A Girl of the Commune

by G. A. Henty

The desperate defence of Champigny had indeed saved that portion of the French army across the river from destruction. It had given time for the fugitives to rally, and as if ashamed of the panic to which they had given way, they had afterwards fought steadily and well, and had driven the Germans back beyond the line they had occupied the night before, Brie-sur-Marne being now in the possession of the French, having been carried by a desperate assault, in which General Ducrot led the way at the head of the troops. During the various operations they had lost about 1,000 killed and 5,000 wounded.

The four days that had elapsed since Mary Brander had said good-bye to Cuthbert at the entrance to the ambulance, had effected a marked change in her appearance. She had returned to her work on the Monday morning, but no fresh cases had come in, for there had been a lull in the skirmishes at the outposts. During the last few days the beds had been cleared out as much as possible to make room for the expected influx, and there was but little for her to do. After going round the tent of which she had charge, the American surgeon put his hand upon her shoulder.

"You are no better, Miss Brander," he said. "This is too much for you. I did not expect to see you break down, for I have noticed that your nerves were as steady as those of an old hospital nurse. Though you naturally lost your color, when standing by with the sponge at some of those operations, there was no flinching or hesitation; but I see that, though you did not show it at the time, it has told upon you. I shall be sorry to lose your services, especially at the present moment; but I think you had better give it up for a time. We have plenty of volunteers, you know."

"I will stay on, if you please, Dr. Swinburne. It is not the work, but the suspense, that has upset me. One has been expecting this dreadful battle to begin for the last three days, and to know that at any moment now 200,000 men may fly at each other, and that thousands upon thousands may be killed is almost too awful to think about. The silence seems so oppressive, one knows that they are gathering and preparing, and that while all seems so still, we may suddenly hear the roar of the cannon all round. I think when it once begins I shall be myself again. It is the waiting that is so oppressive."

"I can understand that," he said, kindly. "It is the same thing with the troops themselves. It is the pause before a great battle that shakes the nerves of the men. As soon as the work begins the feeling passes off and the man who, a few minutes before, was as weak as a child, feels the blood rushing hotly through his veins, and the burning desire to get at his enemy overpowers all sense of danger. Well, as there is really nothing for you to do to-day, for there are three of you in this tent and only four beds occupied, you had better put your bonnet on again, child; a brisk walk will be the best thing for you; try and interest yourself in what you see passing round you. From what I hear the fighting will not begin until to-morrow morning, and it must be later in the day before the wounded begin to come in. So, though you can return and take charge again to-night if you like, there will be really no occasion for you to do so until to-morrow, say at twelve o'clock; but mind, unless you are looking a good deal better, I shall send you off again; my assistants will need all their nerve for the work we are likely to have on hand. Indeed, I must beg you to do so, Miss Brander, nothing is so trying as sitting in idleness. I shall really want your services to-morrow, and for my own sake, as well as yours, I must insist upon my orders being obeyed."

Mary Brander conscientiously tried to carry out the doctor's instructions, walked briskly along the Boulevards, and then going up the Champs Elysées, and turning to the left, went to the edge of the plateau above the river, and there sat down on a bench and looked over the country to the south. There were many groups of people gathered at this point; most of them, doubtless, like herself, had friends in the army gathered outside the walls, and were too anxious and restless to remain indoors; but although her eyes were fixed on the country beyond the forts, Mary Brander did not take in the scene. She was thinking, as she had been for the last two days, and was full of regrets for the past. She had not altogether admitted this to herself, but she knew now that it was so, although she had fought hard and angrily with herself before she owned it.

"He was right," she said to herself bitterly, "when he said that I had not yet discovered that I had a heart as well as a head. We are miserable creatures, we women. A man can go straight on his way through life—he can love, he can marry, but it makes no change in his course. I know I read somewhere that love is but an incident in a man's life, while it is a woman's all, or something of that sort. I laughed at the idea then as absurd—now that it is too late I see it is true. He loved me, or, at least he liked me so much that he thought it was love. I laughed at him, I told him he was not worthy of a woman's love. He went away. Here was an end of it, as far as he was concerned. He lost his property and took to work nobly, and when we met he was just the same as he had been before, and treated me as if I had been a cousin, and has no doubt laughed many a time at the thought of that morning in the garden at Newquay, and indeed thought so little of it that he did not mind my seeing all those sketches of that woman in his note-books.

"There were three or four of them, too, stuck up on the walls of his room. Of course she goes there. He said she was a model. Of course he is fond of her. I should not have thought it of him, but men are wicked and women are fools," she added, after a pause, "and I do think that I am one of the most foolish of them. I am like a child who throws away a toy one minute and cries for it the next. It is horrid, and I am ashamed of myself, downright ashamed. I hate myself to think that just because a man is nice to me, and leaves me two pictures if he is killed, that I am to make myself miserable about him, and to feel that I could give up all my plans in life for his sake. I understand now how it is that women are content to remain what they are. It is because nature made them so. We are like weathercocks, and have no fixed point, but can be turned by a passing breath.

"We have no rights because we are content to remain slaves. Here is my life spoilt. A week ago I was my own mistress and felt as free and independent as any man; now a thrill runs through me at ever cannon-shot. The things that had seemed so important to me then do not occupy a thought now. However, I hope I am not quite a fool. I shall shake it off in time perhaps," and she smiled pitifully, "it will even do me good. I shall understand things better. Anna used to tell me I was intolerant and made no allowance for human nature. I laughed then, but she was right. When this is all over I shall go away. I don't suppose I shall ever see him again, and I will make up my mind not to think of him any more. I wonder what he is doing now, whether his corps went out last night or will go to-day. I hope they won't be in front. They have no right to put volunteers in front when they have got regular soldiers. It is downright wicked that he should have enlisted when it was no business of his. I wonder she let him do it."

Then she broke off, rose to her feet suddenly, and with an angry exclamation, "Mary Brander, you are a weak fool," she started back at a quick pace and with head erect. Again she walked round the Boulevards, and having thoroughly tired herself, made her way home, drank a cup of bouillon made from horse-flesh, went straight to bed and sobbed herself to sleep. She woke up with a start. The house shook with the explosion of heavy guns. She sprang up and went to her window, threw it open, and looked out.