow, where they made an indistinct group.
"I am leaving," Jean murmured, "and I shall never come back, M. Bastian; that is why I took the liberty of coming."
He felt the rough hand of the Alsatian tremble. There was an exchange of secret and rapid dialogue between the men, while the two anxious women rose from their chairs, and with their hands leaning on the table, bent forward.
"What do you say? You will come back in a year?"
"No, I am going to join the regiment because I promised to. But I shall leave it."
"You will leave it?"
"The day after to-morrow."
"Where are you going?"
"To France!"
"For ever?"
"Yes."
The old Alsatian turned aside for a moment. "Talk on, you women, talk on; we have business to discuss."
They moved away, whilst he, breathless as though with running, cried: "Be careful what you do; be prudent; don't let yourself be caught."
He placed both hands on Jean's shoulders. "I must stay: that's my way, you see, of loving Alsace; there is no better. I live here, and here I die. But for you, my boy, things are different, I understand—don't let the women guess; it's too serious. Does any one know at your home?"
"No."
"Keep your secret," and then, lowering his voice, "You wanted to see her once more. I don't blame you, since you will never meet again."
Jean nodded as though to say "Yes, I had to see her once more."
"Look at her a minute, and then go. Stay where you are—look over my shoulder."
Over M. Bastian's shoulder Jean could see that the troubled look in Odile's eyes had grown to terror. She met his gaze fearlessly; she had no thought but for the dialogue which she could not hear, the mystery in which she felt she had some part, and her face betrayed her anguish.
"What are they saying? Is it bad news again? Is it better? No; not better, they are not both looking my way."
Her mother was still paler than her daughter.
"Farewell, my boy," said M. Bastian in low tones. "I loved you.... I could not act differently ... but I think highly of you; I will remember you."
Overcome by emotion, the old Alsatian silently pressed Jean's hand and let it fall. As to Jean, trembling and dazed, he walked to the door, looking back for the last time. He was going then—in one minute he would be gone, never to return to Alsheim.
"Au revoir, madame," he said.
He would have liked to say au revoir to Odile, but sobs prevented the words.
He gained the shadow of the corridor; they heard him hurrying away.
"What does it mean?" demanded Madame Bastian. "Xavier, you are hiding something from us."
The old Alsatian sobbed aloud; he threw precaution to the winds—she had guessed.
"Odile," she cried, "run and say good-bye to him."
Odile was already across the room; she caught Jean up at the corner.
"I beg of you to tell me why you are so miserable," she cried.
He turned, determined to be silent, to keep his vow. She was quite close to him; he opened his arms; she threw herself into them.
"Oh God," she cried, "you are leaving; I know it—you are going."
He kissed her hair tenderly, a lifelong farewell, turned the corner, and fled from her.