He groped along the pitch-black street for the remembered outline of the house (since no house-numbers were visible), and rang several times without result. He was just turning away when a big mud-splashed motor drove up. He noticed a soldier at the steering-wheel, then three people got out stiffly: two women smothered in crape and a haggard man in a dirty uniform. Campton stopped, and Fortin-Lescluze recognized him by the light of the motor-lamp. The four stood and looked at each other. The old mother, under her crape, appeared no bigger than a child.
“Ah—you know?” the doctor said. Campton nodded.
The father spoke in a firm voice. “It happened three days ago—at Suippes. You’ve seen his citation? They brought him in to me at Chalons without a warning—and too late. I took off both legs, but gangrene had set in. Ah—if I could have got hold of one of our big surgeons.... Yes, we’re just back from the funeral.... My mother and my wife ... they had that comfort....”
The two women stood beside him like shrouded statues. Suddenly Mme. Fortin’s deep voice came through the crape: “You saw him, Monsieur, that last day ... the day you came about your own son, I think?”
“I ... yes....” Campton stammered in anguish.
The physician intervened. “And, now, ma bonne mère, you’re not to be kept standing. You’re to go straight in and take your tisane and go to bed.” He kissed his mother and pushed her into his wife’s arms. “Goodbye, my dear. Take care of her.”
The women vanished under the porte-cochère, and Fortin turned to the painter.
“Thank you for coming. I can’t ask you in—I must go back immediately.”
“Back?”
“To my work. Thank God. If it were not for that——”