The Outrage Part 27

Whatever the words were, they had saved him, and he made up his mind that for the time being he would use no others. A little later he added one other word to his repertoire, and that was _Meschugge_, which is Berlin dialect for mad. He himself had no faint idea of what it meant, but he heard it p.r.o.nounced, evidently in regard to himself, by the Prussian Lieutenant in whose charge he was conducted back to the German lines.

"_Die Flundern werden sich wundern_," and "_Meschugge_." With those six words, murmured at intervals once or twice in a day, he got through the rear lines of the German army, and through a brief stay in a camp hospital, and finally into a Liege infirmary. Those who heard him knew there could be no mistake. He was no Belgian and no Frenchman. Of all words in the rich German vocabulary, of all lines of German verse or song, no foreigner in the world could ever have hit on just these. None but a true son of the Fatherland--indeed none but a pure-blooded _Berliner_--would have even known what they meant.

"_Ein famoser Kerl_," was this young Adonis, who had turned up from heaven knows where in a blanket and a pair of boots. "_Ein ganz famoser Kerl!_" And they clapped him on the shoulders. "_Er lebe hoch!_"

Thus it came about that the Water-corpse and Melanie of the Cafe des Westens unwittingly saved the life of a gallant Belgian soldier. And as this is the only good deed they are ever likely to perform, may it stand to their credit on the Day of Judgment when they are summoned to account for their wretched and unprofitable lives.

CHAPTER XXI

On the 1st of May the Ourthe and the Aisne, each with a crisp Spring wave to its waters, came together at Bomal. "Here I am, as fresh as ever," said the frisky little Aisne.

"Oh, come off the rocks," grumbled the Ourthe, elbowing her way towards the bridge, "and don't be so gus.h.i.+ng."

"There's a stork pa.s.sing over us with a May-baby in his beak," bubbled the Aisne.

"A good thing if he dropped it. Here I am very deep," quoth the Ourthe.

The Aisne, who was not deep at all, did not understand the quibble. "How very blue you are!" she gurgled. "What is the matter? Is it going to rain?"

"If it does, mind you keep to your bed," retorted the Ourthe sarcastically.

"I won't. I am coming into yours," plashed the Aisne; and did so.

"Oh! The Meuse take you!" grumbled the Ourthe foaming and swelling.

And they went on together, quarrelling all the way to Liege, where the Meuse took them both.

The stork flew across the bridge, and stopped over Dr. Brandes's house.

"Open your eyes, little human child," said the stork. "This is where you are born."

"Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover...." sang Nurse Elliot, of the American Red Cross, rocking the cradle with her foot and looking dreamily out of the window. From where she sat she could catch a glimpse of the Bomal church steeple and the swaying tops of the trees in the cemetery.

"Perhaps this poor lamb would be better off if it were already asleep over there under those trees," reflected Nurse Caroline Elliot. And as if in a.s.sent, the infant in the cradle uttered a melancholy wail.

Nurse Elliot immediately began to sing Bliss Carman's May-song:

Day comes, May comes, One who was away comes, All the world is fair again, Fair and kind to me.

Day comes, May comes, One who was away comes, Set his place at hearth and board As it used to be.

May comes, day comes, One who was away comes, Higher are the hills of home, Bluer is the sea.

The baby soon gave up all attempt to compete with the powerful American contralto, and with puckered brow and tiny clenched fist went mournfully to sleep again. He had been in the world just seven days and had not found much to rejoice over. Life seemed to consist of a good deal of noise and discomfort and b.u.mping about. There seemed to be not much food, a great deal of singing, and a variety of aches. "I wish I were back in the land of Neverness," wept the baby, "lying in the cup of a lotus-flower in the blue morning of inexistence."

The stork, still standing on one leg on the roof resting from its journey, heard this and said: "Never mind. Cheer up. It is not for long."

"For how long is it?" asked the baby anxiously.

"Oh, less than a hundred years," said the stork, combing the feathers of its breast with its beak.

Then the baby wept even more bitterly. "Why? Why, for so short a time?"

it cried.

"You bother me," said the stork; and flew away.

And the cradle rocked and the baby wept and Miss Caroline Elliot sang.

They had arrived in Bomal ten days before--Louise, Cherie and Mireille--after a nightmare journey, through Holland and Flanders. At the station in Liege, Cherie, who was very ill, aroused the compa.s.sionate attention of the American Red Cross nurses and they obtained permission to bring her in a motor ambulance to Bomal. Nurse Elliot, a tall kind woman, accompanied her, and was permitted to remain with her and a.s.sist her during the ordeal of the ensuing days.

On their arrival Louise had not come straight to the house. She had not dared to bring Mireille to her home. She feared she knew not what. Would the child recognize the place? Would the unconscious eyes perceive and recognize the surroundings that had witnessed her martyrdom? What effect might such a shock have on that stricken, sensitive soul?... Louise felt unable to face any new emotions after the fatigue and misery of the journey and the hourly anxiety in regard to Cherie.

So she accompanied Mireille to the home of their old friend, Madame Dore.

Doubtful of the welcome she would receive, fearful of the changes she might find, Louise knocked with trembling hand at the door of her old friend's house.

Madame Dore herself opened the door to her. But--was this Madame Dore?

This haggard, white-haired woman, who stared at her with such startled eyes?

"Madame Dore! It is I--Louise and little Mireille! Do you not recognize us?"

"Hus.h.!.+ Come in." The woman drew them quickly into the pa.s.sage and locked the door. Her eyes had a roving, frightened look, and every now and then a nervous spasm contracted her face.

"Oh my dear, my dear," said Louise, embracing her with tears.

Locked in Madame Dore's bedroom--for the terrorized woman had the obsession of being constantly watched and spied upon--Louise heard her friend's tragic story and recounted her own. With pitying tears Madame Dore caressed Mireille's soft hair and a.s.sured Louise that it would be a joy for her and for Jeannette to keep her with them.

"Dear little Jeannette!" exclaimed Louise. "How glad I shall be to see her again. Is she well?"

Yes. Jeannette was well.

"And Cecile--? You say she is in England?"

"Yes. She went with four or five other women from Bomal and Hamoir. She could not live here any longer; her heart was broken. She never got over the murder of her brother Andre"--the painful spasm distorted the careworn face again--"you knew that he was shot by the side of the poor old Cure that night in the Place de l'eglise?"

Yes. Louise knew. And she pressed the hand of her old friend with compa.s.sionate tenderness. They talked of all their friends and acquaintances. The storm had swept over them, wrecking, ruining and scattering them far and wide.

"Hush, listen!" whispered Madame Dore, suddenly grasping Louise's arm.

Outside they could hear the measured tread of feet and the sound of loud voices, the loathed and dreaded German voices raised in talk and laughter.

"Our masters!" whispered Madame Dore. "They enter our houses when they choose, they come in the middle of the night and rummage through our things. They take away our money and our jewels. They read our letters, they order us about and insult us. We cannot speak or think or breathe without their knowledge and permission. They are constantly threatening us with imprisonment or with deportation. We are slaves and half-starved. Ah!" cried the unhappy woman, "why did I not have the courage to go with Cecile to England? I don't know ... I felt old, old and frightened.... And now Jeannette and I are here as in a prison, and Cecile is far away and alone."