Bertram felt a little cold chill creep down his spine. These people here were the enemies of England. Some of them, like O’Malley, had killed British officers, not in open fighting, but by cold murder, under the name of “execution.” And they were proud of their exploits, with bright, humorous eyes, not conscience-stricken, as men with red crimes on their hands, but as men who had done well in the cause of some divine ideal. They used even the name of God with a sense of alliance.
“God is working for Ireland,” said Mr. Mahony. “The sacrifice of our boys is not ignored by Him who died on the Cross to save mankind.”
Bertram felt the blood surge to his brain at these words. He wanted to stand up and denounce them as blasphemy. To him it was inconceivable that a man like Mahony, a gentleman, a mild-eyed man, a good Catholic, could defend the Sicilian methods of the Irish Republicans in the very name of Christ—who spoke words of peace and pity, who said “Thou shalt not kill,” whose Gospel was Love. He half rose from his chair to make a violent and passionate protest, when the words were taken from him by a newcomer, brought into the room by Betty O’Brien.
“Uncle—here is Mr. Lajeunesse.”
The man who bore the name of “Youth” was an old gentleman of seventy or more, with a shock of grey hair and a pointed beard, and a delicate, life-worn face. His eyes, surrounded by a thousand wrinkles, twinkled with the light of irony, and it was with irony that he greeted Mr. Mahony.
“I hear you mention the name of Christ, my dear friend! Doubtless you are quoting the Master’s words to defend militarism and the right of assassination in special cases? During the Great War, when we murdered each other wholesale, Christianity was of great value to Army Commanders, on both sides of the line. I think the Germans were most successful in using Christ as a propagandist among the troops. But we did pretty well with the same idea. . . . Good evening, Miss Susy! My little Irish rose still blooms in Paris?”
The old man kissed the girl on both cheeks with the privilege of his years, but also with the gallantry of a Frenchman who pays homage to beauty. And Susan’s roses deepened.
The three young Irishmen had left their chairs when he entered. They bowed low over his hand and Mr. Mahony addressed him as cher maître, and did not resent his irony. It was Eugène Lajeunesse, and Bertram felt a thrill at being in the presence of a man whose books, so wise, so witty, so wicked, so full of tenderness to humanity, and yet so cruel in tearing down the faith of simple folk, had made him famous throughout the world. Alone in France during the War, he had maintained his faith as an international pacifist, and not all the outrages of Les Boches, nor all the agony of France had made him swerve from the belief that the war was only one more proof of human stupidity.
He brought with him a young Frenchman, blind in one eye and partly paralysed, it seemed, on one side, so that he walked with difficulty, using a stick, but wonderfully vivacious and good-humoured.
Eugène Lajeunesse introduced him to the company.