We have seen almost nothing of Louis since that day with Monsieur. He has been to Bridgeton every day, spending the time, I'm perfectly certain, with that Page Calvin and his miserable aëroplane. It makes me perfectly sick to think of it, especially since Monsieur has told us everything. By the way, I can't get out of the habit of calling him "Monsieur," but it's just as well, I suppose, because we're not supposed to know he's anything else. Of course Louis doesn't realize what all this means to the old gentleman, but if he only knew that it was fairly breaking his heart, I do believe he'd be willing to give up the dangerous scheme and take to something else. I feel sure Monsieur suspects why he's away at Bridgeton, but he never says a word to us,—just suffers in silence.
The Imp sees Monsieur and talks to him very often as he sits on his favorite bench on the Green. He sits there a great deal, on that bench under the big elm, and reads his paper and watches us play tennis. Sometimes we all go over and talk to him, but he never says a word about what he told us that day on the river,—not, at least, when we're all together with him. He does speak of it sometimes to the Imp when they're alone. She says that to-day he told her that the situation in Europe is very grave. He is certain that Austria is about to declare war on Serbia, and that if she does, the whole of Europe will be involved. There will be the most awful conflict the world has ever known, if this happens.
The Imp asked him if France was likely to go into it, too, and he said he did not see how this could be avoided; France would always do what was right. But here's the worst. He says that if France declares war, he will have to return immediately, since important political matters will demand it, and he intends to tell Louis the whole truth and take him back with him. That piece of news seems perfectly ghastly to us, and yet I honestly don't see how Monsieur can do anything else.
I felt to-day, after hearing this from the Imp, that I simply must understand this European situation for myself, so I got the daily paper and read up everything I could find about it. But I have to confess that I was not much wiser after I had read it than I was before. So I went to the Imp and asked her if she could explain the thing. She said:
"Why, it's this way. Monsieur has told me all about it. Austria considers that she's got to make Serbia get down on her knees and beg pardon, because an Austrian archduke was killed there. So Austria's sent Serbia a note proposing all sorts of concessions that Serbia will never stand for in the world. The Serbians answered that note yesterday, and were willing to make whatever reparation they could about the archduke, but they won't hear of some of the other things. Austria wants the 'whole hog,' or nothing, so of course she'll take this opportunity to declare war. Russia has always sort of sympathized with the Serbians, so if they get into trouble, she's going to give them a hand. And Monsieur says she's already mobilizing her troops. Germany is in a compact always to help Austria out, so that's where she comes in. Monsieur says Germany's been waiting forty years for this opportunity to get gay and let loose on Europe, so she isn't going to let such a lovely chance as this pass." (These are the Imp's words, not Monsieur's, I feel certain!) "And France has a compact to be an ally of Russia, and England's in that, too, so you can easily see what a beautiful parrot-and-monkey time it's going to be!"
The situation is a little clearer to me now, I'll admit, but the whole thing makes me terribly depressed. I'm glad I don't see much of Louis now. I simply cannot be with him and act naturally, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. I cannot face him and think who he really is, and keep the wonder and pain and bewilderment of it out of my expression. So perhaps it's a good thing he's away so much.
August 1, 1914. Austria declared war on Serbia a few days ago. The Imp, in a terrible state of excitement, rushed up to my room with the paper that morning to announce the news. But we've had worse since, and it's all turning out as Monsieur said it would. We—that is, the Imp, Carol, and I—were all going into Bridgeton to the circus to-day, but we've given it up. None of us seemed to have the heart for that kind of a lark in the face of what is going on and what it means for Louis. He still unsuspectingly goes off to see Page Calvin every day, and never gives the European situation a thought, I'm certain. Of course he can't for a moment imagine that it will have any bearing on his affairs.
The Imp told us to-day that Miss Yvonne is not a bit well. She's had a nervous breakdown of some kind. Monsieur thinks it's because of this awful state of affairs in Europe, and also because they can't seem to find the least trace of those papers. That has been preying on her mind for a long time. She thinks it's her fault and her father's that they didn't bring that letter with them from France. It really wasn't, because they came away in such a hurry, without knowing much about the actual circumstances. Nevertheless, she is continually worrying about it.
We told Mother she was ill, and Mother and the Imp went over to see her yesterday. They took her some grape conserve and some raised biscuits we'd just baked, and they said she seemed awfully grateful for the attention. The Imp said she seemed more human than she ever had before, and more communicative, too,—not about any of their secret affairs, of course, but on general topics. She says her eyes bother her a lot, so the Imp offered to come over every day and read the paper to her, and she actually said she'd like it.