“Oh, Lord, I’ve done nothing,” said the boy. “Fact is, I’ve been talking tripe. Forget it.”
But I did not forget, and remembered every word later, when I heard his laughter, on Armistice night.
A despatch-rider stood outside the door in his muddy overalls, and Brand went to get his message. It was from Pierre Nesle.
“I am mad with joy that you have found Marthe! Alas, I cannot get back for a week. Tell her that I am still her devoted comrade and loving brother. Pierre.”
Brand handed me the slip and said, “Poor devil!” I went back to my billet in Madame Chéri’s house, and she made no allusion to our conversation in the afternoon, but was anxious, I thought, to assure me of her friendship by special little courtesies, as when she lighted my candle and carried it upstairs before saying Good night. Hélène was learning English fast and furiously, and with her arms round her mother’s waist, said, “Sleep well, sir, and very good dreams to you!” which I imagine was a sentence out of her text-book.
XV
They were great days—in the last two weeks before the Armistice! For me, and for many men, they were days of exultation, wild adventure, pity, immense hope, tremendous scenes uplifted by a sense of victory; though for others, the soldiers who did the dirty work, brought up lorry columns through the mud of the old battlefields, far behind our new front line, carried on still with the hard old drudgery of war, they were days not marked out by any special jubilation, or variety, or hope, but just like all the others that had gone before since first they came to France.