“Why, you’re not frightened like that silly lot from Armentières?”
But the terror-stricken faces and bandaged heads of those civilians in the lorry, who had so narrowly escaped the battle, had broken Berthe’s nerve—which was never the equal of Madeleine’s. She shouldered her bundle.
“I’m going!” she said simply.
Madeleine was not accustomed to being disobeyed, and there is no knowing what she might not have done had she not been in a hurry herself.
“Very well, go then! Tell the Picquart family to lock up the sheds. I’m going after the patron!”
“The Picquarts are gone, this half-hour, with their things in the wheelbarrow!”
Just then the breeze that stirs at dusk blew open the door, and there entered into the darkening passage with startling nearness the rat-tat-tat-tat-tat of German machine guns. Madeleine flung away: “Go and burst yourselves as quick as possible, heap of dirtiness!” she cried, and set off at a run for the château.
The village seemed even more ominous than before, now it was half dark, and not a light in the abandoned houses. Some English transport was crossing the square, however, with the patient sour look of men going “into it” again—“it,” the battle. She turned into the steep silent alley that led through the iron grille, to the “drive” of the château, and broke into a run again on the smooth gravel. She had not gone twenty yards before she jumped as if shot. A black figure had risen behind the trunk of a tree with a sharp “Hish!” She fell sideways, clutching an elm sapling that bent with her, staring. The figure made two steps towards her, and she, petrified, could only maintain her balance and stare. Then with infinite relief she heard: “Tiens, it’s you, Madeleine! What do you want?”
“Why, Monsieur le Baron, I didn’t know you!”
“Be quiet then. There is some one wandering round the château. It may be the Bosche!”