“I do not imagine that you contemplate claiming my name for my son.”
He waited. No one answered him.
“If you should wish a written attestation, I shall be glad to give it. That was all I wanted to say. Père Glorieux,”—he drew out his pocketbook and handed it to the poilu,—“you will find here the address of my mother. The rest—for the necessary masses. Ready, now.”
He turned and, with the spirit of bravado that remained to the end, his heels clicked and his hand came to salute.
“Ahead of me—and walk as I direct you,” said de Saint Omer’s stern voice. “Bernoline, ma petite soeur, prie pour ton frère.”
The last I saw of Von Holwitz was the eternal red and white handkerchief pressed to his cheek,—a man who was going to his death, annoyed at a scratch! They passed and the voice of Père Glorieux cried out,
“Pray for the souls of both of them!”
* * * * *
What happened I have never been able to see quite clearly. They went down the main street, twenty paces between them, and straight to the murderous intersection at the Square. What was the idea in the mediaeval imagination of De Saint Omer; the judgment of God, as by some trial of fire; or, if that failed him, a resort to the duel? I don’t know. Strange as it may seem, it is a question I have never asked. I couldn’t. The past between us two is something buried and protected by the granite weight of suffering. At any rate, it ended there in the Square. Thank God for that!