“Yes—in France, during the war. She was a little dancer, about twenty, I should say. I found her weeping and half conscious in the Place Vendôme at four o’clock of a winter morning. There had been an air raid and a great deal of anti-aircraft firing; she had been struck in the foot by a shrapnel falling five thousand meters. I carried her to my billet. . . two months. . . she will never dance again. . . fortunately I was ordered home. . . send her a few francs every month. . . not very much, because I can’t afford much, but she writes. . . breathless moments when I get her letters. . . brains, imagination. . . I think she loves me—always will, perhaps, but it’s no good thinking too much about it. I have gotten over it.” Mellenger blew a succession of smoke rings and watched them float upward to frame a face he would never see again, except in his dreams. And dreams fade as men grow older and the fires of youth burn out.
“And was it worth the price, Mel?”
“No, I knew that in the beginning. No joy that leaves a pain is quite worth having.”
“Yet we will never have done with our longing for the adventure. I suppose that is why men who have never worn a uniform feel their hearts beat high at the sight of homecoming troops.”
“Yes, I think so. But remember, those civilians see only the avenue with the flags flying; they have never seen the wreckage or heard the wail of a funeral march. They’ve only dreamed of that and painted a vision they call the Field of Honor, with a trail across it labeled the Path of Glory. They know it leads to Hell, but they know also that some men escape. You know, Dan, we can always visualize ourselves escaping, because the wish is father to the thought.”
“Well, at any rate, Mel, I have lived to know—one breathless moment.”
“Do not know another, my friend.”
“Believe me, I did not desire to know this one. I—I——”
Mellenger waved his cigar in absolution. “You didn’t have any help at the critical moment. I observed the event. I was sitting in the semi-twilight of this room, thinking—I had asked Julia not to turn on the light except in the hall. And then you and Tamea came in. . . I saw your face, I saw hers. . . . And I had seen the face of the other girl this afternoon. Tamea has told me in so many words, in French, that she is going to land you; that she doesn’t consider Maisie a foeman worthy of her steel. Says Maisie hasn’t got the courage to take that which she desires. Tamea has. I’ll swear to that.”
“There is nothing wrong about that.”