The Red Cross Barge

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

3

When they had reached the middle of the square, the Herr Doktor slackened his pace and looked about him in some perplexity. He suspected the two shells which had fallen so wide to be French shells, and if that were so, there might soon be sharp fighting in the very streets of Valoise. Anxiously he began asking himself which would be the safest shelter for the girl who now stood, silent and rigid, by his side? Should he take her home to the house in the Haute-Ville or down to the Red Cross barge?

Four streets led out of the square. It was clear that the widest must lead more or less straight down to the river. It was along that wider way that Monsieur le Curé, his sable-and-silver vestments flapping in the wind, was now hurrying. Staring after the strange, solitary figure, the Herr Doktor bethought himself uneasily of the old man's words of warning. It might well be true that Jeanne Rouannès would be safer in her Red Cross uniform—safer, that is, from the discourtesy of rough, stern words. Not for a moment did Max Keller fear or admit, even in his innermost heart, that his fellow-countrymen could behave ill to the women of conquered France. To his mind such an accusation was as base as it was baseless. But he knew that many apparently harsh rules and regulations had had to be drawn up concerning the conduct of the civilian population. Most fortunately Jeanne Rouannès, in her Red Cross dress, formed part of an International Society, and thus was assured of exceptional respect and courtesy.

And yet as he stood there, debating quickly within himself what it were best to do, he, Max Keller, felt a jealous pang of repugnance at the thought of the young Frenchwoman being brought in contact with—well, with the Prince Egon type of Prussian officer. Deep in his heart he knew only too well how small was the measure of respect that type of German is prepared to pay to any pretty woman with whom a lucky chance brings him in contact. Governed by that secret, reluctant knowledge, the Herr Doktor at last traced out a certain line of conduct for himself—one, too, which he believed it would be quite easy to carry out. That course was to take Mademoiselle Rouannès back to her own house, after which, having left her safe with old Jacob and Thérèse, he, in his official capacity, would seek out the officer in command of the troops about to occupy Valoise, and obtain a pass for a French Red Cross nurse. With that in his possession, it would surely be easy for them to proceed to Paris in his motor ambulance.

'Which way to your house leads?' he asked quietly.

But even as the words left his lips, there suddenly surged up a loud, confused, and menacing sound. With a strange feeling of fear, strange to Max Keller, for he was a brave man, he realised that it was the curious, sinister clamour caused by the undisciplined tramp of a crowd of hurrying men—a sound differing ominously from that produced by the ordered, measured, rhythmic march of soldiers....

Nearer and nearer came the tramp of thudding, shuffling feet. Jeanne Rouannès moved closer to him, so close that he heard the hoarse, despairing whisper answering her own unuttered question—'Ce sont les Prussiens!'

She was glancing about her this way and that—a wild spasm of dread, that of a trapped creature, in her pale face. But every window in the square had been shuttered, every door locked and barred.

'Shall I go up into the cemetery again?' She spoke in English, her lips hardly moving.

The Herr Doktor looked straight into her face; her eyes were steady, but her lips trembled, and her hands were pressed together. He divined the mingled fear and shame—the shame and fear of being so horribly afraid—which possessed her.