Rebelling at the sound of the hateful German tongue, she would have gone on unheeding, but a German doctor was right in her path, and she dared not risk his ill-will. She turned toward the voice and saw Paul Schwartz leaning from his chair with a bright smile on his face. Half Lucy’s anger left her at sight of him. She could not cherish it against this simple peasant with the mild eyes and childish flaxen hair.
“What is it, Paul?” she asked, going up to him.
“I am discharged!” he cried, his voice trembling with joy and his blue eyes shining. “To-morrow I start for home—for the Schwarzwald! I will be lame,” he added, his smile fading a little, “but I can get about, and it is much to be at home again.”
Lucy had not the heart to say less than, “Oh, that’s fine, Paul. I’m so glad. You will see your wife then, and the little girl?”
“Yes, yes, all! And I have my pension, too—quite a sum.”
“I will come and say good-bye before you go,” Lucy promised, stumbling with the German words, as pity and anger struggled together in her heart. Paul was going back to his peaceful home, thankful to get out of the war. But her father and brother and countrymen were but just entering it. A long, hard fight was ahead of them.
In a minute, however, her natural good sense began to overcome the brooding dread that was tormenting her. “It may not happen,” she told herself, trying to be hopeful again. “Anyhow, I won’t be any good, this way, for what I have to do.” And at thought of one task that lay before her she felt the need of calmness and courage as never before. She nodded to Paul, and went on with a quicker step into the nurses’ dining-room.
That evening, a little after eight o’clock, Lucy drew near to Michelle’s house, and at the garden gate Elizabeth turned to leave her. The German woman had snatched this time to bring Lucy across the town, but her work was by no means done and she was returning at once to the hospital. Lucy bade her good-bye with strange reluctance. She was about to deceive her faithful friend, and she hated the necessity for doing so. But Elizabeth could not spare her any more time to-night, and Lucy well knew she could never win her old nurse’s consent to her project.
When Elizabeth had turned her back Lucy went a few steps into the garden and waited behind the shelter of a bush. She must deceive Michelle, too, for on Madame de la Tour’s account she did not want her company, glad as she would otherwise have been of it. But, frightened or not, her increasing horror at the German captivity now far outweighed her timidity at venturing alone to the prison. For it was Captain Beattie she was determined to see again, and without another night’s delay.
After a moment she went back to the gate and looked cautiously down the street. Elizabeth had disappeared. It was clear moonlight and the deserted street was sharply outlined in light and shadow. There was little chance of moving unobserved in the moon’s path, but by contrast with its soft radiance the shadows looked black and deep along the walls. Lucy left the garden and made her way as quickly as constant watchfulness would permit along the now familiar streets leading toward the prison. She was in a miserable state of mind, but the fear that hurried her footsteps was not caused by her own solitary errand. It was all for her father at thought of the irrevocable fate hanging over him. Irrevocable unless she could do something to prevent it, for, however feeble her efforts must be, she saw no other help in sight. Remembering the chances she had missed of communicating with the Allied lines she came near to thorough dejection. How differently Bob would have managed things in her place! She could not know how close to despair her brother was at that moment, and how his cherished plan for her release had died with Jourdin’s death. Since the battle of yesterday Lucy hardly dared think of Bob.