April, 1918
For weeks, ever since the staggering nightmare of the German thrust in March, we have been marching and counter-marching, entraining and debarking, living in a delirium. I have had no news from home in ages. Heaven only knows where my mail has gone. I can only scribble down a note here and there and wait for a moment that never comes. The war has seen nothing to match this hideous driving tempest of massed artillery. I have ceased to think or to wonder what is in store for me. The imagination, like the body, yields to fatigue and ceases to respond.
* * * * *
We have come back from beyond the English lines to a position of support at X——. The second thrust has rolled through us as it did through the English. Can it be stopped? I begin to lose faith. The sight of this army of refugees streaming through us is heart-breaking. Poor souls, now twice dispossessed from their homes! We have lost in these days all that we fought to recover. No wonder that bitterness has entered our souls: only De Saint Omer remains unfaltering in his faith, cheerful and inspired. But it is not so with the others.
* * * * *
To-morrow I shall have letters from home. An orderly is returning from Paris, and he will stop at the bank for my mail. Thank heaven! Even if it is denied me ever to see home again, it is like a ray of light at the end of winter to know that there is somewhere a calm green world, where Bernoline, Molly and Anne exist.
* * * * *
We go forward in relief to-morrow at daybreak. The tension is terrible.
II
Taunton, February
Dear David:
A terrible thing has happened. My head is in a whirl—oh, my poor lovely Mademoiselle Duvernoy! How shall I tell you? I’m afraid I’m so upset by it all that I shan’t be able to write you anything coherently. I still can’t understand. It all happened so suddenly to-night, only a few hours ago.
We had a member of the visiting French Commission in for dinner,—quite informally. Father telephoned at the last minute he was bringing him and I had forgotten to mention it (Mademoiselle Duvernoy has always been unwilling to come down when guests were present). I was in the salon, alone with General de Villers-Costa—that is his name and a very distinguished and handsome officer he is—when Mademoiselle Duvernoy came abruptly in, humming to herself. We were so placed that she did not see the General until she was almost on him, and then,—I thought she was going to fall. As for him, he looked as though he had seen a ghost!
David, they recognized each other! I heard them cry,
“Bernoline—Mademoiselle de Saint Omer—vous ici!”
“Jacques—pour l’amour de Dieu, pas un mot!”
Then they stood together for a moment, talking very low and rapidly, and, at the end, Mademoiselle Duvernoy went by me without seeing me and up to her room, and General de Villers-Costa stood at the window a long while, while I waited, feeling as though the sky had fallen on me. When he turned he came directly towards me, his eyes very red, in a terrible state of excitement, and said:
“Mademoiselle Brinsmade, as you are a true and loyal woman, I beg you to forget what you have seen and heard.”
I nodded. I couldn’t say a word and I think tears were in my eyes.
“Mademoiselle” (in his nervousness he kept pulling at his handkerchief), “did you hear the name I pronounced?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
This seemed to overwhelm him completely, for it was a long moment before he could continue.
“Mademoiselle—will you believe me that it is all a mistake—an astounding mistake—and will you, in charity—I ask of you—forget it?”
“I love Mademoiselle Duvernoy,” I said. “I never could do anything to hurt her.”
At that moment the others came in. I hurried upstairs, but she was not in her room. I ran out in the garden, and, at the end of the walk, I found her sitting, and oh, David,—the look on her face! I flung my arms about her and wept as though my heart would break and, for the first time, tears came to her too, and we clung to each other. She has told me nothing, though I know she loves me dearly, but just goes about staring in a numbed sort of way. David, what does it mean? What awful tragedy is in her life,—in the life of that dear little saint! David, I looked up her name in the Almanach de Gotha, and there is only one family of that name, the Duc Henri Plessis de Saint Omer: four sons, and—Bernoline Marie Renée Plessis de Saint Omer! Is it possible that—
* * * * *
David, just as I was writing, she came into my room, and oh, David, she has told me all. There have been times when I suspected but I am overwhelmed. I must try to set it down as it happened, for she wishes me to write to you.
I was so buried in my letter that I had not heard her entrance until I felt her hand on my shoulder and looked up to see her at my side. My face, I know, went red, and involuntarily I tried to cover up my letter.
“You have written it to David!” she said, looking into my eyes.
And then I guessed! All that I have merely wondered at—put out of my mind as impossible, as fantastic, flashed back. I knew, and she knew that I knew, for she said swiftly:
“He is the man that I have loved as I have never loved any one in my life.”
I write it to you, as she said it, as you have the right to know.
“And whom I shall never see again,” she added. “It is better that you should write it, dear child.”
I flung myself in her arms and begged her forgiveness, not knowing what I did. I won’t tell you all she said, David, only that I know now how you love her, for who could help loving her.
Later
The terrible, terrible thing is that she is going away. I have pleaded with her to stay as my friend: think what it must have been to her pride all these months—but nothing can move her. There is something mysterious under it all, something dreadful—I don’t dare ask—that I feel no one has a right to know.
* * * * *
That night, she came down to dinner. I was so broken up when I saw her enter that I couldn’t look at her, and the General stopped short and then began to talk rapidly. She came to me presently, and, in the same quiet tone, said:
“Anne, dear, I count on your help to-night. Be calm, dear, and after dinner,—I must speak to General de Villers-Costa.”
Her control was absolute, yet I wonder that every one did not see the change, for it was no longer Mademoiselle Duvernoy who was in the room, but Bernoline, daughter of the Duke de St. Omer. Beyond that there was not a trace of emotion in face or manner. She must have a will of iron!
Dinner over, I managed to signal the General, and the three of us went into the garden together until we were well hidden from the house.
“And now, Anne, dear, thank you, and may I ask you to wait for us here just a moment. Monsieur de Villers-Costa, will you walk with me a little ahead?”
It must have been at least ten minutes before they returned, and the General was so evidently upset that he could not say a word as we came back. At the terrace Mademoiselle de Saint Omer turned and said, with the gracious smile which is hers alone,
“In this sad day I am fortunate in having two such loyal friends in whom I have perfect trust.”
Wasn’t that fine of her: not a question of our promising,—just trust! Then she went into the house, but as I started to follow her, the General stopped me.
“Mademoiselle—I beg of you—just a moment. I haven’t that strength—a moment to get hold of myself.”
“I, too,” I said hastily, and we went and leaned over the balustrade, without a word.
“Thank you,” he said, at last, drawing himself up. “I can go in, now.” And he added, with a little touch of pride I loved, “Such are our women, Mademoiselle,—do you wonder that we fight on?”
* * * * *
She left to-day. Every one is terribly broken up,—even the servants, who, I think, instinctively felt her quality. She is returning to the convent in New York, but I think her intention is to sail for France. I feel so helpless, and so alone.
* * * * *
I could not write you last night and had to put my pen down. I don’t know when I have been so completely broken up. It seems all so hideously unjust. She told me that she had written you, for the last time, but I cannot believe that. Surely, there must be some way out; life can’t be so cruel as that. David, my dear friend, will you believe me that I have thought of you all these days and that my heart goes out to you?
The shock must have been terrible to her, for everything about her seemed absolutely petrified and her eyes looked at you with such a dry, such a burning heat. She never seemed to know she was talking to us or to be aware of what was around her. Her whole mind is concentrated on some fixed resolve. That is the terrible part,—with all my love, I cannot help her!
I shall not forget her last words when I caught her hands and implored her a last time not to go.
“I have failed: and this is my punishment.”
Whatever can she mean, David, and what is it she is planning to do?
New York
Just a last line. I am sailing next week for France. I have enlisted for the war in the Red Cross as a hospital assistant. Father has arranged all for me, like the dear that he is,—without a single objection. And what do you think: I have seen Mademoiselle Duvernoy, and we are going over on the same boat! I know that this will be some comfort to you, for, David, I, too, love her, and I know she loves me, and is glad that I am to be with her. My address in Paris is below: it is quicker, they tell me, than the Red Cross. If you are in Paris before I go to my post, do come to me, David.
Anne.