CHAPTER XXXV

The long road that led through the village and on into Sains lay before Paulette like an unexplored country. The familiar smoothness was gone, cut into by heavy army wagons and many marching feet. The fields themselves that bordered its dusty edges were trampled and bare. Even the tall poplars, standing like sentinels along its way, were draggled and unkempt.

When the gates closed on her, Paulette drew a quick breath as she looked about her. How often she had ridden through the green shadows of these familiar lanes with Maurice; now the difference frightened her.

She turned to look at the gray towers where they showed above the trees. Would she ever see them again, she wondered? Poor little Paulette, the way before her was a long and weary one, but she knew if she were only in time nothing else mattered.

Resolutely she turned her face away from her beloved home and started on her journey. The muffled roar of the guns which had been coming to them ever since the war began seemed deeper, more menacing now that she was outside the shelter of the château walls, but until she neared the village, the road was deserted. She hurried down the pretty little street that wound among the houses. Here and there soldiers lounged against the doorsteps and gazed curiously at her under their caps. Once she flattened herself against a wall to let a company swing by through the narrow street. Once she stumbled out of the way of an automobile filled with officers. Once a woman leaned out of an upper window and waved to her as she passed, but without turning her head Paulette hurried on.

At the tiny railroad station she found the platform crowded with soldiers, a detachment of men waiting to be sent along the line. The officer in charge, a tall smooth-faced youngster, greeted her politely. She showed him her orders and begged to be allowed to stop off at Sains. He piloted her down the platform, alongside of which there stood little gray box-cars. Out of the windows crowded round heads, black, brown, yellow; laughing, joking, smoking.

But with all the willingness in the world, there was no corner for her, and she was just turning away disappointed when a gray motor ambulance came alongside the platform. The driver called out, seeing her uniform:

"There's room for you," he said cheerily, reaching out a helping hand.

"I have an important message for the commanding officer at Sains," said Paulette. "Will you take me there as quickly as possible?"

She climbed up to the seat beside him. The ambulance turned about and as it swung into top speed the soldiers in the little cars waved their caps to them.

The driver and his orderly laughed and joked as the machine sped along and tried to draw her into their conversation, quite as though it were a pleasure excursion they were having.

Outside the village the road wound steeply up a hill and then dipped in a great curve down to the river bank.

She began to see more and more frequently the work of the guns which up to now she had only heard. Deep furrows cut into the fields by exploding shells, ruined barns with great gaping holes in their sides, farm houses, roofless, with empty, staring windows. She could see the dust of the supply trains crawling along the horizon, and occasionally the white cloud of a bursting shell.

Presently the ambulance drew up at a field hospital. Nurses robed like herself hurried from one to another of the shattered forms lying in the straw. Doctors with tired faces went silently to and fro. Paulette's heart shrank from the suffering about her, she tried to shut from her eyes the pitiful sights, to close her ears to the moans and cries, but they beat against her strained nerves, almost breaking them.

This ambulance was to go no further. But there was a constant stream going on toward Sains. Into one of these she climbed and in a moment they were speeding on their way again, past long lines of soldiers, some resting by the road, others trudging rhythmically along, their faces turned toward the sound of the guns. The line seemed unending. These were the men who were standing between France and unthinkable disaster.

How proud she was of them! Her courage returned. Her nostrils dilated. They represented France, and she was one of them!

This message that she bore might enable them to inflict a blow upon the enemy that would sweep him from her beloved country forever!

At last, the distant spires of Sains came in sight, and her heart was full of the hope that she might not be too late.

Back at the château, a mother's heart was following her with a prayer for her safety and another woman paced restlessly up and down, pausing frequently at the window to look with straining eyes toward Sains, hoping, praying with her whole soul that she would reach there in time.

At Draise, not many miles away, a great army was gathering quietly, secretly, waiting for the dawn and success, while here, toward the ancient spires which were their guide, another army in field gray and spiked helmets was directing its guns; and between them, on the long stretch of dusty road, cut and slashed by army wagons and many marching feet, the ambulance sped the girl on her way, the love of one of this world of men filling her heart, a prayer on her lips that the message she carried might bring victory.

When they drew up at the gates of Sains, Paulette's new uniform was dusty and soiled. The tall spires of the cathedral and the red roofs of the houses sparkled in the afternoon sunshine as she entered the town. Here and there the walls lay in crumbling heaps, reminders of the German shells. Near the gate several soldiers were lounging. One man, his cap pulled low over his eyes, his rifle against his shoulder, paced back and forth.

The sergeant in command approached her.

"Where do you wish to go, Mademoiselle?" he asked politely.

"I must go to Headquarters. I am to see the officer in command there. It is very important!"

The sergeant called one of the men.

"Guerin," he said, "conduct this lady to Headquarters. See that she is taken care of. Understand?"

The man saluted.

"This way, Mademoiselle," he said, and they hurried down one street, across another, and through a ruined archway, riddled by German shot. Sometimes they were obliged to scramble over heaps of brick and mortar and broken glass where some shell had struck. Presently they came out into the market-place. The broad, open space was deserted, save for the sentries pacing to and fro. Around the fountain in the center were piled heavy burlap bags, evidently filled with grain. The Hotel de Ville, which formed one side of the square, had part of its roof gone, and a heap of dust and mortar lay piled against one side. The Cathedral, opposite, whose spires had been their guide all day, was battered and crumpled, a great empty space where the beautiful glass of the rose window had been.

At the door of the Hotel de Ville a sentry challenged them. There was a whispered word with her guide. The man looked at her sharply and saluted.

"Pass, Mademoiselle," he said.

They stumbled up a dark stair, and across a wide, dusty hall lined with doors, closed and bolted for the most part. At the far end, Guerin bade her halt and rapped loudly on the panel of a door standing partly ajar.

"_Entrez_," called a hoarse voice, and he pushed it open with a jerk of his elbow and motioned her to enter.

Paulette stepped across the threshold.

In the middle of the room a man with thick iron-gray hair was writing at a table. At his side stood an orderly waiting, and under a window a young officer sat before a telegraph instrument.

He rose as they entered and came forward.

"Well?" he said and Guerin saluted stiffly.

"I am the daughter of General de la Motte. I have important information for the commanding officer," began Paulette.

He glanced at her keenly for a moment, then turned to the man at the table.

"General," he said, "Mademoiselle de la Motte has something of importance to say to you!"

The iron-gray head lifted and Paulette saw a finely formed face with a firm, resolute mouth and a pair of very keen steel-gray eyes.

He rose and bowed.

"Mademoiselle de la Motte? By any chance of the family of General Phillipe de la Motte?"

"His daughter, sir!"

A bright smile lighted his face, relieving it of all its sternness. He extended his hand.

"This is a great pleasure, Mademoiselle," he said; "pray be seated and tell me what I can do for you!"

"Thank you," she said, "but I prefer to stand. What I have to tell you is very important!" She paused for a moment and the General fixed his keen eyes upon hers. "I have just come from the château. I received information this morning that the enemy is to attack Sains to-morrow at daybreak."

The General was a man long schooled to mask his emotions, and his face gave no sign except a barely perceptible tightening of the muscles about the mouth and a deeper gleam in his clear eyes.

"This is important, Mademoiselle. Are you sure that it is authentic?"

"I have every reason to believe so, Monsieur."

"How long have you known it?" he asked.

"Just a few hours," she said. "I came here as fast as I could!"

"You say you received this information at the château this morning?" She bowed. "Can you tell me how this became known to you?"

"I regret, Monsieur, that I am not at liberty to do so!"

"How many others know of this?"

"One other, Monsieur."

"The source of your information?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

He looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Are you sure this other is loyal to our cause?"

The girl paused. Through her mind ran the events of the past few hours.

Her brother's wife was of the enemy's blood. She had hated and distrusted her, and this morning her suspicions had seemed to be confirmed. Was she sure of her loyalty? Marie's eyes seemed to look into hers. Again she heard her voice saying,

"The cause you love is as dear to me as to you!"

She raised her eyes to the General's.

"The other is loyal!" she said.

He turned from her and paced the room thoughtfully, his hands behind his back, his brows contracted.

"If what you say is true," he said at last, pausing before her, "then you have done France a great service. Wait here a moment." He crossed the room, and spoke in an undertone to the officer in waiting, who saluted and went out, accompanied by the orderly. Then he turned to Paulette, smiling. "In the name of France, I thank you, Mademoiselle, for what you have done to-day. Can I be of any service to you?"

Paulette looked at him piteously.

"Is there any news of Captain le Cerf?" she asked eagerly. "We have had word that he had escaped from Belgium and was to arrive here to-day. He is my fiancé, Monsieur."

The General smiled kindly.

"I congratulate you, Mademoiselle," he said; "the Captain and his family are dear friends of mine. I have good news for you! He has arrived safely."

He touched a bell and an orderly entered. There was a whispered word or two, and the man, saluting, left the room.

Paulette's eyes glowed. All sense of fatigue left her. She would see him soon. Her heart throbbed Suffocatingly.

The General looked at her benevolently. With a Frenchman's love of romance which is never absent, even in the face of grave danger, he watched the flush on her cheeks, her parted lips, and with a sigh for his own lost youth, he picked up his pen again and bent over his writing.

Presently, heavy steps came down the hall and a knock at the door.

"Come in," called the General without raising his head, and the young officer reentered, followed by a slim figure in a soiled uniform.

Paulette leaped to her feet. With a cry she flew across the room and into the arms of Maurice. His drawn face was almost as gray as his eyes, his shoulders thin, though now squared with hope and determination, his cheeks hollow and heavily lined. There were purple shadows under his eyes and his hands shook pitifully as he caressed her hair.

The General patted his shoulder.

"Sit down, Captain," he said kindly; "you're not strong yet, sit down," and Maurice let them lead him to a chair.

Paulette knelt beside him, her arms about his neck.

"Maurice, Maurice, I've missed you so," she murmured; "you're not going to leave me ever again!"

He held his lips tenderly against her forehead.

General de Line stood looking down on them.

"Captain," he said, "do you think you are strong enough to travel to-night? I must get you both away from Sains as soon as possible."

Something in his tone made Maurice look up at him inquiringly.

"We have had news that the enemy are to attack here at dawn, you must be safely away by then. That is the least France can do in return for the service Mademoiselle has rendered," and he bowed gallantly to the girl.

Maurice looked from one to the other not understanding.

"Mademoiselle will explain," said the General, smiling.

Maurice put his feeble arms close about the girl's trembling shoulders.

"My dearest one," he murmured, "I am so proud to know that you have served France. You must tell me everything. We must be married at once! And then, are you willing to go with me, wreck that I am, wherever I go?"

She looked at him adoringly.

"How can you ask me?" she cried; "don't you know?"

Le Cerf rose shakily to his feet.

"My General," he said, "Mademoiselle and I are to be married at once, if you can make it possible to have the _curé_ here, and then----"

"And then," finished the General with a fatherly smile, "you will go with Captain Merton to Calais; he drives there within the hour with these despatches. You will cross to England where your parents are. I have a letter from them. They write they have taken a house, and, of course, are most anxious to see you. You will stay with them until you are strong."

Maurice's eyes held Paulette's.

"Will you?" he asked.

She looked down at her nurse's uniform.

"I have been ordered to St. Quentin for duty," she faltered.

The General broke in hastily:

"I will adjust that, my dear young lady," he said kindly.

A quick vision of her mother, her father, her home, flashed across her mind, but she looked up into Maurice's eyes, infinite love in hers. Where he was, was home to her. He needed her. She asked herself no further questions.

She went through the hurried marriage like one in a dream. She was scarcely conscious of the black-frocked _curé_, of the General standing on one side of him, and Maurice who had left her so short a time ago, strong and virile, shaking against her arm.

She scarcely remembered the words or their responses; she had a dim recollection of the closing lines of the ceremony, of Maurice's lips on hers. Then came the quick run down the dark stairs and into the waiting car, the wild flight through the growing dusk and into the deepening night, stopping every now and then to answer the challenging sentries. She dared not think of what the morning would bring. She could only hope that the message she had brought had been in time to be of service. Her memory still held the vivid picture of her sister-in-law's agonized face when she had hurried her off to Sains. How could Marie have known, she wondered? Who had it been in their own loyal household who had stolen the note? Her head ached with the endless repetition of her questions to which she could find no answer.

She looked down on the dear head pillowed on her arm and drew the heavy army blanket closer about them both, thanking God that he was safe.

Toward dawn they came in sight of Calais. The tall, ugly spires of Notre Dame showed gray against the brightening sky. There was a brief pause at the gates of the fortress, a short parley with some soldiers and one or two keen-eyed officers--another quick dash across the Place d'Arme to the New Harbor.

Captain Merton shook their hands cheerily as he left them.

With the heavy army blanket as their only luggage, they boarded the boat for Dover.

Her face was turned away from France, the water slipping under the keel of the Channel boat was carrying her from everything she had ever loved, carrying her and the man who was to fill her life from now on, into a strange land.

When she had wrapped Maurice in the warm folds, Paulette sat with his hands close clasped in hers. Just as the first rays of the morning sun sparkled on the white cliffs of Dover, showing vaguely on the horizon eighteen miles away across the Channel, borne on the fresh salt breeze, came a deep-throated, far-away roar. She stiffened in her chair and bent her ear to listen.

The attack had come! But her warning would render it futile. Her trust in Marie was vindicated.

Her heart swelled with pride. Her lips murmured a prayer of thankfulness, her fingers clung closer to the feeble ones they held. For the first time in many months she was at peace.