Somewhere In France

Somewhere In France

Marie Gessler, known as Marie Chaumontel, Jeanne d'Avrechy,
the Countess d'Aurillac, was German. Her father, who served
through the Franco-Prussian War, was a German spy. It was
from her mother she learned to speak French sufficiently well
to satisfy even an Academician and, among Parisians, to pass
as one. Both her parents were dead. Before they departed,
knowing they could leave their daughter nothing save their
debts, they had had her trained as a nurse. But when they
were gone, Marie in the Berlin hospitals played politics,
intrigued, indiscriminately misused the appealing, violet
eyes. There was a scandal; several scandals. At the age of
twenty-five she was dismissed from the Municipal Hospital,
and as now-save for the violet eyes--she was without resources,
as a compagnon de voyage with a German doctor she travelled
to Monte Carlo. There she abandoned the doctor for Henri
Ravignac, a captain in the French Aviation Corps, who,
when his leave ended, escorted her to Paris.

The duties of Captain Ravignac kept him in barracks near the
aviation field, but Marie he established in his apartments on the
Boulevard Haussmann. One day he brought from the barracks a
roll of blue-prints, and as he was locking them in a drawer, said:
"The Germans would pay through the nose for those!" The remark
was indiscreet, but then Marie had told him she was French, and
any one would have believed her.

The next morning the same spirit of adventure that had exiled her
from the Berlin hospitals carried her with the blue-prints to the
German embassy. There, greatly shocked, they first wrote down her
name and address, and then, indignant at her proposition, ordered
her out. But the day following a strange young German who was
not at all indignant, but, on the contrary, quite charming, called
upon Marie. For the blue-prints he offered her a very large sum,
and that same hour with them and Marie departed for Berlin. Marie
did not need the money. Nor did the argument that she was serving
her country greatly impress her. It was rather that she loved intrigue.
And so she became a spy.

Henri Ravignac, the man she had robbed of the blue-prints, was tried
by court-martial. The charge was treason, but Charles Ravignac, his
younger brother, promised to prove that the guilty one was the girl,
and to that end obtained leave of absence and spent much time and
money. At the trial he was able to show the record of Marie in
Berlin and Monte Carlo; that she was the daughter of a German
secret agent; that on the afternoon the prints disappeared Marie,
with an agent of the German embassy, had left Paris for Berlin.
In consequence of this the charge of selling military secrets was
altered to one of "gross neglect," and Henri Ravignac was sentenced
to two years in the military prison at Tours. But he was of an ancient
and noble family, and when they came to take him from his cell in the
Cherche-Midi, he was dead. Charles, his brother, disappeared. It was
said he also had killed himself; that he had been appointed a military
attache in South America; that to revenge his brother he had entered
the secret service; but whatever became of him no one knew. All that
was certain was that, thanks to the act of Marie Gessler, on the rolls
of the French army the ancient and noble name of Ravignac no longer
appeared.

In her chosen profession Marie Gessler found nothing discreditable.
Of herself her opinion was not high, and her opinion of men was
lower. For her smiles she had watched several sacrifice honor, duty,
loyalty; and she held them and their kind in contempt. To lie, to
cajole, to rob men of secrets they thought important, and of secrets
the importance of which they did not even guess, was to her merely
an intricate and exciting game.

She played it very well. So well that in the service her advance
was rapid. On important missions she was sent to Russia, through
the Balkans; even to the United States. There, with credentials
as an army nurse, she inspected our military hospitals and
unobtrusively asked many innocent questions.

When she begged to be allowed to work in her beloved Paris,
"they" told her when war came "they" intended to plant her
inside that city, and that, until then, the less Paris knew of
her the better.

But just before the great war broke, to report on which way Italy
might jump, she was sent to Rome, and it was not until September
she was recalled. The telegram informed her that her Aunt
Elizabeth was ill, and that at once she must return to Berlin.
This, she learned from the code book wrapped under the cover
of her thermos bottle, meant that she was to report to the general
commanding the German forces at Soissons.

From Italy she passed through Switzerland, and, after leaving Basle,
on military trains was rushed north to Luxemburg, and then west to
Laon. She was accompanied by her companion, Bertha, an elderly
and respectable, even distinguished-looking female. In the secret
service her number was 528. Their passes from the war office
described them as nurses of the German Red Cross. Only the
Intelligence Department knew their real mission. With her, also,
as her chauffeur, was a young Italian soldier of fortune, Paul
Anfossi. He had served in the Belgian Congo, in the French
Foreign Legion in Algiers, and spoke all the European languages.
In Rome, where as a wireless operator he was serving a commercial
company, in selling Marie copies of messages he had memorized,
Marie had found him useful, and when war came she obtained
for him, from the Wilhelmstrasse, the number 292. From Laon,
in one of the automobiles of the General Staff, the three spies
were driven first to Soissons, and then along the road to Meaux
and Paris, to the village of Neufchelles. They arrived at midnight,
and in a chateau of one of the Champagne princes, found the
colonel commanding the Intelligence Bureau. He accepted their
credentials, destroyed them, and replaced them with a laissez-
passer signed by the mayor of Laon. That dignitary, the colonel
explained, to citizens of Laon fleeing to Paris and the coast had
issued many passes. But as now between Laon and Paris there were
three German armies, the refugees had been turned back and their
passes confiscated.

"From among them," said the officer, "we have selected one for
you. It is issued to the wife of Count d'Aurillac, a captain of
reserves, and her aunt, Madame Benet. It asks for those ladies
and their chauffeur, Briand, a safe-conduct through the French
military lines. If it gets you into Paris you will destroy it and
assume another name. The Count d'Aurillac is now with his
regiment in that city. If he learned of the presence there of his
wife, he would seek her, and that would not be good for you. So,
if you reach Paris, you will become a Belgian refugee. You are
high-born and rich. Your chateau has been destroyed. But you
have money. You will give liberally to the Red Cross. You will
volunteer to nurse in the hospitals. With your sad story of ill
treatment by us, with your high birth, and your knowledge of
nursing, which you acquired, of course, only as an amateur, you
should not find it difficult to join the Ladies of France, or the
American Ambulance. What you learn from the wounded English
and French officers and the French doctors you will send us through
the usual channels."

"When do I start?" asked the woman.

"For a few days," explained the officer, "you remain in this chateau.
You will keep us informed of what is going forward after we
withdraw."

"Withdraw?" It was more of an exclamation than a question. Marie
was too well trained to ask questions.

"We are taking up a new position," said the officer, "on the
Aisne."

The woman, incredulous, stared.

"And we do not enter Paris?"

"You do," returned the officer. "That is all that concerns you.
We will join you later--in the spring. Meanwhile, for the winter
we intrench ourselves along the Aisne. In a chimney of this
chateau we have set up a wireless outfit. We are leaving it intact.
The chauffeur Briand--who, you must explain to the French, you
brought with you from Laon, and who has been long in your
service--will transmit whatever you discover. We wish especially
to know of any movement toward our left. If they attack in front
from Soissons, we are prepared; but of any attempt to cross the
Oise and take us in flank you must warn us."

The officer rose and hung upon himself his field-glasses,
map-cases, and side-arms.

"We leave you now," he said. "When the French arrive you will
tell them your reason for halting at this chateau was that the owner,
Monsieur Iverney, and his family are friends of your husband. You
found us here, and we detained you. And so long as you can use the
wireless, make excuses to remain. If they offer to send you on to Paris,
tell them your aunt is too ill to travel."

"But they will find the wireless," said the woman. "They are sure to
use the towers for observation, and they will find it."

"In that case," said the officer, "you will suggest to them that
we fled in such haste we had no time to dismantle it. Of course,
you had no knowledge that it existed, or, as a loyal French woman,
you would have at once told them." To emphasize his next words
the officer pointed at her: "Under no circumstances," he continued,
"must you be suspected. If they should take Briand in the act,
should they have even the least doubt concerning him, you must
repudiate him entirely. If necessary, to keep your own skirts clear,
it would be your duty yourself to denounce him as a spy."

"Your first orders," said the woman, "were to tell them Briand had
been long in my service; that I brought him from my home in Laon."

"He might be in your service for years," returned the colonel,
"and you not know he was a German agent."

"If to save myself I inform upon him," said Marie, "of course you
know you will lose him."

The officer shrugged his shoulders. "A wireless operator," he
retorted, "we can replace. But for you, and for the service you
are to render in Paris, we have no substitute. You must not be
found out. You are invaluable."

The spy inclined her head. "I thank you," she said.

The officer sputtered indignantly.

"It is not a compliment," he exclaimed; "it is an order. You must
not be found out!"

Withdrawn some two hundred yards from the Paris road, the
chateau stood upon a wooded hill. Except directly in front,
trees of great height surrounded it. The tips of their branches
brushed the windows; interlacing, they continued until they
overhung the wall of the estate. Where it ran with the road the
wall gave way to a lofty gate and iron fence, through which those
passing could see a stretch of noble turf, as wide as a polo-field,
borders of flowers disappearing under the shadows of the trees;
and the chateau itself, with its terrace, its many windows, its
high-pitched, sloping roof, broken by towers and turrets.

Through the remainder of the night there came from the road to
those in the chateau the roar and rumbling of the army in retreat.
It moved without panic, disorder, or haste, but unceasingly. Not
for an instant was there a breathing-spell. And when the sun rose,
the three spies--the two women and the chauffeur--who in the great
chateau were now alone, could see as well as hear the gray column
of steel rolling past below them.

The spies knew that the gray column had reached Claye, had stood
within fifteen miles of Paris, and then upon Paris had turned its
back. They knew also that the reverberations from the direction
of Meaux, that each moment grew more loud and savage, were the
French "seventy-fives" whipping the gray column forward. Of what
they felt the Germans did not speak. In silence they looked at each
other, and in the eyes of Marie was bitterness and resolve.

Toward noon Marie met Anfossi in the great drawing-room that
stretched the length of the terrace and from the windows of which,
through the park gates, they could see the Paris road.

"This, that is passing now," said Marie, "is the last of our rear-guard.
Go to your tower," she ordered, "and send word that except for
stragglers and the wounded our column has just passed through
NeufchelIes, and that any moment we expect the French." She
raised her hand impressively. "From now," she warned, "we
speak French, we think French, we are French!"

Anfossi, or Briand, as now he called himself, addressed her in
that language. His tone was bitter. "Pardon my lese-majesty," he
said, "but this chief of your Intelligence Department is a dummer
Mensch. He is throwing away a valuable life."

Marie exclaimed in dismay. She placed her hand upon his arm, and
the violet eyes filled with concern.

"Not yours!" she protested.

"Absolutely!" returned the Italian. "I can send nothing by this
knapsack wireless that they will not learn from others; from airmen,
Uhlans, the peasants in the fields. And certainly I will be caught.
Dead I am dead, but alive and in Paris the opportunities are unending.
From the French Legion Etranger I have my honorable discharge. I
am an expert wireless operator and in their Signal Corps I can easily
find a place. Imagine me, then, on the Eiffel Tower. From the air I
snatch news from all of France, from the Channel, the North Sea.
You and I could work together, as in Rome. But here, between the
lines, with a pass from a village sous-prefet, it is ridiculous. I am
not afraid to die. But to die because some one else is stupid, that is
hard."

Marie clasped his hand in both of hers.

"You must not speak of death," she cried; "you know I must carry out
my orders, that I must force you to take this risk. And you know that
thought of harm to you tortures me!"

Quickly the young man disengaged his hand. The woman exclaimed
with anger.

"Why do you doubt me?" she cried.

Briand protested vehemently.

"I do not doubt you."

"My affection, then?" In a whisper that carried with it the
feeling of a caress Marie added softly: "My love?"

The young man protested miserably. "You make it very hard,
mademoiselle," he cried. "You are my superior officer, I am your
servant. Who am I that I should share with others--"

The woman interrupted eagerly.

"Ah, you are jealous!" she cried. "Is that why you are so cruel?
But when I tell you I love you, and only you, can you not feel it
is the truth?"

The young man frowned unhappily.

"My duty, mademoiselle!" he stammered.

With an exclamation of anger Marie left him. As the door slammed
behind her, the young man drew a deep breath. On his face was the
expression of ineffable relief.

In the hall Marie met her elderly companion, Bertha, now her
aunt, Madame Benet.

"I heard you quarrelling," Bertha protested. "It is most indiscreet.
It is not in the part of the Countess d'Aurillac that she makes love
to her chauffeur."

Marie laughed noiselessly and drew her farther down the hall. "He
is imbecile!" she exclaimed. "He will kill me with his solemn face
and his conceit. I make love to him--yes--that he may work the
more willingly. But he will have none of it. He is jealous of the
others."

Madame Benet frowned.

"He resents the others," she corrected. "I do not blame him. He is
a gentleman!"

"And the others," demanded Marie; "were they not of the most
noble families of Rome?"

"I am old and I am ugly," said Bertha, "but to me Anfossi is
always as considerate as he is to you who are so beautiful."

"An Italian gentleman," returned Marie, "does not serve in
Belgian Congo unless it is--the choice of that or the marble
quarries."

"I do not know what his past may be," sighed Madame Benet,
"nor do I ask. He is only a number, as you and I are only numbers.
And I beg you to let us work in harmony. At such a time your
love-affairs threaten our safety. You must wait."

Marie laughed insolently. "With the Du Barry," she protested, "I
can boast that I wait for no man."

"No," replied the older woman; "you pursue him!"

Marie would have answered sharply, but on the instant her
interest was diverted. For one week, by day and night, she had
lived in a world peopled only by German soldiers. Beside her
in the railroad carriage, on the station platforms, at the windows
of the trains that passed the one in which she rode, at the grade
crossings, on the bridges, in the roads that paralleled the tracks,
choking the streets of the villages and spread over the fields of
grain, she had seen only the gray-green uniforms. Even her
professional eye no longer distinguished regiment from regiment,
dragoon from grenadier, Uhlan from Hussar or Landsturm.
Stripes, insignia, numerals, badges of rank, had lost their meaning.
Those who wore them no longer were individuals. They were not
even human. During the three last days the automobile, like a
motor-boat fighting the tide, had crept through a gray-green
river of men, stained, as though from the banks, by mud and
yellow clay. And for hours, while the car was blocked, and in
fury the engine raced and purred, the gray-green river had rolled
past her, slowly but as inevitably as lava down the slope of a
volcano, bearing on its surface faces with staring eyes, thousands
and thousands of eyes, some fierce and bloodshot, others filled
with weariness, homesickness, pain. At night she still saw them:
the white faces under the sweat and dust, the eyes dumb, inarticulate,
asking the answer. She had been suffocated by German soldiers, by
the mass of them, engulfed and smothered; she had stifled in a land
inhabited only by gray-green ghosts.

And suddenly, as though a miracle had been wrought, she saw upon
the lawn, riding toward her, a man in scarlet, blue, and silver. One
man riding alone.

Approaching with confidence, but alert; his reins fallen, his hands
nursing his carbine, his eyes searched the shadows of the trees, the
empty windows, even the sun-swept sky. His was the new face at
the door, the new step on the floor. And the spy knew had she
beheld an army corps it would have been no more significant,
no more menacing, than the solitary chasseur a cheval scouting
in advance of the enemy.

"We are saved!" exclaimed Marie, with irony. "Go quickly," she
commanded, "to the bedroom on the second floor that opens upon
the staircase, so that you can see all who pass. You are too ill
to travel. They must find you in bed."

"And you?" said Bertha.

"I," cried Marie rapturously, "hasten to welcome our preserver!"

The preserver was a peasant lad. Under the white dust his cheeks
were burned a brown-red, his eyes, honest and blue, through much
staring at the skies and at horizon lines, were puckered and
encircled with tiny wrinkles. Responsibility had made him older
than his years, and in speech brief. With the beautiful lady who
with tears of joy ran to greet him, and who in an ecstasy of
happiness pressed her cheek against the nose of his horse, he was
unimpressed. He returned to her her papers and gravely echoed her
answers to his questions. "This chateau," he repeated, "was
occupied by their General Staff; they have left no wounded here;
you saw the last of them pass a half-hour since." He gathered up
his reins.

Marie shrieked in alarm. "You will not leave us?" she cried.

For the first time the young man permitted himself to smile.
"Others arrive soon," he said.

He touched his shako, wheeled his horse in the direction from
which he had come, and a minute later Marie heard the hoofs
echoing through the empty village.

When they came, the others were more sympathetic. Even in
times of war a beautiful woman is still a beautiful woman. And
the staff officers who moved into the quarters so lately occupied
by
the enemy found in the presence of the Countess d'Aurillac
nothing to distress them. In the absence of her dear friend,
Madame Iverney, the chatelaine of the chateau, she acted as their
hostess. Her chauffeur showed the company cooks the way to the
kitchen, the larder, and the charcoal-box. She, herself, in the
hands of General Andre placed the keys of the famous wine-cellar,
and to the surgeon, that the wounded might be freshly bandaged,
intrusted those of the linen-closet. After the indignities she had
suffered while "detained" by les Boches, her delight and relief at
again finding herself under the protection of her own people would
have touched a heart of stone. And the hearts of the staff were not
of stone. It was with regret they gave the countess permission to
continue on her way. At this she exclaimed with gratitude. She
assured them, were her aunt able to travel, she would immediately
depart.

"In Paris she will be more comfortable than here," said the kind
surgeon. He was a reservist, and in times of peace a fashionable
physician and as much at his ease in a boudoir as in a field
hospital. "Perhaps if I saw Madam Benet?"

At the suggestion the countess was overjoyed. But they found
Madame Benet in a state of complete collapse. The conduct of
the Germans had brought about a nervous breakdown.

"Though the bridges are destroyed at Meaux," urged the surgeon,
"even with a detour, you can be in Paris in four hours. I think it is
worth the effort."

But the mere thought of the journey threw Madame Benet into
hysterics. She asked only to rest, she begged for an opiate to
make her sleep. She begged also that they would leave the door
open, so that when she dreamed she was still in the hands of the
Germans, and woke in terror, the sound of the dear French voices
and the sight of the beloved French uniforms might reassure her.
She played her part well. Concerning her Marie felt not the least
anxiety. But toward Briand, the chauffeur, the new arrivals were
less easily satisfied.

The general sent his adjutant for the countess. When the adjutant
had closed the door General Andre began abruptly:

"The chauffeur Briand," he asked, "you know him; you can vouch
for him?"

"But, certainly!" protested Marie. "He is an Italian."

As though with sudden enlightenment, Marie laughed. It was
as if now in the suspicion of the officer she saw a certain
reasonableness. "Briand was so long in the Foreign Legion
in Algiers," she explained, "where my husband found him,
that we have come to think of him as French. As much French
as ourselves, I assure you."

The general and his adjutant were regarding each other
questioningly.

"Perhaps I should tell the countess," began the general, "that we
have learned--"

The signal from the adjutant was so slight, so swift, that Marie
barely intercepted it.

The lips of the general shut together like the leaves of a book.
To show the interview was at an end, he reached for a pen.

"I thank you," he said.

"Of course," prompted the adjutant, "Madame d'Aurillac understands
the man must not know we inquired concerning him."

General Andre frowned at Marie.

"Certainly not!" he commanded. "The honest fellow must not know
that even for a moment he was doubted."

Marie raised the violet eyes reprovingly.

"I trust," she said with reproach, "I too well understand the
feelings of a French soldier to let him know his loyalty is
questioned."

With a murmur of appreciation the officers bowed and with a
gesture of gracious pardon Marie left them.

Outside in the hall, with none but orderlies to observe, like a cloak
the graciousness fell from her. She was drawn two ways. In her
work Anfossi was valuable. But Anfossi suspected was less than
of no value; he became a menace, a death-warrant.

General Andre had said, "We have learned--" and the adjutant
had halted him. What had he learned? To know that, Marie
would have given much. Still, one important fact comforted her.
Anfossi alone was suspected. Had there been concerning herself
the slightest doubt, they certainly would not have allowed her to
guess her companion was under surveillance; they would not have
asked one who was herself suspected to vouch for the innocence of
a fellow conspirator. Marie found the course to follow difficult.
With Anfossi under suspicion his usefulness was for the moment
at an end; and to accept the chance offered her to continue on to
Paris seemed most wise. On the other hand, if, concerning
Anfossi, she had succeeded in allaying their doubts, the results
most to be desired could be attained only by remaining where they
were.

Their position inside the lines was of the greatest strategic
value. The rooms of the servants were under the roof, and that
Briand should sleep in one of them was natural. That to reach or
leave his room he should constantly be ascending or descending
the stairs also was natural. The field-wireless outfit, or, as he
had disdainfully described it, the "knapsack" wireless, was
situated not in the bedroom he had selected for himself, but in
one adjoining. At other times this was occupied by the maid of
Madame Iverney. To summon her maid Madame Iverney, from her
apartment on the second floor, had but to press a button. And it
was in the apartment of Madame Iverney, and on the bed of that
lady, that Madame Benet now reclined. When through the open
door she saw an officer or soldier mount the stairs, she pressed
the button that rang a bell in the room of the maid. In this way,
long before whoever was ascending the stairs could reach the top
floor, warning of his approach came to Anfossi. It gave him time
to replace the dustboard over the fireplace in which the wireless
was concealed and to escape into his own bedroom. The arrangement
was ideal. And already information picked up in the halls below
by Marie had been conveyed to Anfossi to relay in a French cipher
to the German General Staff at Rheims.

Marie made an alert and charming hostess. To all who saw her
it was evident that her mind was intent only upon the comfort of
her guests. Throughout the day many came and went, but each
she made welcome; to each as he departed she called "bonne
chance."
Efficient, tireless, tactful, she was everywhere: in the
dining-room, in the kitchen, in the bedrooms, for the wounded
finding mattresses to spread in the gorgeous salons of the
Champagne prince; for the soldier-chauffeurs carrying wine into
the courtyard, where the automobiles panted and growled, and the
arriving and departing shrieked for right of way. At all times an
alluring person, now the one woman in a tumult of men, her smart
frock covered by an apron, her head and arms bare, undismayed
by the sight of the wounded or by the distant rumble of the guns,
the Countess d'Aurillac was an inspiring and beautiful picture.
The eyes of the officers, young and old, informed her of that
fact, one of which already she was well aware. By the morning
of the next day she was accepted as the owner of the chateau.

And though continually she reminded the staff she was present
only as the friend of her schoolmate, Madame Iverney, they
deferred to her as to a hostess. Many of them she already
saluted by name, and to those who with messages were
constantly motoring to and from the front at Soissons she
was particularly kind. Overnight the legend of her charm,
of her devotion to the soldiers of all ranks, had spread from
Soissons to Meaux, and from Meaux to Paris. It was noon of
that day when from the window of the second story Marie saw
an armored automobile sweep into the courtyard. It was driven
by an officer, young and appallingly good-looking, and, as was
obvious by the way he spun his car, one who held in contempt
both the law of gravity and death. That he was some one of
importance seemed evident. Before he could alight the adjutant
had raced to meet him. With her eye for detail Marie observed
that the young officer, instead of imparting information, received
it. He must, she guessed, have just arrived from Paris, and his
brother officer either was telling him the news or giving him his
orders. Whichever it might be, in what was told him the new
arrival was greatly interested. One instant in indignation his
gauntleted fist beat upon the steering-wheel, the next he smiled
with pleasure. To interpret this pantomime was difficult; and,
the better to inform herself, Marie descended the stairs.

As she reached the lower hall the two officers entered. To the
spy the man last to arrive was always the one of greatest
importance; and Marie assured herself that through her friend,
the adjutant, to meet with this one would prove easy.

But the chauffeur-commander of the armored car made it most
difficult. At sight of Marie, much to her alarm, as though
greeting a dear friend, he snatched his kepi from his head and
sprang toward her.

"The major," he cried, "told me you were here, that you are Madame
d'Aurillac." His eyes spoke his admiration. In delight he beamed
upon her. "I might have known it!" he murmured. With the
confidence of one who is sure he brings good news, he laughed
happily. "And I," he cried, "am 'Pierrot'!"

Who the devil "Pierrot" might be the spy could not guess. She
knew only that she wished by a German shell "Pierrot" and his
car had been blown to tiny fragments. Was it a trap, she asked
herself, or was the handsome youth really some one the Countess
d'Aurillac should know. But, as from his introducing himself it
was evident he could not know that lady very well, Marie took
courage and smiled.

"Which 'Pierrot'?" she parried.

"Pierre Thierry!" cried the youth.

To the relief of Marie he turned upon the adjutant and to him
explained who Pierre Thierry might be.

"Paul d'Aurillac," he said, "is my dearest friend. When he married
this charming lady I was stationed in Algiers, and but for the war
I might never have met her."

To Marie, with his hand on his heart in a most charming manner,
he bowed. His admiration he made no effort to conceal.

"And so," he said, "I know why there is war!"

The adjutant smiled indulgently, and departed on his duties, leaving
them alone. The handsome eyes of Captain Thierry were raised to
the violet eyes of Marie. They appraised her boldly and as boldly
expressed their approval.

In burlesque the young man exclaimed indignantly: "Paul deceived
me!" he cried. "He told me he had married the most beautiful woman
in Laon. He has married the most beautiful woman in France!"

To Marie this was not impertinence, but gallantry.

This was a language she understood, and this was the type of man,
because he was the least difficult to manage, she held most in
contempt.

"But about you Paul did not deceive me," she retorted. In
apparent confusion her eyes refused to meet his. "He told me
'Pierrot' was a most dangerous man!"

She continued hurriedly. With wifely solicitude she asked
concerning Paul. She explained that for a week she had been
a prisoner in the chateau, and, since the mobilization, of her
husband save that he was with his regiment in Paris she had heard
nothing. Captain Thierry was able to give her later news. Only
the day previous, on the boulevards, he had met Count d'Aurillac.
He was at the Grand Hotel, and as Thierry was at once motoring
back to Paris he would give Paul news of their meeting. He hoped
he might tell him that soon his wife also would be in Paris. Marie
explained that only the illness of her aunt prevented her from that
same day joining her husband. Her manner became serious.

"And what other news have you?" she asked. "Here on the
firing-line we know less of what is going forward than you in
Paris."

So Pierre Thierry told her all he knew. They were preparing
despatches he was at once to carry back to the General Staff,
and, for the moment, his time was his own. How could he
better employ it than in talking of the war with a patriotic
and charming French woman?

In consequence Marie acquired a mass of facts, gossip, and
guesses. From these she mentally selected such information as,
to her employers across the Aisne, would be of vital interest.

And to rid herself of Thierry and on the fourth floor seek
Anfossi was now her only wish. But, in attempting this, by
the return of the adjutant she was delayed. To Thierry the
adjutant gave a sealed envelope.

"Thirty-one, Boulevard des Invalides," he said. With a smile he
turned to Marie. "And you will accompany him!"

"I!" exclaimed Marie. She was sick with sudden terror.

But the tolerant smile of the adjutant reassured her.

"The count, your husband," he explained, "has learned of your
detention here by the enemy, and he has besieged the General
Staff to have you convoyed safely to Paris." The adjutant glanced
at a field telegram he held open in his hand. "He asks," he continued,
"that you be permitted to return in the car of his friend, Captain
Thierry, and that on arriving you join him at the Grand Hotel."

Thierry exclaimed with delight.

"But how charming!" he cried. "To-night you must both dine with
me at La Rue's." He saluted his superior officer. "Some petrol,
sir," he said. "And I am ready." To Marie he added: "The car will
be at the steps in five minutes." He turned and left them.

The thoughts of Marie, snatching at an excuse for delay, raced
madly. The danger of meeting the Count d'Aurillac, her supposed
husband, did not alarm her. The Grand Hotel has many exits, and,
even before they reached it, for leaving the car she could invent
an excuse that the gallant Thierry would not suspect. But what
now concerned her was how, before she was whisked away to Paris,
she could convey to Anfossi the information she had gathered from
Thierry. First, of a woman overcome with delight at being reunited
with her husband she gave an excellent imitation; then she exclaimed
in distress: "But my aunt, Madame Benet!" she cried. "I cannot leave
her!"

"The Sisters of St. Francis," said the adjutant, "arrive within an hour
to nurse the wounded. They will care also for your aunt."

Marie concealed her chagrin. "Then I will at once prepare to go,"
she said.

The adjutant handed her a slip of paper. "Your laissez-passer to
Paris," he said. "You leave in five minutes, madame!"

As temporary hostess of the chateau Marie was free to visit
any part of it, and as she passed her door a signal from Madame
Benet told her that Anfossi was on the fourth floor, that he was
at work, and that the coast was clear. Softly, in the felt slippers
she always wore, as she explained, in order not to disturb the
wounded, she mounted the staircase. In her hand she carried
the housekeeper's keys, and as an excuse it was her plan to return
with an armful of linen for the arriving Sisters. But Marie never
reached the top of the stairs. When her eyes rose to the level
of the fourth floor she came to a sudden halt. At what she saw
terror gripped her, bound her hand and foot, and turned her blood
to ice.

At her post for an instant Madame Benet had slept, and an officer
of the staff, led by curiosity, chance, or suspicion, had, unobserved
and unannounced, mounted to the fourth floor. When Marie saw
him he was in front of the room that held the wireless. His back
was toward her, but she saw that he was holding the door to the
room ajar, that his eye was pressed to the opening, and that
through it he had pushed the muzzle of his automatic. What
would be the fate of Anfossi Marie knew. Nor did she for an
instant consider it. Her thoughts were of her own safety; that
she might live.

Not that she might still serve the Wilhelmstrasse, the Kaiser, or
the Fatherland; but that she might live. In a moment Anfossi
would be denounced, the chateau would ring with the alarm, and,
though she knew Anfossi would not betray her, by others she might
be accused. To avert suspicion from herself she saw only one way
open. She must be the first to denounce Anfossi.

Like a deer, she leaped down the marble stairs and, in a panic
she had no need to assume, burst into the presence of the staff.

"Gentlemen!" she gasped, "my servant--the chauffeur--Briand is a
spy! There is a German wireless in the chateau. He is using it!
I have seen him." With exclamations, the officers rose to their
feet. General Andre alone remained seated. General Andre was
a veteran of many Colonial wars: Cochin-China, Algiers, Morocco.
The great war, when it came, found him on duty in the Intelligence
Department. His aquiline nose, bristling white eyebrows, and
flashing, restless eyes gave him his nickname of l'Aigle.

In amazement, the flashing eyes were now turned upon Marie. He
glared at her as though he thought she suddenly had flown mad.

"A German wireless!" he protested. "It is impossible!"

"I was on the fourth floor," panted Marie, "collecting linen for
the Sisters. In the room next to the linen-closet I heard a strange
buzzing sound. I opened the door softly. I saw Briand with his
back to me seated by an instrument. There were receivers clamped
to his ears! My God! The disgrace! The disgrace to my husband and
to me, who vouched for him to you!" Apparently in an agony of
remorse, the fingers of the woman laced and interlaced. "I cannot
forgive myself!"

The officers moved toward the door, but General Andre halted
them. Still in a tone of incredulity, he demanded: "When did you
see this?"

Marie knew the question was coming, knew she must explain how
she saw Briand, and yet did not see the staff officer who, with his
prisoner, might now at any instant appear. She must make it plain
she had discovered the spy and left the upper part of the house
before the officer had visited it. When that was she could not
know, but the chance was that he had preceded her by only a
few minutes.

"When did you see this?" repeated the general.

"But just now," cried Marie; "not ten minutes since."

"Why did you not come to me at once?"

"I was afraid," replied Marie. "If I moved I was afraid he might hear
me, and he, knowing I would expose him, would kill me-and so
escape you!" There was an eager whisper of approval. For silence,
General Andre slapped his hand upon the table.

"Then," continued Marie, "I understood with the receivers on his
ears he could not have heard me open the door, nor could he hear
me leave, and I ran to my aunt. The thought that we had harbored
such an animal sickened me, and I was weak enough to feel faint.
But only for an instant. Then I came here." She moved swiftly to
the door. "Let me show you the room," she begged; "you can take
him in the act." Her eyes, wild with the excitement of the chase,
swept the circle. "Will you come?" she begged.

Unconscious of the crisis he interrupted, the orderly on duty
opened the door.

"Captain Thierry's compliments," he recited mechanically, "and is
he to delay longer for Madame d'Aurillac?"

With a sharp gesture General Andre waved Marie toward the door.
Without rising, he inclined his head. "Adieu, madame," he said.
"We act at once upon your information. I thank you!"

As she crossed from the hall to the terrace, the ears of the spy were
assaulted by a sudden tumult of voices. They were raised in threats
and curses. Looking back, she saw Anfossi descending the stairs.
His hands were held above his head; behind him, with his automatic,
the staff officer she had surprised on the fourth floor was driving him
forward. Above the clinched fists of the soldiers that ran to meet him,
the eyes of Anfossi were turned toward her. His face was expressionless.
His eyes neither accused nor reproached. And with the joy of one who
has looked upon and then escaped the guillotine, Marie ran down the
steps to the waiting automobile. With a pretty cry of pleasure she leaped
into the seat beside Thierry. Gayly she threw out her arms. "To Paris!"
she commanded. The handsome eyes of Thierry, eloquent with
admiration, looked back into hers. He stooped, threw in the clutch,
and the great gray car, with the machine gun and its crew of privates
guarding the rear, plunged through the park.

"To Paris!" echoed Thierry.

In the order in which Marie had last seen them, Anfossi and the
staff officer entered the room of General Andre, and upon the
soldiers in the hall the door was shut. The face of the staff
officer was grave, but his voice could not conceal his elation.

"My general," he reported, "I found this man in the act of giving
information to the enemy. There is a wireless-"

General Andre rose slowly. He looked neither at the officer nor
at his prisoner. With frowning eyes he stared down at the maps
upon his table.

"I know," he interrupted. "Some one has already told me." He
paused, and then, as though recalling his manners, but still
without raising his eyes, he added: "You have done well, sir."

In silence the officers of the staff stood motionless. With surprise
they noted that, as yet, neither in anger nor curiosity had General
Andre glanced at the prisoner. But of the presence of the general
the spy was most acutely conscious. He stood erect, his arms still
raised, but his body strained forward, and on the averted eyes of the
general his own were fixed.

In an agony of supplication they asked a question.

At last, as though against his wish, toward the spy the general
turned his head, and their eyes met. And still General Andre was
silent. Then the arms of the spy, like those of a runner who has
finished his race and breasts the tape exhausted, fell to his sides.
In a voice low and vibrant he spoke his question.

"It has been so long, sir," he pleaded. "May I not come home?"

General Andre turned to the astonished group surrounding him. His
voice was hushed like that of one who speaks across an open grave.

"Gentlemen," he began, "my children," he added. "A German spy, a
woman, involved in a scandal your brother in arms, Henri Ravignac.
His honor, he thought, was concerned, and without honor he refused
to live. To prove him guiltless his younger brother Charles asked
leave to seek out the woman who had betrayed Henri, and by us was
detailed on secret service. He gave up home, family, friends. He lived
in exile, in poverty, at all times in danger of a swift and ignoble death.
In the War Office we know him as one who has given to his country
services she cannot hope to reward. For she cannot return to him the
years he has lost. She cannot return to him his brother. But she can
and will clear the name of Henri Ravignac, and upon his brother
Charles bestow promotion and honors."

The general turned and embraced the spy. "My children," he said,
"welcome your brother. He has come home."

Before the car had reached the fortifications, Marie Gessler had
arranged her plan of escape. She had departed from the chateau
without even a hand-bag, and she would say that before the shops
closed she must make purchases.

Le Printemps lay in their way, and she asked that, when they
reached it, for a moment she might alight. Captain Thierry
readily gave permission.

From the department store it would be most easy to disappear,
and in anticipation Marie smiled covertly. Nor was the picture
of Captain Thierry impatiently waiting outside unamusing.

But before Le Printemps was approached, the car turned sharply
down a narrow street. On one side, along its entire length, ran a
high gray wall, grim and forbidding. In it was a green gate studded
with iron bolts. Before this the automobile drew suddenly to a halt.
The crew of the armored car tumbled off the rear seat, and one of
them beat upon the green gate. Marie felt a hand of ice clutch at her
throat. But she controlled herself.

"And what is this?" she cried gayly.

At her side Captain Thierry was smiling down at her, but his
smile was hateful.

"It is the prison of St. Lazare," he said. "It is not becoming,"
he added sternly, "that the name of the Countess d'Aurillac
should be made common as the Paris road!"

Fighting for her life, Marie thrust herself against him; her
arm that throughout the journey had rested on the back of the
driving-seat caressed his shoulders; her lips and the violet eyes
were close to his.

"Why should you care?" she whispered fiercely. "You have me! Let
the Count d'Aurillac look after the honor of his wife himself."

The charming Thierry laughed at her mockingly.

"He means to," he said. "I am the Count d'Aurillac!"

-THE END-
Richard Harding Davis' short story: Somewhere In France

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