PAMPELUNA 
 
 3 1822 01117 3564 
 
 3jr 
 
 COLETTE 
 
 YVER 
 
 m.
 
 L'9PARY 
 
 UNlVek^iTY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DIEGO J
 
 PQ 2615 U8 M513 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO 
 
 3 1822 01117 3564 
 
 n:
 
 MIRABELLE 
 OF PAMPELUNA
 
 MIRABELLE 
 OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 BY 
 
 COLETTE YVER 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 LUCY HUMPHREY SMITH 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1919
 
 Copyright, 1919, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published August, 1919
 
 MIRABELLE 
 OF PAMPELUNA
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 IT was scarcely eight o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, and Monsieur Henri, the clerk, was 
 rearranging the set of Balzac, misplaced by a 
 bibHophile the evening before, on the shelves 
 of the book-shop, when the door-bell rang. 
 An immense overcoat topped by a soft, very 
 wide-brimmed hat rushed into the passage. 
 Monsieur Henri was startled and said: 
 "Oh! Monsieur des Assernes ! " 
 "I am he," said the strange person with the 
 travelling-bag. "I came on the train from 
 Toulouse. Is Monsieur Duval down-stairs 
 yet? No? Nor Madame Duval either? 
 Nor mademoiselle ? " 
 
 "I will tell them that you have come, mon- 
 
 sieur," 
 
 Monsieur Henri, the clerk, with his long 
 white smock like those worn by druggist's ap- 
 prentices, had an unassuming manner. Mon- 
 
 I
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 sieur Xavier des Assernes, the novelist from 
 Toulouse, was quite different. Nevertheless, 
 with his angular profile and his ample mus- 
 tache remaining black as a crow's wing, by- 
 artificial means, in spite of his sixty years, he 
 looked the fine, worthy man. 
 
 ''It is unnecessary to disturb them, my good 
 friend. I shall take my valise to the hotel 
 and return in two hours. Only tell them to 
 arrange to invite me to luncheon, for I am 
 bringing some unpublished manuscript." 
 
 When Monsieur des Assernes had reached 
 the sidewalk of the Rue du Cherche-Midi, 
 which was touched by a warm beam of the 
 morning sun, Monsieur Henri might have 
 smiled. Any one else would have smiled at 
 this big Don Quixote, walking along with 
 great strides, on a June morning in Paris. 
 But Monsieur Henri was already twenty-eight 
 years old. Moreover, his humble duties in 
 Monsieur Duval's shop combined with a na- 
 ture devoid of all vanity to give this young 
 man a modest idea of his own worth. He was 
 able all the better to appreciate the talent and 
 delightful enthusiasm of Monsieur des As- 
 sernes. The little book-clerk, handling rev-
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 erently from morning until night the material 
 substance of that which composed the glorious 
 literature of the country, was obliged to honor, 
 in spite of his small eccentricities, the novehst 
 who was the devoted interpreter of the langue 
 d'oc literature of the Middle Ages, and revived 
 so brilliantly the most poetic, vigorous, and 
 charming epoch of France. 
 
 No. Monsieur Henri had no desire to ridi- 
 cule the strange man he had just interviewed. 
 He anticipated, rather, a great treat in the 
 manuscript des Assernes was bringing. It 
 was probably a discovery made in the archives 
 of Toulouse, some chronicle of chivalry which 
 he was bringing there first of all, and the clerk 
 would gather up some of the crumbs while he 
 was serving the customer. Monsieur Henri 
 was an admirer of des Assernes. In addition, 
 I have forgotten to tell you, he was in love, 
 which does not tend to make one jocose or 
 merry, especially if one is not exactly happy 
 in his love. But just here a light step re- 
 sounds on the staircase back of the shop. A 
 young girl with freshly arranged hair, and 
 rather melancholy black eyes, enters and seats 
 herself at the cashier's desk. A delicate per- 
 
 3
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 fume is diffused through the shop. Monsieur 
 Henri absent-mindedly puts an Anatole 
 France among the Balzacs and remarks, with- 
 out turning his head : 
 
 "Good morning, mademoiselle." 
 
 Mademoiselle Louise replies: 
 
 "Good morning, Monsieur Henri." 
 
 These two formulas appear absolutely the 
 same on paper. Yet, on hearing them spoken, 
 one would have felt the shy affection and the 
 restrained emotion of Monsieur Henri, as well 
 as the total indifference of Mademoiselle 
 Louise. 
 
 When the row of Balzacs is rearranged in 
 the order of the catalogue, or perhaps when 
 the clerk's changed expression has resumed its 
 deceptive cahn. Monsieur Henri continues: 
 
 "Monsieur des Assernes arrived this morn- 
 ing. He will be here at ten o'clock; he hopes 
 to be invited to luncheon." 
 
 It is Mademoiselle Louise this time who 
 flushes scarlet. Her beautiful black eyes lose 
 their languor and brighten. 
 
 "Monsieur des Assernes has come, truly? 
 Oh, I must run quickly to let my parents 
 know."
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 She leaves the desk; she runs; she is as joy- 
 ous and excited as a young girl, in spite of her 
 twenty-four years. Monsieur Henri remains 
 alone in the shop. He looks pensively through 
 the glass door. The Rue du Cherche-Midi is 
 crowded and noisy. The sweeper's wagon 
 passes with its bells; carts, returning from the 
 markets, are driven between the milk wagons. 
 Fast autos take the right of way ahead of the 
 heavy vehicles which let them pass, and in 
 the midst of the turmoil the street hawkers, 
 moving along with their hand carts, cry out 
 asparagus and strawberries for sale, a sign of 
 summer. 
 
 When Monsieur Henri went to work with 
 Monsieur Duval he was fifteen years old and 
 Louise was eleven. She was already pretty, 
 and he realized it. At that time he was very 
 anxious to continue his studies at the public 
 schools, but his mother, widow of a small offi- 
 cial, needed his financial assistance at once, 
 and he had never complained because he had 
 been obliged to take a position before com- 
 pleting his classical studies like the others. 
 Now, he was almost like a member of the 
 Duval family. He would have liked to be- 
 
 5
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 long to it wholly. Scarcely any hope was left 
 to him to-day. Meanwhile, it was something 
 to live in the shadow of Mademoiselle Louise, 
 to sleep under the same roof, to break bread 
 with her at the table, to breathe the subtile 
 perfume she shed about her in the shop, cruel 
 and torturing joys which would end on the 
 day when some Prince Charming, brilliant and 
 magnificent, would come to deprive him of 
 everything.
 
 n 
 
 HALF-PAST TEN. Des Assernes is 
 seated in a recess in the shop made by 
 the projection of the quarters of the concierge 
 into a corner of the room; the Duval family 
 surround him. The light is very dim; an 
 electric lamp gives an impression of twilight. 
 Monsieur Duval, the bookseller, appears, 
 short and thin. His thoughtful eyes gaze 
 eagerly at the visitor. Monsieur Duval is a 
 passionate lover of literature. He is the nov- 
 elist's best friend, his devoted and keen lis- 
 tener. But the sentimental and enthusiastic 
 bachelor, des Assernes, is especially proud to 
 beheve that he has influenced the ardent mind 
 of the charming Louise with his talks, carry- 
 ing her glowing imagination along with him 
 into the wonderful dream of the past. The 
 excellent Madame Duval also listens to des 
 Assernes. I shall not tell you anything more 
 of her; you must think of her as a woman who 
 is more of a housekeeper than a poet, listening 
 
 7
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 with one ear to the novehst's tales, while she 
 is in reality occupied with the roast and en- 
 trees to be served to him during the meal. 
 
 Meanwhile three students from the Buffon 
 College have come into the shop. Monsieur 
 Henri shows them various editions of the 
 classics to choose from. The hesitating youths 
 turn over the leaves and timidly look at each 
 other for advice. Monsieur Henri often has 
 an opportunity to glance toward the darker 
 end of the store where the noble face of des 
 Assernes, with his strong profile Uke Don 
 Quixote, is Hghted by an electric gleam, while, 
 in the semi-darkness, the delightful face of 
 Mademoiselle Louise, with half-opened lips, 
 looks like a portrait in a museum. 
 
 "When they were tearing down the wall of 
 the sacristy," relates des Assernes, ''the abbe 
 of the convent of Saint-Seurin discovered this 
 chest full of loose papers, ancient manuscripts, 
 partially obliterated by time and misplaced by 
 ignorant hands. The good father sent for me 
 and said: 'Monsieur, this is for you.' My 
 dear Duval, I went down on my knees before 
 the chest, a record of a century of chivalry 
 and of beauty. And when I saw the agitating 
 
 8
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 date of 1268, the wonderful year when Saint 
 Louis, the king, determined to go on the most 
 extraordinary, unexpected, useless, and dis- 
 interested of all the crusades, the tears liter- 
 ally ran down my cheeks. Imagine my de- 
 light when, after six weeks of research and 
 study, I realized that I had in my hand, mixed 
 with subsequent monastery records, an ex- 
 traordinary and magnificent langue d'oc ro- 
 mance, the story of the beautiful Mirabelle of 
 Pampeluna!" 
 
 ''Mirabelle of Pampeluna 1" repeats Made- 
 moiselle Louise, her hands crossed in a kind 
 of ecstasy. 
 
 Somewhat embarrassed to disturb this lofty 
 discourse. Monsieur Henri comes forward in 
 his clerk's blouse and announces in a dull 
 voice: 
 
 "Two francs seventy-five to be taken in!" 
 
 The expression of Mademoiselle Louise's 
 eyes is indescribable. She rises regretfully; 
 she surveys from head to foot the clerk who 
 represents the petty interests, all the medioc- 
 rity of the small trade which is consuming her 
 life. She goes to the cashier's desk; a stu- 
 dent's red hand puts down a five-franc piece; 
 
 9
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 she returns the change, thinking of Pampe- 
 luna. Pampeluna, Roncesvalles, Roland, 
 Charlemagne; then Mirabelle in a silver corse- 
 let, with her head wrapped in a white-silk 
 cloth. . . . 
 
 "She was," continues des Assernes after 
 Mademoiselle Louise has returned and seated 
 herself near him, "the daughter of a very rich 
 lord of Navarre, named Gascon Sanse. She 
 was endowed with a thousand glorious talents. 
 The anonymous chronicler who tells the his- 
 tory says that 'she sang the most beautiful, 
 delectable, and melodious songs ever heard 
 from voice or viol.' All Pampeluna was in- 
 clined to imagine itself in love with such a 
 perfect and learned lady," he added. "How 
 the young lord Mainfroy of Catalpan became 
 her knight has escaped me. The leaves are 
 missing here, but may be found among the 
 farm accounts of the monks which I was not 
 able to recover. But I imagine that it was 
 with this pure and moving voice that the 
 young noble, nephew of the count of Foix, 
 was so greatly charmed. He had, it seems, 
 on his coat of arms, a lion's head, and his 
 blood was so fiery and valiant that when he 
 
 10
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 was sixteen, not yet a knight, he held alone, 
 with five hundred men at arms, his uncle's 
 castle besieged by the king's troops." 
 
 "At sixteen years !" exclaims Mademoiselle 
 Louise with astonishment. 
 
 "All that he did afterward," responds des 
 Assernes, "is even more wonderful, if I may 
 judge by subsequent pages where my curious 
 eyes have wandered in spite of myself. But 
 the greatest marvel of all was the sweet love 
 which this invincible warrior, recalling in more 
 ways than one Roland the knight-errant, had 
 for his lady, the lovely Mirabelle; it is difficult 
 to know which to admire most, the gallantry 
 or the tenderness of his affection. The day 
 before he was to depart for the crusade he re- 
 mained from morning until night seated on 
 the ground, among the flowers, Hstenmg to the 
 beautiful singer of moving ballads!" 
 
 These are the things Monsieur Henri is 
 obliged to overhear with an indifferent air, un- 
 der the watchful eyes of a client who is unable 
 to make a choice among the latest literary 
 novelties of the bookstore. This client is a 
 pretty woman, apparently capricious, who 
 asks the clerk absurd questions, such as: "Tell 
 
 n
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 me which is the most amusing of these three 
 novels," or even: "Why doesn't the author 
 ever have more than two hundred and seventy- 
 pages in his books?" You may be sure that 
 Monsieur Henri, rather than reply to these 
 useless remarks, would have infinitely pre- 
 ferred to go and sit by Mademoiselle Louise to 
 hear with her the touching story of Mirabelle 
 and of Mainfroy. But he has no right to de- 
 sert the salesroom. His duty is mediocre, 
 but it is his duty. All the time Mademoiselle 
 Louise is thinking of the noble knight who 
 loved Mirabelle and was so courageous that 
 nothing less than a Uon's head on his coat of 
 arms was worthy to signify his bravery. 
 
 "What a wonderful time," she says to her- 
 self with a sigh, "when women were loved by 
 such men!" 
 
 "But," asks Monsieur Duval thoughtfully, 
 "can you tell me, my dear master, if this 
 Mirabelle of Pampeluna ever really lived, and 
 if these manuscripts so full of wealth for you 
 are certainly the work of a faithful chroni- 
 cler?" 
 
 "I should be inclined to believe, my dear 
 Duval," replied des Assemes, "that my au- 
 
 12
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 thor was, rather, a simple troubadour, who 
 invented a fine story of chivalry, for I have 
 already noticed some anachronisms in his 
 text. And I almost prefer it to be so, I 
 assure you, for, in regard to approximate cor- 
 rectness of dates and events, an imaginative 
 story-teller is a truer mirror of his time than 
 the most scrupulous, but dry and colorless 
 historian." With these words Xavier des As- 
 sernes unrolls a manuscript whose theme is 
 drawn from the old parchment of the convent 
 of Saint-Seurin. It is the romance of Mira- 
 belle, written as fast as he made his discov- 
 eries. He prepares to read it. But Madame 
 Duval gives them to understand that luncheon 
 will soon be ready, and that it would be better 
 to eat it before it is spoiled. ^ 
 
 "You must read it to us for dessert, Mon- 
 sieur des Assernes." 
 
 13
 
 Ill 
 
 MADAME DUVAL had a sister called 
 Madame Bouchaud, living at Choisy- 
 le-Roi. If you ask me why this lady did 
 not live in Paris, like Madame Duval, I 
 shall tell you that she was married to Mon- 
 sieur Bouchaud, head of a department in the 
 great store Meilleur Marche, who Hved solely 
 for the joy of fishing with a rod and line. 
 Their eighteen-year-old son, Georges, studying 
 to be a chemist, adored boating, and their 
 daughter, Edith, two years older, begged for 
 country air. They had, therefore, bought as 
 a compromise a small cottage built of round 
 stones, with a red-tiled roof. Its architecture 
 was so comphcated that the house had twelve 
 corners caused by projections and recesses. 
 But its great charm was its proximity to the 
 Seine, where every Sunday the family Bou- 
 chaud and the family Duval, with Monsieur 
 Henri and a salesman from the glove depart- 
 ment, a subordinate of Father Bouchaud, 
 
 14
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA^ 
 
 called Robert Picot, had a reunion and 
 abandoned themselves to a joyous holiday. 
 
 It is Sunday. As usual Monsieur and Ma- 
 dame Duval and their daughter, all three 
 escorted by Monsieur Henri, take the eleven 
 o'clock train at the Saint-Michel station. The 
 auto-bus, in defiance, passes by, under their 
 eyes, to the terminus; they are reduced to 
 going on foot by the Rue de Rennes. Ma- 
 dame Duval, afflicted with a certain amount 
 of embonpoint, and annoyed by tight shoes, 
 finds it diflacult to hurry. Monsieur Duval, 
 dry and nervous, keeps repeating that they 
 will miss the Choisy train. Monsieur Henri, 
 in a spirit of conciliation, tries to distract his 
 attention by speaking of the carp weighing one 
 kilo and three hundred and thirty grammes, 
 caught on the previous Sunday by Robert 
 Picot. 
 
 "Yes, it was that carp," replies Monsieur 
 Duval crossly, "that broke my line ten min- 
 utes before, I am certain." 
 
 Mademoiselle Louise walks gloomily by her 
 mother's side. She apparently ignores Mon- 
 sieur Henri. But I must tell you a curious 
 thing: Mademoiselle Louise is much more oc- 
 
 15
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 cupied with Monsieur Henri than appears. 
 Only she thinks with regret that he is just this 
 type of man: Here is a young man who has 
 achieved nothing beyond puhing carp or 
 gudgeons out of the water, and who is con- 
 tented ! She says to herself somewhat scorn- 
 fully: 
 
 "If one ever arranged a coat of arms for 
 him, he would not be honored with a lion's 
 head; and for all his hatchments, he would 
 be satisfied with a fish-hook!" 
 
 Now they arrive at Saint- Germam-des-Pres. 
 Mademoiselle Louise lifts her eyes to the an- 
 cient tower containing the belfry with the 
 slate cap. The aspect of these ancient stones, 
 recalling the past, consoles her for the electric 
 train, the autos, and the common Sunday 
 crowd walking along the sidewalks past the 
 closed shop windows. 
 
 At last here is the boulevard, and here is the 
 Saint-Michel station. There is a crush at the 
 ticket window. People are sucked down into 
 the subway below. Very gently the electric 
 trains arrive. The Duval family finds room 
 in the second class. Four young men are al- 
 ready in the compartment. The nature of 
 their baggage indicates clearly enough that 
 
 i6
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 the expedition on which they are bound is not 
 for the purpose of attacking anything more 
 than the peaceful inhabitants of the water, for 
 they carry bundles of Hnes and hand-nets tied 
 together. They chat about their recent fish- 
 ing excursions and evidently try to astonish 
 each other by exaggerating the fish stories of 
 which they are the heroes. After leaving 
 Paris they cross the country market-gardens. 
 Fresh, tender green lettuces lie in straight lines 
 in the hollows of innumerable furrows and turn 
 in perspective as the train moves. Enlarged 
 cabbages, grown in rich soil, seem to call for 
 monstrous cooking utensils. The asparagus is 
 already showing itself, with its delicate foliage 
 like green mist. 
 
 "Would you like to live in the country?" 
 Monsieur Henri asks of Mademoiselle Louise. 
 Madame Duval is drowsy. Monsieur Duval, 
 in fishing costume, has turned toward the 
 young travellers and joined in their conversa- 
 tion. Henri and Louise are thus quite tete-a- 
 tete, as if they were alone. 
 
 ''That depends," replies Louise, with a su- 
 perior air. "I should not like a market- 
 garden country." 
 
 Monsieur Henri knows very well, as he 
 
 17
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 knows his Louise perfectly, that she would 
 prefer a mountain with pine woods, torrents, 
 and precipices. But he says, looking straight 
 into the black eyes that will not love him: 
 
 "Nature is always nature. We cannot de- 
 mand too much of life. We can beautify 
 whatever is not so grand as we could wish. 
 We can beautify it as we desire, by adding the 
 light we possess in ourselves. I sometimes 
 imagine a garden, made of squares of cabbage 
 and carrots, with a Httle house built in the 
 back; and that might be so beautiful, so beau- 
 tiful!" 
 
 Monsieur is very much moved; his lips 
 tremble and his heart beats wildly. But 
 Mademoiselle Louise is unfair. She feels that 
 this fisherman does not appear well as a phi- 
 losopher and she smiles as she turns her head. 
 
 Besides, here is Choisy-le-Roi. As on every 
 other Sunday, Madame Bouchaud and her 
 daughter Edith are on the platform and wave 
 their red umbrellas when they see the Duvals. 
 Then follow kisses and squeezing of hands, 
 and then questions: 
 
 "And Abel? And Georges?" 
 
 "They are on the water with Robert Picot. 
 
 i8
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 They are fishing. We will go quickly to get 
 them." 
 
 Madame Bouchaud happens to be Madame 
 Duval's twin sister and that saves me the 
 trouble of describing her to you. But Made- 
 moiselle Edith does not resemble her cousin 
 Louise in any way. She is tall and blonde. 
 She has a rather fragile air and tries to appear 
 English, in harmony with her name. 
 
 Choisy-le-Roi is very noisy. The Parisians 
 have continued to flock there since morning. 
 The cafe terraces overflow. Wine bottles ac- 
 cumulate on the little restaurant tables. The 
 famiUes greedily divide their chickens. Some 
 phonographs are heard playing languidly "On 
 the Shores of the Riviera." Anglers pass, 
 armed with lines; the silver fish jump in the 
 nets. 
 
 "My dear," says Louise, taking Edith's 
 arm and hurrying her on ahead, "can't you 
 guess?" 
 
 Good ! Exactly here father and son Bou- 
 chaud emerge from the quay with Robert 
 Picot. Their only tales are of poor luck. I 
 assure you that Father Bouchaud, weighing 
 one hundred and nineteen kilos, does not suffer 
 
 19
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 from cold. His collar chokes him. He 
 mops his brow, and is obliged to unbutton his 
 coat. He is a decided contrast to his sales- 
 man, the young Monsieur Robert, who is sal- 
 low, has dark circles around his eyes, and is 
 slender. Being the youngest, Georges Bou- 
 chaud carries the net full of gudgeons. 
 
 After further hearty greetings, it is Edith's 
 turn to take Louise's arm in leaving the 
 group : 
 
 "Do you know, my dear, Monsieur Robert 
 has asked for my hand from papa this week." 
 
 "That," replies Louise, "I have seen com- 
 ing. And what did you respond ? " 
 
 "Ah! I was very much embarrassed, you 
 understand. I cannot say that I dislike him, 
 for I do not. I find him very nice. But it is 
 so ordinary to marry a salesman ! I should 
 have liked to love a young man who had done 
 something noble, a husband of whom I should 
 have been proud — an aviator, for example." 
 
 "That is like me. But what can you ex- 
 pect? In the sad times we live in there is no 
 more heroism. Men care only for trifles. 
 Their ideal is to bring back a bigger fish story 
 than any of their friends, or to play manille as 
 
 20
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 an appetizer. Beyond that, there is nothing 
 for them." 
 
 " France is certainly decadent," says Edith. 
 
 "Yes, indeed she is!" says Louise. But 
 they have reached the Bouchauds' house. 
 While Edith cuts a rose in the garden for her 
 cousin, Mamma Bouchaud calls until she is 
 hoarse on the outside steps: 
 
 "Come to the table! The mutton will be 
 burned." 
 
 There is a melon — the first of the season — 
 over which they all exclaim ; haricot of mutton, 
 the national dish of the bourgeois French, and 
 a turbot not found in the Seine. Father Bou- 
 chaud shakes with laughter as he shows the 
 salad bowl of strawberries, and says that since 
 five o'clock in the morning he has been bent 
 over in the vegetable garden, picking one by 
 one the endless Httle "torments," and that 
 his wife inflicts this punishment upon him to 
 make him thin. Father Bouchaud is liveliness 
 personified. He has a thousand anecdotes to 
 relate about the clients of the Meilleur MarcM; 
 of the woman with big hands who is abso- 
 lutely determined to wear six and a half 
 gloves; of the one with bony hands who al- 
 
 21
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 ways splits the glove she tries on, and of the 
 one who wants to return the evening gloves 
 she has worn during an entire ball. They lis- 
 ten and he amuses them. Monsieur Henri is 
 placed by Louise's side, and Monsieur Robert 
 next to Edith. Monsieur Duval wants to re- 
 count in his turn the visit of des Assernes, 
 who came yesterday from Toulouse. But 
 suddenly his exuberant brother-in-law inter- 
 rupts him: 
 
 ''And this blessed Georges, you know he is 
 to pass his first examination a month from 
 now! If he keeps on, the fellow will be a 
 chemist at twenty-five." 
 
 "Unhappily," adds Georges, correcting his 
 statement, "the three years' law has since 
 passed to interfere with our plans, papa. 
 You never think of that." 
 
 " Ah ! the three years' law, it is true that I 
 can never beat that idea into my head. And 
 I ask you of what use ..." 
 
 "To grow musty for three years in bar- 
 racks," continues Georges. 
 
 Mademoiselle Louise watches her young 
 cousin with disapproval. 
 
 "What would you have done if you had 
 
 22
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 lived in the time of the crusades?" she asks 
 in a crushing tone. 
 
 Then the older sister adds to complete the 
 rebuke: "Have you no pride in thinking that 
 you are going to defend your country during 
 the three years?" 
 
 "Oh, my country is hardly menaced," says 
 Georges, with assurance. 
 
 "The head of the silk department," timidly 
 remarks the silent Robert Picot, reddening, 
 "said the other day that there will be war 
 next spring." 
 
 "What do you think of that!" exclaims 
 Georges. 
 
 "He is an imbecile," declares Monsieur 
 Bouchaud. 
 
 23
 
 IV 
 
 UNDER a pale-blue cloudless sky the 
 Seine moves with quiet flow, bordered 
 with the fresh green country of the Parisian 
 suburbs, where the poplars quiver. The tac- 
 tac of a powerful gasolene motor breaks the 
 silence; a swiftly rushing stem cleaves the 
 waters: it is the Bouchaud's motor yawl pass- 
 ing by. Georges is at the helm. The two 
 young women with their heads wrapped in 
 white veils, floating to the wind, are longing 
 to exchange further confidences. But it would 
 be necessary to shout them in a loud voice to 
 overcome the noise of the motor. They feel 
 behind them, shy and melancholy, the gaze of 
 the two clerks, and are anxious for fear they 
 may be overheard. 
 
 Heaven be praised, before arriving at the 
 Ablon mill-dam, the fishermen conceive the 
 idea of anchoring by a grassy, verdant island. 
 They proceed at once to regulate the engine. 
 The motor is quiet, the boat is headed straight. 
 
 24
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Louise and Edith go to sit at the back. Lou- 
 ise, at last, is able to pour out her heart. 
 
 "Do you know, my dear. Monsieur des As- 
 sernes arrived yesterday from Toulouse. He 
 came straight to us to read us something ex- 
 traordinary, marvellous, and fascinating : it is 
 a romance of chivalry which he found on some 
 old parchments, the history of Mirabelle of 
 Pampeluna." 
 
 "You were in great luck !" sighs Edith. 
 
 Louise continues, Hfting her head with 
 pride : 
 
 "Count Mainfroy of Catalpan, nephew of 
 the count of Foix, was madly in love with 
 Mirabelle, but he was the most warlike knight 
 of his time. Monsieur des Assernes read to 
 us yesterday, at dessert, what he had begun 
 to write about this knight who went on a cru- 
 sade. Ah, my dear, but he was marvellous ! " 
 
 "Monsieur des Assernes?" queries Edith. 
 
 "Oh, no, Mamfroy of Catalpan !" 
 
 "In the name of all the saints," cries Mon- 
 sieur Bouchaud, "my Hne is broken again. I 
 wager it was a four-pound pike !" 
 
 "Do be quiet, Monsieur Bouchaud," begs 
 Robert Picot, in a muffled voice. 
 
 25
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 With the reflections of the dark foliage the 
 stream looks like black ink. A delicious fresh- 
 ness prevails. On the highest branch of a sil- 
 ver poplar a blackbird sings with notes of 
 crystal purity. Our two mammas are dozing. 
 Louise continues: 
 
 "When he had decided to take the cross and 
 follow the king beyond the sea, as the story 
 goes, he went, before his departure, to spend a 
 week at the chateau of Pampeluna, so that he 
 might gaze with all his eyes on the lady of 
 his thoughts whom he was leaving forever. 
 And it was there that they had wonderful 
 conversations on honor, chivalry, and love. 
 The beautiful Mirabelle demanded, to test 
 him: 'Sweet lover, which do you love best, 
 honor or your lady?' To which the knight 
 replied : ' I love my lady above everything, in- 
 cluding honor.' 'Then,' said Mirabelle, 'if 
 you love your lady so much that you prefer 
 her to everything, including honor, why are 
 you willing to make her suffer by leaving her, 
 to fight the Saracens?' 'If I love my lady 
 sincerely,' answered Mainfroy, 'I would rather 
 have her grieve for my death than for my dis- 
 honor. Consequently, if for the false love of 
 
 26
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 her I should refuse to obey the call of God 
 and the king, I should sm more grievously 
 against my lady than in forsaking her in her 
 chateau.' Then Mirabelle cried: 'A good re- 
 sponse, Sir Knight. Nevertheless, I should 
 not like to see you fail.' And to requite him 
 Mirabelle sang to Mainf roy a beautiful melody, 
 with one of the nuns to accompany her on the 
 viol. However, when the count of Catalpan 
 was obliged to depart, Mirabelle shed so many 
 tears that all of her attendants fled, unable to 
 bear the sight of so much grief. And she 
 climbed to the tower of the chateau of Pampe- 
 luna, which was very high. The knight was 
 already in armor. She watched the rider and 
 his suite for a long time as they crossed the 
 mountain. When he had disappeared, she 
 shut herself in her room, where for a long time 
 she did not wish to eat or drink. As for the 
 count Mamfroy, he urged his steed and 
 wearied all of his suite on the road, in his ar- 
 dent longing to kill the infidels." 
 
 "How I should have liked to live in such 
 an age!" says Edith. 
 
 Without adding anything, Louise heaves a 
 long sigh. Then the two young girls turn 
 
 27
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 toward their two commonplace lovers. The 
 latter are crouched down, peaceful and good- 
 natured, on the edge of the boat, with bent 
 backs and the fishing-pole in their doubled 
 fists. From time to time one of them pulls 
 out a silver gudgeon, which flaps about on 
 the end of the Une. 
 
 "What an exquisitely beautiful day !" mur- 
 murs Father Bouchaud, thus expressing the 
 contentment and the quiet bliss of every one. 
 
 ''The young men of to-day make fun of ad- 
 ventures," says Louise disapprovingly. 
 
 Monsieur Duval, who does not fish, reads 
 Le Temps of the evening before and interrupts 
 to read aloud: 
 
 "Well, well! It seems that the president 
 of the republic is going to Russia. I ask 
 you . . ." 
 
 "Do be quiet," demands his brother-in-law 
 imperiously; "you will frighten the fish." 
 
 28
 
 V 
 
 ON Sunday evening a clamorous multi- 
 tude invades the railway station of 
 Choisy-le-Roi. In the dimly lighted waiting- 
 room children sleep on the benches. Young 
 girls carry armfuls of wild flowers, already half 
 faded. Young people of a pleasure party, 
 very much excited by the wine served to them 
 at dinner in the little restaurant, sing the 
 Riviera waltz; the garlands of harmony 
 ornamenting all of its melodies have accom- 
 panied them throughout this exhilarating day. 
 Successful fishermen protect as best they 
 can the booty they are carrying back to 
 Paris. 
 
 The family Bouchaud has come to attend 
 the Duval family, until it is absorbed in the 
 tumult. While waiting for the train Robert 
 Picot hovers around Edith, with whom, dur- 
 ing the entire day, he has not been able to 
 exchange a word in private. By good fortune 
 
 29
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 a movement of the crowd detaches her from 
 her group of relatives. She finds herself alone, 
 facing Monsieur Robert. This noisy station 
 is perhaps not a favorable place for the out- 
 pouring of affections. In novels, for similar 
 scenes, they choose the most poetic spots, 
 where it is possible to have a touch of mys- 
 tery. But in real life one takes things as 
 they come. Robert Picot is, moreover, very 
 happy to be able to exchange a few words 
 with Mademoiselle Edith, even in the hubbub 
 of this waiting-room. 
 
 "Your father has told you that we have 
 talked together about you, mademoiselle?" 
 he murmurs, a Httle nervous. 
 
 Oh, yes," rephes Edith, rather troubled. 
 You are . . . you are very good to think of 
 me. You understand that I was very much 
 surprised. I cannot answer you yet." 
 
 "Do I displease you?" suggests the young 
 man, his teeth clenched, but with an expres- 
 sion of indifference. 
 
 "I do not say that . . . only I must con- 
 sider." 
 
 At this moment a large woman pushes 
 against them, as she tries to go out. After a 
 
 30 
 
 ti
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 silence Monsieur Robert continues, as he 
 searches through his pocketbook: "I should 
 like to give you something. Here are some 
 verses." 
 
 "Oh!" says Edith, blushing, "you have 
 composed some verses for me !" 
 
 Immediately she begins to estimate wheth- 
 er, lacking an aviator, it would not be just as 
 stylish to marry a poet. But Monsieur Rob- 
 ert, with a wan smile, replies: 
 
 "No, no; they are not mine. I have only 
 copied them for you. They are by Sully 
 Prudhomme. That is much better than by 
 Robert Picot." 
 
 "Ah !" says Edith, disenchanted. And she 
 reaches out her hand to take the paper. 
 
 "I copied them with emotion," stammers 
 Robert Picot, looking at Edith. 
 
 Edith turns somewhat pale under this 
 strange look. She would like to thank Rob- 
 ert and tell him that she would read the verses 
 when she reaches home in the evening, but 
 the train arrives. The glass doors are opened 
 and the crowd rushes out on the wharf. The 
 family Bouchaud is pushed along behind the 
 family Duval as far as the car steps. Through- 
 
 31
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 out the length of the train the same cry re- 
 echoes: 
 
 " Good-by ! Thank you. Until next Sun- 
 day!" 
 
 The train has already disappeared into the 
 night as Madame Bouchaud, remaining in 
 front of the station with her family, still waves 
 her handkerchief tragically. 
 
 As there was no room in the second-class 
 compartments, the Duvals are estabhshed in 
 the first-class, where they find themselves 
 alone, by a happy chance. The softness of 
 the seats and the ease of the springs, as well 
 as the fatigue of a day in the open air, have 
 quickly lulled the parents to sleep. Here they 
 are dozing before they have reached the next 
 station. But the same causes do not produce 
 the same effect upon clerks as upon employers. 
 I assure you that Monsieur Henri has not 
 the shghtest desire to sleep. Louise, a Httle 
 weary, is charming this evening. Her lovely 
 eyes have a velvety quality, very sweet to 
 watch, but also a depth that makes one giddy. 
 On his part, Monsieur Henri has lost the mod- 
 est air he wears in the shop of the Cherche- 
 Midi. It is quite another thing from han- 
 
 32
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 dling, from morning until night, in a dark 
 store, the pale yellow covers of books at three 
 francs fifty, quite different to sail on a silver 
 stream, under a torrid sun, while the birds 
 split their throats in the trees of the river 
 banks. The intoxication of nature makes one 
 long for happiness. 
 
 Mademoiselle Louise has the prettiest hand 
 in the world, with a delicate wrist showing 
 beyond a lace cuff. This hand hypnotizes 
 Monsieur Henri, who all at once ventures to 
 take it and press it very hard. 
 
 "I love you, Louise," he murmurs. She is 
 not exactly annoyed. She doesn't withdraw 
 her hand. . . . But she thinks of the knight 
 of Catalpan and she questions: 
 
 "If I should ask you to throw yourself for 
 me from the top of the Eiffel Tower, what 
 would you do?" 
 
 Amazed, the young man stares blankly at 
 her. His good sense is completely upset; then 
 he repKes quickly: 
 
 "If you should ask that," he says coldly, 
 "it would be because you were extremely ma- 
 licious; then I should cease to love you, and I 
 should not do it." 
 
 33
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 He stops pressing Louise's hand. He has 
 received a shock of cold water. But, as a 
 tender heart is always afraid of having hurt 
 the object of its admiration, he continues after 
 an instant: "If it were necessary to save you, 
 I should do it, Mademoiselle Louise." 
 
 34
 
 VI 
 
 THE month of September has arrived, and 
 with it Xavier des Assernes, who has 
 crossed, on the journey to Paris, a France 
 golden with grain and the sun. But to-day 
 the enthusiastic author, seated in the shop in 
 the Rue du Cherche-Midi between M. Duval 
 and Mademoiselle Louise, leaves the manu- 
 script of the lovely Mirabelle untouched on 
 his knees. A profound silence hovers around 
 the shelves of books. Do not look here any 
 more for M. Henri's white smock. It is ex- 
 actly one month to-day since he was drafted. 
 He went August 2 with his friend, Robert 
 Picot, and no one since then has received any 
 word from them. It is reported that the Ger- 
 mans are three days' march from Paris. Sud- 
 denly the sound of the door-bell breaks the 
 silence of the shop. The door opens with a 
 bang. M. Bouchaud enters in a gust of wind. 
 He pulls out his handkerchief and mops his 
 forehead under his straw hat as he exclaims: 
 
 35
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "You haven't heard it? The government 
 is leaving." 
 
 Then he drops into a chair. 
 
 Slightly more reserved and a little paler 
 than usual, M. Duval questions him: 
 
 "Where is it going? To Versailles ? " 
 
 "To Toulouse?" asks des Assernes. 
 
 "Oh ! I don't know myself !" replies the de- 
 partment manager humorously. "They are 
 running away to put the musty old papers of 
 France where they are safe. That is all." 
 
 "When I arrived last evening at Orsay," 
 says des Assernes, "I was obliged to push 
 through a crowd of people sitting even on the 
 floor of the station while they waited for the 
 uncertain departure of the train which was to 
 take them away. The sight was both dis- 
 tressing and picturesque." 
 
 " Is it then true that the enemy is approach- 
 ing?" queries Louise, 
 
 Louise has her usual air. Her customary 
 gravity is in harmony with the present hour. 
 
 "So they say," replies Uncle Bouchaud, 
 "but before I believe that Paris is taken, I 
 must see fifty thousand pointed helmets in the 
 Place de la Concorde. And even when I shall 
 
 36
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 have seen them I shall say to myself: 'Abel, 
 your eyes are deceiving you.' " 
 
 "Bravo, monsieur!" cheers des Assernes. 
 "That is a remark worthy of becoming his- 
 toric." 
 
 "I did not say it for that," replies Father 
 Bouchaud, quite astonished. 
 
 "It seems that they hear the cannon in the 
 Saint Denis district," remarks M. Duval. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asks the 
 novehst. " Where are you going to find a safe 
 place?" 
 
 "I, find a safe place?" cries Father Bou- 
 chaud, rolling his eyes furiously. 
 
 "We, find a safe place?" exclaims M. Duval 
 at the same time. 
 
 "My dear sir," replies the department man- 
 ager, holding up his head, "it was thirty-seven 
 years ago the 28th of last July since I went to 
 the Meilleur Marche. I began there as a small 
 salesman. I was promoted then from posi- 
 tion to position, and I have earned there the 
 few pennies I possess. It is the estabhshment 
 that has made me what I am. When I speak 
 of it I say the 'house,' in the same way I 
 refer to my home. Very well, monsieur, to- 
 
 37
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 day when two- thirds of the staff, called by the 
 mobilization, are away and when the 'house' 
 is working under difficulties, I consider it my 
 duty to remain at my post, like a soldier; yes, 
 monsieur, like an obedient soldier." 
 
 The blood has mounted to his face, making 
 red blotches on his smooth-shaven cheeks and 
 swelling the veins of his neck. With a motion 
 he unfastens his collar-button, and then, re- 
 lieved and comfortable, he continues: 
 
 ''I begged Madame Bouchaud and the little 
 one to remain alone at Choisy. For, mon- 
 sieur, you understand that in future we can- 
 not count on regular suburban train service. 
 I cannot go there any more to sleep. Well, 
 monsieur, those two creatures who, bless my 
 soul, after all are nothing but women, do you 
 know what they replied to me? Madame 
 Bouchaud said to me: 'Do you think that we 
 shall remain here while you are in Paris in 
 great danger? No, no; we shall go and take 
 a lodging, a shelter, no matter what, and we 
 shall die together.' And my daughter Edith 
 added: 'Even if the Germans should enter 
 Paris I should not be afraid.'" 
 
 He is calmer now, but his eyes are wet, and 
 
 38
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 a furtive tear slides toward his mustache. 
 With altered voice he adds: 
 
 "But best of all, monsieur, the crowning 
 touch of the story is that the Httle one, 
 Georges, my son, eighteen years old, has said 
 to me from morning until night, for three 
 weeks: 'I want to enHst. I must enlist.' Say 
 what you will, a father who has only one 
 youngster of that age shudders to think of his 
 being under fire. I was angry. I swore and 
 cursed, and I declared that I should never give 
 my consent. Confound it ! France isn't des- 
 perate enough for soldiers to make it necessary 
 for eighteen-year-old youngsters to die in her 
 defense. But patriotism is a curious thing, 
 monsieur. The other evening I heard a 
 strange noise coming from Georges' room. 
 His mother said to me: 'He is ill; they say he 
 is groaning.' I ran to him. The boy was 
 crying, hidden under his sheet. And he com- 
 plained : 'When I think that they are in France, 
 that they are marching toward us, and that I 
 haven't even a gun to shoot at them ! ' He 
 didn't say any more, monsieur, but I had not 
 realized, before, the meaning of the invasion, 
 and at that moment I understood it. And I 
 
 39
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 blurted out the decisive sentence: 'Georges, 
 I give you my consent.' Now it is done. 
 There is nothing left for him but to go to sign 
 his papers at the town hall of Choisy." 
 
 Xavier des Assernes listens with admira- 
 tion to the honest bourgeois, M. Bouchaud, 
 as he expresses so simply the finest feelings 
 of his race. 
 
 Louise murmurs, with a touch of emotion: 
 "Georges is splendid; you, too, uncle." 
 
 More accustomed to the analysis of his ex- 
 periences and feelings, the bookseller speaks 
 in his turn. 
 
 *'I shall not leave my book-shop," he as- 
 serts. "It would bring me more honor, per- 
 haps, if it did not seem best to me that I 
 should remain here to defend the products of 
 the French mind, of which I am the humble 
 guardian, against the plundering of these bar- 
 barians. But I could not endure it if in my 
 absence they should enter here and defile or 
 steal my collections. I have some very fine 
 Villons. It is merchandise that is not for the 
 nose of these villains. I know that as for my 
 Rabelais, which will make Monsieur des As- 
 sernes turn yellow with envy, I should take it 
 
 40
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 with me. But my bargain Ronsards, my 
 cheap Voltaires, and even my editions of mod- 
 ern authors at ninety-five centimes, I should be 
 enraged to see them become the prey of these 
 savages. No, no, I remain. I have a good re- 
 volver and I shall defend my shop. Besides, 
 I hope, like Bouchaud, that the pointed hel- 
 mets will not come as far as this, and that we 
 shall soon see the end of this cataclysm. In 
 which case it is important that commercial life 
 should be continued and that we, the civil- 
 ians, who do not pour out our blood, uphold 
 the usual course of regular living, without dis- 
 turbing ourselves. Only I should like to 
 arrange that my wife and daughter should 
 go away." 
 
 Then Louise straightens herself up, and 
 adds simply: "Ask Mirabelle of Pampeluna if 
 she would have fled before the enemy." 
 
 41
 
 VII 
 
 THE road on the ridge of the hill is as 
 white as chalk; it is dazzHng in the 
 brilliant sunlight. With a rumble and clatter 
 the passage of forty thousand army shoes 
 reverberates in cadence; the red trousers are 
 flaming in the light. But in the distance the 
 troops are enveloped in a thick rolling cloud, 
 which is simply the dust they have raised. 
 To the right and left the ripe oats, ready to 
 be harvested, wave and bend back their full 
 ears. From time to time a marching song 
 pours forth from the throat of a corporal wish- 
 ing to hurry his squad along. It is '^Les godil- 
 lots sont lourds dans rsac,^' or"Ya la goutte a 
 hoire Id-haut^ But the men grumble: 
 
 *'He thinks, then, that we are not thirsty 
 enough already, the bull-head?" 
 
 And the song dies unechoed in the dull 
 thud of heavy tramping. Suddenly, in the 
 rear, a muffled, indistinct explosion is heard 
 resounding and repeating itself. 
 
 42
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "Do you think that firecracker hit 
 Rheims?" 
 
 "There is no doubt of it, old fellow; they 
 ought to be able to see the cathedral." 
 
 "When we left the city this morning they 
 were not yet firing on it." 
 
 "The wretched beasts! Fortunately, we 
 are waiting for them around the corner." 
 
 Perhaps you have not recognized, under 
 their dusty caps and their coal-black skin, 
 through which their wild eyes shine, the two 
 troopers exchanging opinions, in the fourth 
 squad of the first section of the eighth com- 
 pany, as they cover the kilometers — they are 
 on the thirtieth for this morning — on the 
 dusty roads. Well, they are M. Henri and 
 M. Robert, the book-clerk and the glove- 
 seller. A kind fortune has thrown them 
 both in the same regiment and in the same 
 8th, which at Charleroi, ten days earlier, 
 held out for two hours with muskets alone 
 against two German machine-guns. You may 
 well believe that the 8th did not come out 
 of it intact. Far from it. M. Henri, with 
 torn and riddled coat, was hit, and M. 
 Robert has a scratch on his neck. After 
 
 43
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 which they were detached and placed in the 
 same squad. And here they are. 
 
 "Do you know, Picot, they said there was 
 a village down below." 
 
 "Excellent ! We shall have a drink." 
 
 M. Henri is not mistaken. It is the vil- 
 lage of La Chapelle. And a command passes 
 along the line, producmg a loud sigh of re- 
 lief among these worn-out troops, rismg from 
 the very heart of these twenty thousand men, 
 the contented sigh of the exhausted animal 
 finally able to rest; they are to camp in this 
 village ! 
 
 There is quick confusion. The red trousers 
 scatter like a flood glistening in the meadows 
 and fields. The men stretch their tired legs 
 with ecstasy in the soft comfort of the ripe 
 oats. The inhabitants emerge from the farms. 
 The same cry resounds everywhere — "Wine ! " 
 
 But here on the road is a moving cloud ad- 
 vancing, accompanied by the sound of gallop- 
 ing, of army trucks and of clanking iron. It 
 is a detachment of heavy artillery, ten bat- 
 teries which will leave their ammunition 
 wagons drawn up in line on the principle street 
 of the village, while drivers, gunners, and 
 artillery-men creep into the streets and lanes, 
 
 44
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 anywhere that a farmhouse or a cottage is 
 to be found, to repeat again the same cry: 
 "Wine!" 
 
 Night is closing in. The evening is suffo- 
 cating. Picot and Lecointre set up a fine ket- 
 tle in a stack of newly cut wheat by the side 
 of a little hill. The eyes of the twenty thou- 
 sand harassed men close under a sky black 
 with storm. They have satisfied the most ter- 
 rible of all needs, thirst, and from the stables 
 and the cattle-sheds, where the most knowing 
 are lodged, the groves, the haystacks, and the 
 fields surrounding the village, rises the snor- 
 ing of the sleeping troops. 
 
 Picot and Lecointre are not sleepy. They 
 are asking themselves the meaning of this 
 retreat. They do not understand it. 
 
 " If I knew that it was a rout," asserts Henri 
 Lecointre, who is easily depressed, I should 
 have preferred to have stayed at Charleroi 
 with my comrades." 
 
 ''A rout! But, old fellow," explains Rob- 
 ert Picot, "don't you realize that, on the con- 
 trary, we are executing a manoeuvre? They 
 are taking us to some place, I don't know just 
 where. But let the Boches beware !" 
 
 'Do you remember," remarks Henri Le- 
 
 45 
 
 ((-
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 cointre mournfully, "that beautiful Sunday 
 at Choisy, when we fished all the afternoon, 
 anchored by the island?" 
 
 "Ah!" replies Robert Picot. "How can 
 you ask if I remember?" 
 
 A clap of thunder, this time a genuine one, 
 closes their lips. At the same time the pat- 
 tering of the rain and hail on the straw of their 
 shelter compels them to bury themselves 
 deeper in the warm hut. Soon they are over- 
 powered by fatigue, in spite of the din of the 
 storm. They are off to a land more beautiful 
 than the terrible reality. . . . 
 
 At daybreak, on the muddy road, hardly 
 lighted by the dawn, three soldiers on cycles 
 are seen, pedalling frantically. Sweat makes 
 ridges on their dusty faces. When they reach 
 the little town they rouse every man they can 
 find to inquire where the colonel is staying. 
 This is the news they stammer out : the enemy 
 is four kilometers away. He is advancing 
 rapidly. 
 
 Then while three colonels confer with the 
 commander of artillery in the assembly-room 
 of the town hall, in the sharp air of the early 
 morning, the notes of the reveille sound over 
 
 46
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 the encampments, sent by the bugles to the 
 four winds, causing twenty thousand men to 
 rise up at one stroke, as if they were springing 
 up out of the ground. No wine. Nothing. 
 No liquor. Marching order, four abreast and 
 quickly! Only the captain of the 8th says 
 to his men: "We shall remain here to defend 
 the movement of the troops." 
 
 For the entire length of the village, in the 
 main road bordered with hedges, one by one 
 the heavy field-pieces of the ten batteries of 
 "155's" are lined up. But the horses are 
 grazing in the fields, and not an ammunition 
 wagon is ready yet. Meanwhile a strange 
 order is given. There is a revolution in the 
 village. The women, in loose jackets and 
 night-caps, come out of their homes. There 
 are sobs and tears. Already the men go to 
 the stables to let out the animals, cows and 
 pigs, and drive them toward the country and 
 neighboring woods. For it is necessary that 
 the whole village should be evacuated in a 
 quarter of an hour. 
 
 "What is going to happen ? " asks Henri Le- 
 cointre, contemplating the lamentable exodus 
 of all these poor people, fleeing in the direc- 
 
 47
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 tion of Champ voisy, carrying, tied in white 
 towels, the most precious of their possessions. 
 
 "They may fight here, perhaps," says Rob- 
 ert Picot. 
 
 "It may be so !" says the book-clerk, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 But no, it is not yet time to fight. The 
 truth is that three hundred meters from here 
 the plateau descends by an abrupt road toward 
 the valley; that the rain-storm has transformed 
 the road into a mire; that the heavy ammuni- 
 tion wagons, travelling in its ruts, are in dan- 
 ger of remaining there, and that the Germans 
 are on the heels of the French troops. In that 
 case, rather than abandon to the enemies these 
 fierce and terrible cannon, that have never 
 failed us, would it not be better to destroy 
 them here, to break them in pieces so that 
 when the village is reached the enemy will not 
 find anything beyond the enormous holes 
 where their noble remains are buried? 
 
 Hobert Picot and Henri Lecointre realize 
 tlie truth when they see the major approach- 
 ing, gaze with a long look at the motionless 
 and unsuspecting cannon, and then turn to 
 conceal his emotion from his astounded offi- 
 cers. 
 
 48
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 In the country, on the highways, in the 
 trampled oats are women and children, drag- 
 ging the pigs, driving the cows, fleeing and 
 crying; the village is empty now and appears 
 dead; the gunners, mounting their horses as 
 they spur them on, hurry toward the main 
 road. A dozen artillerymen remain with two 
 non-commissioned officers and the major. 
 On the road the men of the 8th are busy dig- 
 ging small trenches at every turn, where can 
 be concealed, on their knees, thanks to the 
 bundles of fagots, stations of watchers to 
 await the arrival of the gray coats. The 
 fourth squad stays behind the longest; Robert 
 Picot and Henri Lecointre, with fingers on 
 the trigger of their guns, their red trousers 
 on the damp earth, are on guard. Suddenly 
 they start. A conflagration in successive 
 bursts illumines even the light of day, and 
 their eyes are still dimmed by the dazzling 
 brightness as their ear-drums are rent with 
 the most infernal noise that human ears are 
 able to endure. Fifty cannon explode at the 
 same moment, and apple-trees laden with 
 apples are blown into the air, and all of Cham- 
 pagne trembles. . . . 
 
 Robert Picot has thrown down his gun with 
 
 49
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 an angry gesture and, taking his head be- 
 tween his hands, hides his face in the fagots 
 protecting the trenches. 
 
 "Bundle of nerves," says his friend to him. 
 "What is the matter ? Is it the noise ? " 
 
 But after waiting an instant Picot returns 
 to Lecointre and uncovers his tear-stained 
 face. He can only say one thing: 
 
 " It is miserable ! It is wretched ! The fine 
 cannon we need so much ! " 
 
 Now a funereal silence broods over the 
 country. Smoke continues to rise over the 
 rumed village. The eyes of the watchers are 
 fixed on the distant road, where they expect 
 the pointed hehnets to appear. But there is 
 nothing. The noise of whistles re-echoes. It 
 is the order to fall back to join the main body 
 of troops. Then Lecointre's disappointment 
 breaks forth: 
 
 "We cannot even discharge our guns!" 
 
 The 8th forms again in a column, four 
 abreast, and advances into a rich and quiet 
 country. Rows of fine elms make quadrilat- 
 erals in the midst of the harvested fields. 
 One might call it a splendid French park. 
 But they have reached the edge of the pla-
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 teau. The prospect changes as an immense 
 panorama appears. There is a long valley 
 extending two hundred meters below the road ; 
 it is misty and fresh in the early morning air. 
 Here and there the belfries point upward 
 among the trees, and a beautiful river non- 
 chalantly wanders along with its silver wa- 
 ters. 
 
 "Look there," says Picot, in ecstasy, 
 ''what is that?" 
 
 Henri Lecointre replies: "You stupid mule, 
 don't you see that it is the Marne?" 
 
 On the suspension bridge spanning the 
 river between Verneuil and Dormans we can 
 see a mass of men. It is the infantry falling 
 back on the right bank. 
 
 51
 
 VIII 
 
 'TTMIE worst of it all," declares Mademoi- 
 X selle Louise, sighing, "is not to know 
 anything about them." 
 
 She speaks these words in the same instant 
 in which M. Henri surveys the historic river 
 which must still be placed between the enemy 
 and our army. If mademoiselle had second 
 sight she would be somewhat reassured. But 
 for evolving visions she has nothing but a 
 tender and anxious heart. The truth is that 
 M. Henri has never filled so large a place in 
 the shop of the Rue du Cherche-Midi as he 
 has since the day of his departure. Made- 
 moiselle Louise understands now how sweet 
 is the presence of the loved one. It is a trea- 
 sure she had not valued until it was lost. 
 And when she says/ 'The worst is not to know 
 anything about them," you have guessed that 
 you should understand: "The worst is not to 
 know anything of him." If she associates 
 Robert Picot with her regrets, it is out of dis- 
 cretion; it is also from politeness to her cousin 
 
 52
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Edith, who is present. Madame and Made- 
 moiselle Bouchaud left Choisy-le-Roi last 
 evening. And the Duvals have offered them 
 shelter. This is why, on this September 
 morning, in the bookseller's shop, Xavier des 
 Assernes, come to read his new chapter, has 
 found one more hstener. 
 
 "If they were still living," continues Edith, 
 controlling her tears, "they would certainly 
 have found means to send news of them- 
 selves." 
 
 "Soldiers," says M. Duval stoically, "think 
 now of quite other things than their sweet- 
 hearts. Do you imagine that they are going 
 to waste their time writing nonsense to you ? " 
 
 And turning toward des Assernes: 
 
 "My dear master, if we should listen to 
 these young girls, we should become despon- 
 dent. But I hope that they may be able to 
 say the contrary, that the menace of the 
 enemy will not disturb the serenity of our 
 spirits, and that the intellectual life of France 
 will continue. That is why I beg you to 
 consent to proceed with your reading." 
 
 Customers hardly ever disturb our literary 
 circle any more, and the novelist can settle 
 
 53
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 himself at ease in the very middle of the shop. 
 Soon his voice begins: 
 
 "Lord Mainfroy of Catalpan went through 
 the mountains to the castle of his uncle, the 
 count of FoLx, whose standard he carried. 
 And he found many knights who, like himself, 
 were going across the sea. But then he drew 
 off his shoes and stockings and his clothes, 
 leaving nothing but his shirt, and in his shirt 
 went to the cathedral, where the bishop 
 handed him back his sword and his pilgrim's 
 staff and exposed the relics before him. 
 
 ''While he still remained in the chateau of 
 Foix, a pious lady, one of the devout women 
 living with the countess, noticed this young 
 squire with proud bearing and gentle face. 
 And she remained quite pensive. If the good 
 countess of Foix, seeing that her devout at- 
 tendant was disturbed, had urged her to con- 
 fide her trouble, the lady would doubtless 
 have concealed her amorous thoughts. But 
 the other devout ladies advised her to open 
 her heart to the countess who was the lord 
 of Catalpan's aunt. And the countess, hav- 
 ing heard the confession of this noble love, 
 went to her nephew and spoke to him thus: 
 
 54
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 'Before you depart for this voyage, dear 
 nephew, it is strange to me that you do not 
 choose a lady. I know one called Gisele. 
 God made her beautiful in body, of noble 
 birth, and with a rare character. If you 
 should resolve to take her as your wife on 
 your return from this voyage, it would be a 
 praiseworthy plan.' To which the lord of 
 Catalpan responded: 'Madame, there is no 
 woman so beautiful in heaven or hell, should 
 she be wiser than the Saracen queen of Sheba, 
 or more noble than the queen of Trebizond, 
 or with a more lovely face than the queen of 
 France, who could make me forget her whom 
 I cherish devotedly, that is to say, Mirabelle 
 of Pampeluna.' After this the squire de- 
 parted, faithful to his lady. And he carried 
 the standard of the count of Foix. And they 
 rode forty days and forty nights until they 
 arrived at Aigues-Mortes, where the galleons 
 were waiting. And then the lord of Catal- 
 pan and the count of Argentan hired a gal- 
 leon together and embarked on the sea with- 
 out fear, because God had placed a courageous 
 spirit in their bodies. And all of the time 
 they pulled through the seas, the knight, Main- 
 
 55
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 froy, stayed in the prow of the ship, his fore- 
 head in his hand, dreaming of Mirabelle of 
 Pampeluna." 
 
 Thus continues des Assernes, while his im- 
 passive auditors follow, according to their dif- 
 ferent tastes and temperaments, the poetry of 
 this mediaeval tale. I beg you to notice with 
 me that the Germans are advancing each day 
 toward Paris, that the goods of these four 
 persons and even their lives are menaced; that 
 the most cruel disquietude oppresses their 
 hearts concerning those whom they love, and 
 that no one feels more than they the great 
 and noble anguish of knowing that their 
 country is in danger. But there is in the 
 French spirit, at first sight, an excessive shy- 
 'Qcss, which likes to conceal under an apparent 
 calm the most fiery emotions of the soul, and 
 also a coquetry which carries itself with ele- 
 gance in the midst of the worst moral crises. 
 And who knows whether these four persons, 
 nourished on exalted thoughts, do not find 
 comfort in reliving in this legend the most 
 beautiful years of early French life, in the 
 hour when France, and all that she possesses, 
 is in the greatest peril she has ever known ? 
 
 56
 
 IX 
 
 enri 
 of the 8th, "the captain is asking for 
 
 "TECOINTRE, Henri," cries a sergeant 
 
 you." 
 
 The regiment has passed the night in a set- 
 tlement of three large farms abandoned by 
 their inhabitants. At this moment Lecointre 
 and Picot, with their red trousers as their sole 
 garments, are washing their shirts in the 
 pond. It is a luxury that has been impossi- 
 ble for three weeks. But we must acknowl- 
 edge that in the weariness of the retreat, ex- 
 hausted by the heat, burning with thirst, 
 each one in his turn surreptitiously has un- 
 done the strap of his knapsack, and that now 
 all the bundles, one by one, lie along the 
 roads. Therefore they have no change of 
 clothes. "Lecointre, Henri," dresses himself 
 again and, in the classic costume of a flour- 
 dealer, questions his friend anxiously: 
 
 "Hey, Picot, is it all right for me to go to 
 speak to the captain in this rig?" 
 
 "It is a bit negligee, old fellow. But slip 
 
 57
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 on your greatcoat, and put on your necktie 
 to hide your undress." 
 
 Near the hedge men wrangle for places to 
 dry their Hnen in the sun. Farther away, in 
 the open air, others have put thirty fowls on 
 the spit. The skewers are made of beech- 
 wood and blaze up from time to time, so that 
 the roast rolls in the ashes, filling the cooks 
 with noisy glee. 
 
 The captain is quartered in one of the farm 
 kitchens. He is still quite young. He says 
 to M. Henri: 
 
 "Lecointre, are you the man for quite a 
 dangerous reconnoitring party?" 
 
 "Yes, captain." 
 
 "Do you know that the Germans are hid- 
 ing in the wood overlooking this place, oppo- 
 site us?" 
 
 "Yes, captain." 
 
 "Very well, we have the order to attack 
 to-morrow morning at dawn, the 8th in front. 
 About all this not a word, Lecointre. I count 
 on your silence." 
 
 "Yes, captain." 
 
 "But first I need to be certain about the 
 strength of the enemy and their system of de- 
 
 S8
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 fense, for we fear that they have fortified 
 themselves in the wood. We need two deter- 
 mined men, ready to give their lives for vic- 
 tory, who will try to enter the wood to-night 
 to obtain information. You have under- 
 stood?" 
 
 *'Yes, captain." 
 
 "Do you know another, as courageous as 
 you, who will risk his skin in the same way?" 
 "Yes, captain; his name is Picot, Robert. 
 He is also in the 8th." 
 
 The captain looks Lecointre in the eyes. 
 He measures this reliable soldier; he estimates 
 him and he considers his powers. And no 
 doubt a vision passes before his eyes: this 
 jovial fellow knocked down on the grass, by a 
 ball, before the attack. It would be a pity. 
 He purses his mouth and shuts his eyes as if 
 there was a grain of sand in them. 
 
 "In the name of the 8th I thank you, Le- 
 cointre. Ah ! I almost forgot. You are a 
 corporal." 
 Monsieur Henri's face shines. 
 "Thank you, captain." 
 Do you know what occupies Monsieur 
 Henri almost as long as the day lasts ? Well, 
 
 59
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 it is to find the insignia to sew on his sleeve. 
 Of course the outfitting store has gone to the 
 devil, and officer's stripes are not found in 
 farm rooms. Nevertheless, the important 
 matter of this day is not that he is going to be 
 killed during the coming night, no; it is the 
 honor that has just come to him, it is the 
 mysterious thing that raises him above his 
 squad; it is his new rank. 
 
 "You can't get it," said a sergeant of the 
 second section, in conclusion. '*I have kept 
 my band of stripes in the bottom of my 
 pocket. It was a souvenir. So much the 
 worse. Take it." 
 
 Now the night, already longer in September, 
 spreads over the country! In the stables 
 and the barns the men huddle up for the 
 night. Robert Picot and the corporal Le- 
 cointre remain sitting, with pipes in their 
 mouths, on the edge of the watering-trough. 
 When they see that the bowls of their pipes 
 make a red dot in the darkness, it is because 
 the darkness is favorable and they will leave. 
 But a curious thing happens. Now that their 
 comrades are sleeping, invisible in their shel- 
 ters, and the two friends find themselves alone 
 
 60
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 in the cool night, humid and threatening, all 
 the horror of peril is present to their imagina- 
 tion, as well as the difficulties of the enter- 
 prise. 
 
 **It is foolish for us to do it," says Lecointre. 
 
 "Yes, it is foolish," says Picot. "We shall 
 certainly not return." 
 
 "And down there," continues the corporal, 
 "they will never know how we have fallen." 
 
 A silence reigns while a chorus of frogs 
 swells in a neighboring pond. 
 
 "Say then, Picot, it makes a confounded 
 impression on you to think that we shall never 
 see them again, doesn't it?" 
 
 Picot doesn't respond. He is not able to 
 respond. He sees Edith's charming eyes 
 again and her farewell smile. Lecointre him- 
 self sees Louise once more and the paradise it 
 would have been to be loved by her. Seated 
 on the edge of a watering-trough for farm 
 horses, Picot and Lecointre coldly measure 
 the value of their lives, which they are offer- 
 ing to their country, not suspecting that they 
 strangely resemble their remote model, Main- 
 froy of Catalpan, sitting in the bow of his 
 ship and thinking of his lady. They are of 
 
 6i
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 his race and French knights like him, and 
 you have observed it. 
 
 "I think that it is time to go," remarks 
 Lecointre. 
 
 "It is time," replies Picot simply. 
 
 They have guns slung on their shoulders, 
 and one hundred and twenty cartridges apiece. 
 The night is perfectly dark. They skirt a 
 hedge separating a meadow from the harvested 
 field where they are walking. In the meadow 
 their forms are better concealed than on the 
 bare fields. Both meadow and fields are ex- 
 posed to the observation of the enemy. Like 
 cats, they make a gap in the hedge and slip 
 through. Now they have reached the dark 
 grass. 
 
 "Let us stoop down," says Picot. "It is 
 safer." 
 
 I do not know whether you see clearly the 
 setting of the scene: land rising gently to a 
 departmental road which encircles the foot 
 of the hill; near the highway the slope de- 
 scends abruptly, bristling with young trees 
 and bushes, and about one hundred and 
 twenty-four meters higher is the beech wood 
 where the Germans are hiding. They are able 
 
 62
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 to follow the slightest movements of the 
 French regiments in the valley. Never mind, 
 they have not seen the two black masses lying 
 in the grass. But when, after having pro- 
 gressed for twenty minutes in this very diffi- 
 cult manner, the two friends leap over the 
 ditch bordering the road, and find themselves 
 on the white highway, where their silhouettes 
 are visible in the night, fireworks burst over- 
 head. It is the sentinels firing their guns on 
 the suspected shadows. The bullets scatter. 
 Instinctively Lecointre* falls and pretends to 
 be dead. Picot turns distractedly to his com- 
 rade. 
 
 "You are hit, you poor old fellow!" 
 The corporal almost wants to smile over 
 the trick so well played. But it is no time 
 for playfulness. He whispers imperiously: 
 "Stop fooling and do the same." 
 
 And there are two corpses stretched in the 
 dust. Not a start. Not a movement. Not 
 a breath. A half-hour passes. Then, imper- 
 ceptibly, a hand reaches out, a limb stretches 
 itself, a foot moves. In a few minutes each 
 corpse covers several millimeters. In an hour 
 the two friends have reached the thicket. 
 
 63
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Now they are in comparative safety. The 
 rustling made by their bodies in the branches 
 might be the sound of animals in the night. 
 In this instant their minds work with ex- 
 traordinary clearness. The truth is, they are 
 sacrificed. But, if they should succeed, what 
 a prize to-morrow as the reward of victory ! 
 When they place their ears to the ground 
 they hear the jargon of the Germans. They 
 direct their stealthy course toward the senti- 
 nels at a distance. They creep in between 
 two posts. Something of the intoxication of 
 death defied, of the success hoped for, of the 
 divine cause they serve, has taken possession 
 of them. They are overexcited, beside them- 
 selves. They can hardly keep from shoulder- 
 ing their rifles, when they see the enemy's 
 camp, where they would like to fire two hun- 
 dred and forty bullets. To ascertain all of 
 the meaning of this German advance-guard, 
 it would be necessary to reach the platform, 
 which is impossible. But from the under- 
 brush where they are hiding they can see the 
 forms rolled in their blankets, sleeping on the 
 moss and without fortification. It is a tem- 
 porary camp: the Boches are certaiuly not 
 
 64
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 prepared for the French menace. They still 
 expect to make further progress toward Paris 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Then, with scratched faces and bloody 
 hands, the book-clerk and the glove-seller let 
 themselves fall gently into the ravine, catch- 
 ing themselves here and there on the rocks 
 and branches. 
 
 6S
 
 X 
 
 MADEMOISELLE LOUISE has uttered 
 a cry in sorting the mail: 
 "A letter from Monsieur Henri !" 
 The letter is dated the loth of September. 
 It has taken seven days to come from the 
 front. What difference does it make ? It has 
 arrived and now Mademoiselle Louise, white 
 as death, her two elbows on the counter and 
 her forehead in her hands, reads and rereads 
 it without being able to take her eyes away. 
 I will tell you, moreover, what the letter con- 
 tains: 
 
 "My dear Louise, I love you and we are 
 victorious. These are the two great pieces of 
 news, these are the two splendid facts, this is 
 all that fills my soul, and I am beside myself 
 as I write. I knew what it was to love you, 
 Louise, but I did not know what one experi- 
 ences when he sees his country invaded, and 
 when he recovers it again, and when before 
 his gun the enemies scatter like rabbits. I 
 know it now and I love you all the more. 
 
 66
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 When I fight it is of you that I think, I do 
 not want these brigands to reach Paris, and 
 it seems to me that it was you they injured 
 in injuring France. And when, in their daily 
 orders, our superior officers talk of the France 
 for which we must all die if it is necessary, 
 the vision I see has your large black eyes and 
 your thoughtful brow, and the grave smile of 
 your mouth. 
 
 "Louise, I do not know anything about 
 you now. Have you never written me? 
 Don't you receive my letters? I have told 
 you that we were forced to cross the Mame 
 and that we fell back sadly. These are the 
 terrible days that I want to forget. But day 
 before yesterday an order came to take the 
 offensive. Picot and I were intrusted with 
 quite a difficult mission. It was to go, before 
 the attack, and observe the enemy's position 
 in a wood overlooking us. Tell Mademoiselle 
 Edith that Picot is brave as anything. In 
 spite of his nervous manner, he never loses his 
 composure. He stood by me splendidly in 
 this enterprise when death awaited us every 
 second. We were able to inform our supe- 
 riors as to the situation of the Boches, and the 
 
 67
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 sun had not yet risen in the morning when 
 we charged toward the small forest. The 
 bugles sounded like mad. It was as if, 
 hidden behind the stack where they had 
 shielded themselves, they had gone crazy. 
 Our poor captain fell the first, hit in the fore- 
 head by a bullet. For from above, as they 
 scrambled up, four machine-guns stopped the 
 besiegers, and I assure you that all of those 
 who started did not reach the summit. But, 
 upon my word, those who put their feet on 
 the plateau had the best of it ! Ah ! what hel- 
 ter-skelter confusion among the Boches ! In 
 five seconds the wood was empty. 
 
 " Then we turned around and looked at the 
 valley below. I shall never forget the shock 
 of astonishment at the sight of that immense 
 army, an ocean of red trousers rushing along 
 all of the southern roads. They were in 
 the fields, the meadows, and the farmyards. 
 They swarmed at a distance along the roads, 
 and they advanced, they advanced without 
 ceasing behind us, to fling themselves into the 
 pursuit of the gray beasts. 
 
 "Soon all this mass, formed into divisions, 
 began the chase methodically. We no longer 
 
 68
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 marched, we flew. We crossed the wood, the 
 fields of lucern or oats, and went through the 
 villages. We crossed the streams on the plank 
 of the sluice-gates. We finally arrived in sight 
 of a large town. They told me it was Eper- 
 nay. The Marne wound in and out over the 
 landscape. At this instant there was a great 
 explosion, as if the town were crumbling to 
 pieces. It was the dirty beasts tr>'ing to blow 
 up the bridge behind us to keep us back. 
 But the Marne, we were quite content to cross 
 it again, which we easily did by swimming. 
 We made a detour and reached it again and 
 the pursuit continued. 
 
 " I am writing these lines in the corner of a 
 little wood, where I am crouched in one of the 
 trenches we have now dug to protect ourselves 
 against a possible return of the enemy. It is 
 on a height overlooking the country, and I see 
 in the fog below, fifteen kilometers from here, 
 the cathedral of Rheims, with its lonely aspect 
 in a desert of mist. I can distinguish its noble 
 structure and two square towers. So all of 
 my French history is spread out before my 
 eyes. To-morrow we are going to retake 
 Rheims, Louise. And I am glad to live, for if 
 
 69
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 I am not dead, I was within an ace of it, and 
 I cannot bear to leave you. But I have done 
 my duty, and I believe that you will not be 
 ashamed of me and I love you." 
 
 This is the contents of the first love letter 
 which Mademoiselle Louise has received in 
 her life. Do you think that the lord Main- 
 froy of Catalpan, whom we have left in the 
 prow of his ship thinking of Mirabelle of Pam- 
 peluna and eager to kill the Saracens, could 
 have spoken any better? 
 
 70
 
 XI 
 
 THE war has continued for nine months. 
 After the cruel winter the April sun 
 shows itself at last. The little flowers bud 
 and open on the breastwork of the trenches. 
 Robert Picot, who is now adjutant of the 
 8th, thus outstripping Monsieur Henri, who 
 is still wearing his sergeant stripes, exclaims 
 lightly this morning: 
 
 "It must be fine at Choisy-le-Roi." 
 
 "Pity yourself, old man; you will pass the 
 spring in the wood ! " 
 
 Monsieur Henri speaks thus to put him on 
 the wrong scent. He really thinks: 
 
 "How beautiful it must be in the Rue du 
 Cherche-Midi!" 
 
 The wood in question, besides, has no 
 foHage. It would be better to call this place 
 an enormous wood-yard of old buildings where 
 the planks stand upright in various places. It 
 is impossible to tell, from these broken posts, 
 whether it is really springtime. But, strange 
 
 71
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 to say, one hears at the same time the cannon 
 and the larks. The Uttle Gallic bird is not 
 frightened away by anything so small. We 
 are here in Lorraine, in the open forest of 
 Parroy. There is a vague rumor that an 
 attack is to be undertaken in two or three 
 days, perhaps to-morrow. It fills the air with 
 electricity. Whispers circulate in the trenches. 
 They are obliged to stop the talk of the bab- 
 blers. Every one is excited. In the lodgings 
 of the non-commissioned officers, at meal- 
 time, one hears laughter that must be sup- 
 pressed at the thought of the Boches, scarcely 
 one hundred meters away. I shall not deny 
 that there is a little nervousness in this 
 gayety. Existence is brief. They say that 
 it will last until to-morrow. From now until 
 then it seems as if every moment were brief, 
 terribly fugitive, and at the same time delight- 
 ful. A little sergeant, twenty years old, ex- 
 hibits the picture of his sweetheart. The chief 
 of the mess, the sergeant-major, a territorial, 
 relates how he was married by proxy. Lecoin- 
 tre smokes his pipe in silence. In his pocket- 
 book against his heart is a piece of paper 
 which burns a little. It is a letter from Made- 
 
 72
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 moiselle Louise, and it is so nice, this letter is 
 so nice, that he could not help reading it to 
 Picot. Picot is happy for Lecointre, but he 
 himself is sad. There is no danger that Made- 
 moiselle Edith will write him the little noth- 
 ings that go to the heart of a man, such as: 
 "This morning, when I woke, my first thought 
 was of you." Lucky fellow, that Lecointre ! 
 Picot did not demand as much of Mademoi- 
 selle Edith. Only a little less ceremony in 
 her letters. 
 
 "Ah!" says the sergeant-major with ani- 
 mation, "let us hope for the end, when each 
 of us will return to his own afifairs !" 
 
 "If only we don't stick, to-morrow, on the 
 barbed wire," says the Httle sergeant. 
 
 But he has not finished his sentence when a 
 cataclysm throws them to the ground, be- 
 spattered with sand and clay. It seems as if 
 a whole express-train were hurling itself upon 
 them, to crush them into the ground. In 
 fact, it is a great shell exploding on its arrival 
 in their trench. Adjutant Picot stands up- 
 right the first and questions: "No casualties 
 here?" 
 
 The little sergeant sneezes, runs his fingers 
 
 73
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 through his hair, and flings forth the usual 
 phrase: 
 
 "As many are killed as wounded, no one is 
 dead." 
 
 "You see, by heaven, that one always 
 escapes," says the territorial. 
 
 Lecointre slips his hand under his great- 
 coat to assure himself that Louise's letter is 
 always there. 
 
 Now the day declines. The first recon- 
 noitring rocket of electric blue flares up from 
 the Boches. From a sector to one side comes 
 a noise of firing. The small crescent of the 
 moon appears in the sky over the jagged top 
 of a pine-tree. Sergeant Lecointre makes his 
 round to inspect the men on the battlement. 
 He meets Picot conducting a gang of work- 
 men: 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 The words are scarcely spoken, but whis- 
 pered as if it were at the bedside of an in- 
 valid. The light of the blinding rockets is 
 reflected from time to time on the faces of the 
 two friends lost in the darkness of the sub- 
 soil. 
 
 " The commandant has sent me down there 
 
 74
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 to the listening post to build a lookout. You 
 see, they are carrying the planks." 
 
 "Nasty business, old fellow; look out for 
 yourself." 
 
 "Do you think so? There is no danger," 
 says Picot. 
 
 However, they press each other's hands in 
 parting. 
 
 By the branch of the trench, so deep that 
 its wall is half a meter higher than the tallest 
 man, Picot goes to the listening post. This 
 April night bathed in moonlight is a little in- 
 toxicating. Picot remembers certain walks 
 on the border of the Seine in Edith Bouchaud's 
 company on similar moonlight nights. One 
 did not hear the cannon, or the crackling of 
 the guns, for instance. He was his own mas- 
 ter, at home on good French soil. How happy 
 he was then, and how he thirsts this evening 
 to be happy again ! It seems to him at times 
 that the slender form of Edith is enfolded in 
 his arms, and that he is carrying her away 
 with him, tenderly, in the blue Ught. She will 
 not ever know the important mission that has 
 come to him to-day, in expectation of the next 
 attack. However, he does not feel the slight- 
 
 75
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 est beating of his heart, and he says to him- 
 self that perhaps, if she were able to see him 
 here, this evening, she would love him because 
 he is brave. 
 
 There are three gunners for the machine- 
 guns in the post, and four simple fellows on 
 guard, of whom one is on the lookout. The 
 arrival of the adjutant is greeted with silence, 
 for this is the kingdom of mutes. Picot Hs- 
 tens. 
 
 "Fritz! Fritz!" calls a voice in the night. 
 
 That comes from the Boche trench, twenty 
 meters away. They are seen through the 
 loop-hole, describing an arc of an immense 
 circle which seems to hem in our line. But 
 through this hole observation is difficult. 
 Picot understands the major's wish. He be- 
 gins to clear off the parapet, that he may 
 wedge in slabs of wood horizontally two or 
 three millimeters apart and replace bags of 
 earth above. Then they have a magnificent 
 observation post, thanks to this improvised 
 ledge. Upon my word, the first who climbs 
 upon this parapet will risk a great deal, in 
 spite of the tacit understanding that one 
 hardly fires at the listening post from one line 
 
 76
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 to another. The workers look questioningly 
 at Picot, anxiously trying to find out who he 
 will appoint for the work. 
 
 "Give me your pick," he says to one of the 
 men. 
 
 "Here it is, lieutenant." 
 
 And clinging to the projection in the wall, 
 he leaps upon the parapet and begins to dig. 
 Oh, he works quickly. The men in the oppo- 
 site observation post are no doubt transfixed 
 with amazement, but during the few minutes 
 that the operation lasts not a gun is fired 
 there. Here the men hold their breath. At 
 a sign the adjutant has the boards placed in 
 the prepared hole. Below nothing stirs. Now 
 the last plank is wedged in. Picot calculates 
 the advantage it will be to-morrow to observe 
 from there without being seen. A glow of 
 satisfaction fills his soul. There is nothing 
 more to do but replace the sacks on the 
 ground. Suddenly there is the fatal click of 
 a gun, a man in the throes of death, a mass 
 falling down in the post. Well aimed ! The 
 adjutant's chest is penetrated by a bullet. 
 
 Robert Picot breathes heavily. The be- 
 loved form that shortly before seemed folded 
 
 77
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 in his arms now bends over his face. He 
 thinks then: "It is ended, I am dying, I am 
 losing her forever." In this moment his chest 
 seems to burst, his ribs are torn to pieces, 
 warm blood rises to his mouth and he cannot 
 breathe. And at the same time that a volley 
 of shots rends the air, men are heard crying in 
 a low voice the dismal call: 
 "Stretcher-bearers ! . . . Stretcher-bearers ! " 
 
 78
 
 XII 
 
 THE same April sun that bathes the front 
 and makes the wet trenches smoke be- 
 tween Nieuport and the Vosges shines also in 
 the Rue du Cherche-Midi and throws a bright 
 ray into M. Duval's shop, where des Assernes 
 makes his spring appearance. 
 
 "The official news is not bad," says the 
 bookseller, "but here it is said that the bri- 
 gands are poisoning our poor soldiers with 
 their asphyxiating gas in the Ypres sector." 
 
 "Are they speaking of Lorraine ? " questions 
 Louise, as she adds her accounts at the desk. 
 
 But des Assernes speaks in a low voice: 
 
 "These asphyxiating gases, these inflamma- 
 ble liquids and all these barbarous proceed- 
 ings that modern warfare had banished and 
 which the barbarians have found necessary to 
 use again I find in another form in the epic of 
 the lord of Catalpan. When a tempest on 
 the sea had driven his ship and all the flotilla 
 carrying the French army in sight of the Sar- 
 acen country, the amber-colored figures of the 
 
 79
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Turks appeared on the shore, gesticulating like 
 savages. And I imagine that this must have 
 been to these good French gentlemen, as naive 
 as they were fearless, like a vision of devils. 
 But even from the sea they began the battle 
 and tried to shoot their arrows. Do you know 
 how the Saracens repHed? Well, before the 
 knight of Mirabelle, accompanied by his 
 friend, the count d'Argentan, had landed, or, 
 rather, left his ship to go through the shallow 
 water to the shore, they were attacked by 
 Greek fire, and urns full of lime were hurled 
 at them by the engines of the infidel. You 
 know that Greek fire burns in the water, and 
 that it was able to encircle these small ships. 
 Such an attack was calculated to shake the 
 resolution of my leonine knight. It is then 
 that, according to the Languedoc troubadour, 
 this subHme dialogue took place between 
 Mainfroy and the count d'Argentan: *My 
 lord, we are lost, for these demons want to 
 burn us like torches,' says the count. 'Sir,' 
 says Mainfroy, 'it is better to burn here 
 below for the glory of the kingdom of France, 
 than to burn in hell for mortal sins.' 'But,' 
 says the count, 'if we were burned in these 
 
 80
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 ships, then we could not serve the kingdom 
 of France any more, nor fight the infidels. 
 Call the sailors to put the ship out to sea so 
 that we may save ourselves and escape the 
 flames.' 'Sir/ says the knight, *it is an 
 ugly thing to flee. I have come to Barbary 
 for the honor of France and the glory of my 
 lady who Hves in her castle of Pampeluna. I 
 would rather a thousand times be burned to 
 cinders here than return to her in a state of 
 disgrace and confusion.' And my author 
 adds that with those words, facing flaming 
 projectiles, the two lords remained standing 
 behind their shield, whose point was driven 
 in the deck of the ship. What a picture ! 
 What a sight ! All of the caravels kept to- 
 gether under the rain of fire thrown toward 
 them by the mangonels on the shore, and 
 at the bow of each ship, while the sailors 
 rowed, the knights remained immovable, 
 waiting to be burned or to see the battle. 
 Then the heavens were in such a state of con- 
 tinuous agitation that the elements aided the 
 knights: the wind changed and carried the 
 fire back toward the villains, so well that it 
 was the crafty Saracens who ended by being 
 
 Si
 
 ! MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 burned alive, near their own contrivances. 
 At this moment the ship struck against a sand- 
 bank. The good knights, the water reaching 
 up to their coats, walked, the shield in their 
 hands and their lances pointed toward the 
 infidels. Mainfroy of Catalpan went by the 
 side of the count of Foix, who carried the 
 standard. And he held it in his hand with 
 such assurance that all of the men at arms 
 were filled with his courage. The infidels gave 
 way everywhere when he showed himself. 
 They fought even in the narrow Saracen 
 streets. The town was half taken. The king 
 of France had already delivered many Chris- 
 tians who had been groaning in the prisons 
 for long years, when an arrow, shot by a 
 famous archer lying in wait for the valorous 
 knight, struck the chest of Mainfroy of Catal- 
 pan. He fell, banner in hand, on the border 
 of a gushing fountain at the intersection of 
 four streets. The enemies bound him with 
 chains and carried him on their horses with 
 savage cries." 
 
 "But did the crusaders take the whole vil- 
 lage?" inquires Mademoiselle Louise. 
 
 "Ah! Ah! young lady!" exclaims des As- 
 
 82
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 sernes, "that is a fair question, and truly 
 French curiosity. The result of our fighting 
 in an imaginary battle taking place in the 
 thirteenth century concerns your heart more 
 than the fate of a hero with whom you never- 
 theless seem to me to be in love to a certain 
 extent! You may know that the town was 
 taken by the king of France, and that soon 
 the beautiful Mirabelle in her chateau of 
 Pampeluna was warned by a dream of the 
 captivity of her knight." 
 
 "At that time," observes Madame Duval 
 judiciously, "there were no postal districts." 
 
 "Precisely, madame," says des Assernes, 
 "but also the good God will send you dreams 
 to keep you in touch with what happens to 
 the dear absent ones. It is very poetic." 
 
 "I see just now the postman crossing the 
 street," says M. Duval, "and because I don't 
 despise my epoch, I would rather receive a 
 letter from my brave Lecointre than to dream 
 of these pictures of the past." 
 
 They do not speak any more, they wait; 
 they are more or less in suspense, concentrated 
 on the movements of the postman, who seems 
 to take a haughty pride in being wanted. 
 
 ^3
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 The dispenser of news, locking up in his mys- 
 terious box all joys and griefs, knows that 
 eyes are following his smallest step. He does 
 not hurry. He has plenty of time. 
 
 Here at last is a letter from Monsieur 
 Henri ! It is for Louise, and Louise utters a 
 cry as she reads it: ''My God! Monsieur 
 Robert is terribly wounded!" 
 
 Ignoring the sentimental lines of the mis- 
 sive, concerning no one but herself, Made- 
 moiselle Louise reads aloud to her startled 
 auditors the heroic story. Robert Picot, the 
 little glove-seller of the Meilleur Marche, the 
 angler, is fallen, braving danger, for France 
 and for those he loves, like the lord of Catal- 
 pan, the leonine cavalier. Both received the 
 same wound. 
 
 "Robert is a hero," wrote Sergeant Le- 
 cointre. "His men are still under the spell 
 of their enthusiasm. I saw one of them cry- 
 ing, thinking that he was dead. Alas ! he is 
 not likely to recover. His wound is one that 
 rarely heals." 
 
 The people in the shop are stupefied. They 
 remember the delightful Sundays at Choisy: 
 sun, verdure, soft rippling of water on the 
 
 84
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 bank ; the rocking of the yawl anchored under 
 the silver willows; abundant dinners, legs of 
 mutton dripping with juice, golden, tender 
 chickens, fragrant strawberries under the buzz 
 of a stray wasp in the Henri II dining-room. 
 And they see once more the self-eflfacing per- 
 sonality, timid and silent, of Monsieur Rob- 
 ert, his eyes shy and glowing in his sallow 
 face. 
 
 "He never had any chance!" declares the 
 bookseller. 
 
 "Such a charming boy!" continues Ma- 
 dame Duval with further praise. 
 
 "And who loved Edith so much!" adds 
 Louise. 
 
 A silence follows, wet with furtive tears. 
 Des Assernes sits dreaming. He thinks of 
 this army of young men whose narrow outlook 
 and small ambitions he deplored, before the 
 war. "Paladins ! Paladins ! " he murmurs to 
 himself now, quite beside himself with melan- 
 choly excitement; "who was then mistaken, 
 you or we? We have, ourselves, committed 
 the sin of not believing in you, and of mis- 
 understanding you, and of thinking that 
 France is decadent. And here you are show- 
 
 85
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 ing yourselves glorious each day. Alas ! Will 
 you all remain there? Will he not return?" 
 "Do you remember," sighs the excellent 
 Madame Duval, "the day he caught the four- 
 pound pike?" 
 
 86
 
 XIII 
 
 Now Louise Duval at her uncle Bou- 
 chaud's side travels in the Choisy-le- 
 Roi train across the market-garden country 
 full of memories. 
 
 "It is better for you to come with me, my 
 dear Louise," says the good uncle, assuming 
 a very stolid air (a department head does not 
 fall into a fainting fit because one of his clerks 
 has his lungs pierced by a Boche bullet. A 
 man is a man, by Jove . . .). "It will be 
 better on Edith's account, for, to tell the 
 truth, he was her lover. Young girls under- 
 stand each other. They can tell such things 
 in a delicate way without being upset by it. 
 And then Edith is reserved. One doesn't 
 know exactly what she is thinking about. She 
 was formerly a little haughty with this poor 
 Picot; now I imagine that she is softened; I 
 thought that I noticed sometimes that her ex- 
 pression changed when she received his letters. 
 After all, perhaps, I am mistaken. With 
 you young ladies, one is always perplexed. 
 
 87
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Never mind, you manage it all, my dear 
 Louise, so that it is not too severe a blow. 
 Poor Picot ! After all, he was an outsider to 
 us. On the front, we know well that there 
 must be wounds. Isn't it true that others 
 have fallen, and that still others will fall ? It 
 is war. But, do you know, my lass, this boy 
 . . . this boy . . ." 
 
 The department head stops, his face all at 
 once very red. With a motion he drops the 
 window, breathes a whiff of fresh air, rolls his 
 wild eyes, and ends by confessing heavily: 
 
 *'He was like a son to me ! " 
 
 Louise is warm-hearted. She is also very 
 much agitated. Especially as they are arriv- 
 ing at Choisy and the moment is approaching 
 when she must torture the heart of her dear 
 Edith. Louise knows Edith's secret. The 
 glove-seller has become a hero. It was all that 
 was lacking to awaken love in the enthusiastic 
 heart of Mademoiselle Bouchaud. The two 
 young girls now are also consumed with 
 anxiety for each other. What will happen to 
 Edith when she hears of the wounding of her 
 knight ! 
 
 The April twilight is stealing over the vil- 
 
 88
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 lage of Choisy. The stone summer-house can 
 be seen at a distance, already wrapped in 
 shadows. The windows are closed. "How 
 sad it all looks!" thinks Louise. The niece 
 and lancle climb the front steps. Some one 
 opens the door. Madame Bouchaud and her 
 daughter are silently embroidering under the 
 lamp. Cries of surprise. Emotion. What a 
 pleasure ! Here is Louise ! The parents un- 
 derstand each other at once with a glance. 
 They leave the two cousins together. See 
 how Louise's tears run down her cheeks. 
 Edith is dismayed. She neither questions nor 
 entreats. As Papa Bouchaud says, young 
 girls understand each other. One tear was 
 enough. Edith has turned pale; she murmurs, 
 as if half unconscious : " Robert is killed ! " 
 
 "No, my dear, no," replies Louise, with a 
 thousand caresses, " they will save him, on the 
 contrary. Only wounded ! And under such 
 glorious circumstances. Henri wrote to me, 
 you know. Robert is a hero." 
 
 She has done well. Edith's sorrow bursts 
 forth. There are convulsive sobs and floods 
 of tears and broken confessions of a tender 
 heart unloading itself. 
 
 . 89
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "I love him so much now, Louise, if you 
 knew. I felt that I was about to lose him. 
 . . . Each day I am more attached to him 
 . . . but I do not dare tell him . . . What a 
 fool I was, my God ! You understand, Lou- 
 ise, when he was employed in the Meilleur 
 Marche I despised him. Do you remember? 
 I said to you : ' It is so commonplace to marry 
 a clerk ! ' The truth is that I did not know 
 Robert. Evidently one has no need of hero- 
 ism to sell gloves. It would have been ridicu- 
 lous to use it there where it was so little 
 needed. But I demanded it at any cost. I 
 said to you: 'If only he were an aviator!' 
 And he noticed my scorn. Meanwhile, he 
 possessed all the qualities of his own spirit 
 and I would not see them. Now I do not 
 dare to tell him straightforwardly what I feel 
 for him. That is to say, yesterday, I did not 
 venture. My God ! My God ! Why did I 
 not tell him before he dies?" 
 
 "But, my dear, we hope that he will soon 
 recover." 
 
 And Louise discusses before her distracted 
 cousin each one of the expressions of the letter 
 scribbled by Monsieur Henri: 
 
 90
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 ''He lost much blood; the stretcher-bearers 
 dressed his wounds thoroughly in the trench 
 itself; then the brave men, very gently, laid 
 him out on the stretcher and carried him as 
 one carries a cradle, keeping step, in time. He 
 was quite conscious." 
 
 "You see," moans Edith, "he lost much 
 blood ; it must have been a hemorrhage ! But 
 no, just a simple dressing was enough. And 
 notice this— 'he was quite conscious !' " 
 
 "At the relief station our Httle assistant doc- 
 tor, who performs miracles, was agitated when 
 he recognized him, for they ate together at the 
 mess of the non-commissioned officers. He 
 could only say: 'Ah ! my poor Picot !' Then 
 it seemed as if Picot smiled as he said : ' I am 
 done for ! ' But the doctor replied : ' You still 
 have a good brain ! ' And he went down on 
 his knees to care for his wound and pour tinc- 
 ture of iodine on it. And as that is frightfully 
 painful, he held him and pressed his hand at 
 the same time." 
 
 "If I had only been there!" murmurs 
 Edith, hiding her face on Louise's shoulder. 
 
 As this moment some one opens the door 
 timidly. Edith straightens up and wipes her 
 
 91
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 eyes, and they see Monsieur Bouchaud in his 
 shirt-sleeves, standing in the doorway without 
 venturing to come in. He could not resist 
 the temptation to know how the little one 
 had received the shock. Ah ! he was very 
 much afraid of this recoil. A father senses 
 things without being told. Unfortunately he 
 feels that he is awkward in offering consolation 
 in a sorrowful love-affair. 
 
 "Don't be worried, Httle daughter," he 
 murmurs. "It doesn't help anything." 
 
 But you may easily imagine that the excel- 
 lent advice is without effect on Edith's spirit, 
 and her tears, on the contrary, flow faster than 
 ever. Then Monsieur Bouchaud comes for- 
 ward, playing with the gold watch-charm orna- 
 menting his waistcoat. He is desperate not 
 knowing the words of comfort to speak to his 
 httle one. He ends by putting his shirt- 
 sleeves around her as he says, quite simply, 
 crying at the same time: "My poor httle 
 rabbit . . ." 
 
 "Now," continues Louise, who is reading 
 the letter, "my brave friend is being treated 
 in a good hospital in Luneville, twelve kilo- 
 meters from here. He is well cared for. In 
 
 92
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 spite of the gravity of his wound, we are able 
 to hope that he may live." 
 
 But now Edith raises her head. Instantly 
 her tears are dried up. Her lovely blue eyes, 
 dimmed by many tears, become resolute and 
 imperious. She inquires: 
 
 ''AtLunevUle?" 
 
 "Monsieur Henri himself says that there is 
 hope," observes Monsieur Bouchaud. 
 
 But Edith repeats, as if inspired: 
 
 "At Luneville!" 
 
 And all at once: 
 
 "But I wish to go to Luneville ! I wish to 
 go to see him. I want to . . . to . . . press 
 his hand before he dies. He has no mother, 
 he has no sister, he has no one, he has only 
 me, who would have been his wife some day. 
 My duty is to go, to go quickly !" 
 
 Blonde and frail Edith ! No one has ever 
 seen her so fearless and so determined. The 
 tone of her voice prostrates poor Papa Bou- 
 chaud, who does not try to resist her, but falls 
 into an armchair. 
 
 "To Luneville ! She wishes to go to Lune- 
 ville ! But, unhappy child, you do not know 
 what danger you are risking! Reread the 
 
 93
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 letter of your uncle's clerk; you see that it is 
 twelve kilometers from the firing-line. You 
 want to face cannon, bombs, and Taubes. Ah ! 
 there is nothing we lack but that !" 
 
 "I do not fear cannon and Taubes," said 
 Edith. "I will go." 
 
 Here Madame Bouchaud enters, in her turn, 
 with swollen eyes, unreconciled. 
 
 "The soup will be cold," she says sweetly. 
 But the father points to his daughter: 
 
 "She wants to go to Luneville !" 
 
 Madame Bouchaud is not frightened. 
 There are suggestions to which one does not 
 respond. The one repeated by M. Bou- 
 chaud is one of these. For Madame Bou- 
 chaud it is exactly as if one said of a little 
 child: "He wants to go to the moon." 
 
 "Let us go to the table while we are wait- 
 ing," she resumes sagely. 
 
 In the dining-room, while the girls stay in 
 the salon to arrange their hair and freshen 
 their altered faces, the department head says 
 to his wife, as he cuts the bread: 
 
 "Listen, mamma, it will not do to hold her 
 back. Her heart is too deeply involved. 
 Young girls are like still water. One does not 
 
 94
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 know them. Little daughter masks her play. 
 What will you have! Remember the time 
 when you were her age. But I am no longer 
 able to see her cry as I saw her just now. It 
 upsets me. It makes me ill. It spoils my 
 appetite. We must let her go to Luneville, 
 mamma. And then, who knows ? This poor 
 Picot is so smitten, on his side, that a visit 
 from his future wife may restore him. I, too, 
 have been twenty-five years old, by George !" 
 
 "And if this little girl is killed at Lune- 
 ville?" demands Madame Bouchaud, as she 
 crosses her arms, forcibly closing the argu- 
 ment. 
 
 But the department head replies dully, hid- 
 ing his emotions: 
 
 "Well, there will be one more heroine for 
 France." 
 
 95
 
 XIV 
 
 INDISSOLUBLE fellowship of the French 
 family ! Marvellous cohesion ! Powerful 
 soHdarity ! I shall not tell you here all of the 
 dramas that were arranged during one week 
 at the Bouchauds' and the Duvals', around 
 Edith's phrase: "I want to go to Luneville." 
 But you know the household of Choisy-le-Roi 
 and of the Rue du Cherche-Midi well enough 
 now to imagine that she did not go alone. 
 Who, then, will be torn from the familiar 
 group? What stone shall be detached from 
 the edifice? It seems quite natural that it 
 should be Madame Bouchaud. Is it not the 
 role of a mother to take a young daughter to 
 her wounded fiance? But in response to 
 Edith's request, Madame Bouchaud, stupe- 
 fied, amazed, and incapable of understanding 
 the inanity of such a prayer, answers with 
 one word: 
 
 "See, do you think that I would leave 
 papa?" 
 
 On his part, because of the needs of the 
 
 96
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 present hour, Monsieur Bouchaud was, ac- 
 cording to his characteristic expression, bound 
 to the Meilleur Marche, without private inter- 
 ests, like a soldier at his post. Then Edith 
 comes to the Rue du Cherche-Midi and says 
 to Madame Duval: 
 
 "Auntie, will you take me to Luneville?" 
 
 Madame Duval's arms fall, her eyes grow 
 large, she stammers: 
 
 "Take you to Luneville! But my poor 
 child, how could I leave your uncle ? " 
 
 Edith has nothing to reply. She knows 
 what is possible and what is not. She turns to 
 the bookseller. A man is more independent 
 of family ties. Louise, who knows enough 
 about selling books, could replace him in the 
 shop, aided by Madame Duval. But Uncle 
 Duval refuses with these words: 
 
 "Little girl, during these twenty-six years 
 that we have been married I have never been 
 anywhere, even to Choisy-le-Roi, without my 
 wife. I know your aunt. She drowns herself 
 in a glass of water and makes a mountain out 
 of a grain of sand. If the least business diffi- 
 culty arises in my absence, here is a woman 
 who will lose her head. Ah ! It would cer- 
 
 97
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 tainly have been a fine trip, and I should have 
 been happy not only to press the hand of this 
 heroic Picot, but to have part in the excite- 
 ment of a town at the front rather than to 
 grow musty in my shop, as I have done since 
 the beginning of the war. But it is impossi- 
 ble, my child. I should be too uneasy about 
 my wife and Louise." 
 
 Then Louise says : 
 
 "Very well, I will go with poor Edith my- 
 self!" 
 
 At this all of the shocked parents utter loud 
 cries. ''Two young girls alone, nonsense! 
 And in case of bombardment, what would 
 they do?" 
 
 You must begin to fear that Edith will never 
 go to Luneville. I can assure you that Edith 
 fears it even more than you. Happily, Xavier 
 des Assernes was there. He was unobtrusively 
 present at these difficult family scenes. He 
 is the fascinated witness, finding there the 
 whole of French psychology, the tender char- 
 acter, anxious and alarmist, of our family 
 affection. Finally he cries: 
 
 "I will escort these young ladies as far as 
 Luneville." 
 
 98
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 And they go. 
 
 As the railroad carries them along the val- 
 ley of the Marne, where the young girls gather 
 on the wing, like a consecrated bouquet, all of 
 the memories of the great victory, des Assernes 
 beguiles the hours by recalling the past and 
 the history of Mirabelle. 
 
 ''This gentlewoman," he says to Edith, 
 "was less fortunate than you. When a dream 
 showed her dear knight pierced by a Saracen 
 arrow and his chest bathed with blood on the 
 edge of the fountain where the Turks were 
 coming to load him with chains, she must 
 have been prevented from going to see him. 
 The troubadour tells us that, waking from 
 this dream, she ran through all the rooms of 
 the castle, with dishevelled hair, like a maniac 
 and weeping torrents of tears. There was 
 reason for it, ladies. Mirabelle of Pampeluna 
 knew that the Saracens had no Red Cross 
 nurses, and she might have had her doubts as 
 to the way the knight of Catalpan would be 
 cared for by the infidels. Nevertheless, it 
 was to their interest to keep such a fine prize. 
 And they cured the count with herbs. Mean- 
 while Mirabelle prayed to Our Lady, repeating 
 
 99
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 without ceasing: 'Help ! Help! Our Lady! 
 I would rather a thousand times be captive 
 in a Saracen tower, in place of my beloved 
 knight!' And she repeated it so often that 
 finally God and His Mother took pity and did 
 as she desired, that is to say when she opened 
 her eyes one morning the lady found herself 
 lying on a little straw by the side of a half- 
 empty jug of water, and bound with rings and 
 chains to the pillar of a vast room in a castle 
 in Barbary. She realized that her wish was 
 granted, that she had taken the place of Main- 
 froy, while the knight enjoyed, in his turn, a 
 certain amount of comfort in the castle of 
 Pampeluna." 
 
 As Louise and even Edith, in spite of their 
 melancholy, are unable to repress a smile at 
 this point, des Assernes explains to them: 
 
 "The literature of that time is full of deeds 
 no less marvellous than this. Invisible trans- 
 portations and substitutions were ordinary 
 occurrences. I am not giving you a course 
 in magic. This is what happened. I cannot 
 tell you otherwise. The two heroes were in- 
 terchanged and the beautiful Mirabelle praised 
 God that she had thus delivered her knight." 
 
 lOO
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "Meantime, they continued to be separ- 
 ated as in the past ! " objects the tender Edith. 
 
 Des Assernes was about to continue the 
 narrative, when he was stopped by an excla- 
 mation from Louise. They were crossing an 
 open, green, level country, and in a field were 
 some mounds surmounted by a cross. They 
 were the graves of soldiers interred there the 
 day after the battle of the Marne. They were 
 stretched out in this beautiful reconquered 
 ground, clad in their red trousers and their 
 dark-blue coats, deluged with blood. From 
 what corner of France had they come to fall 
 here, pursuing the invaders? They were all 
 young. No doubt Monsieur Henri and Mon- 
 sieur Robert had passed that way among 
 them. They might have been sleeping to-day 
 under one of these httle hillocks. And the 
 hearts of the young girls swell miserably. A 
 little farther on one of the roads an intermina- 
 ble file of covered carts are passing in a 
 straight line, like a caravan in the desert, jolt- 
 ing their httle canopies of green cloth, dragged 
 by powerful horses. They are the convoys 
 of the commissary department, en route for 
 the front. The three friends are silent. They 
 
 lOI
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 are coming more and more into the sphere of 
 war. The air they breathe is quite different, 
 a new atmosphere. At Nancy, on the station 
 platform, a noise like the unloading of trucks 
 makes Edith and Louise start. 
 
 It is the firing of batteries on the Vosges 
 front. 
 
 It is exactly eleven days since Adjutant 
 Picot has received his terrible wound on the 
 parapet of the listening post, and this morning 
 his hospital nurse, as she undoes his dressing 
 and lays bare the gaping wound, exclaims: 
 
 "But it is doing very well to-day !" 
 
 The major is in the little room, just at this 
 moment, where the non-commissioned officers 
 are cared for. They call him. He examines 
 the wound ; the insect-like feelers of his nickel 
 forceps make a delicate exploration while 
 Picot's face is slightly drawn. Then there is 
 the auscultation of the injured lung. 
 
 "Oh, it is perfect to-day. No fever, no 
 hemorrhage, no expectoration tinged with 
 blood. My friend, you are out of danger." 
 
 The good gray-haired nurse and boyish 
 wounded man smile at each other without 
 
 102
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 saying anything; but in this smile is more than 
 a long discourse. Imagine that for eleven 
 days they have lived without a break near 
 each other, with the one thought of the men- 
 ace of death and that they must overcome it. 
 They have conquered. It is as if Hfe, with all 
 of its charms, its intoxications, its unexpected 
 joys were suddenly invading the room. 
 
 Then the light and agreeable dreams of con- 
 valescence come to hover around the adju- 
 tant. He would then still march, work, speak, 
 and laugh and love Edith under the trees of 
 Choisy-le-Roi. For one hope never comes 
 quite alone. 
 
 ' And during this time our three travellers 
 are leaving the train at Luneville. This is the 
 station square where one sees a mass of ruins, 
 collapsed walls, yawning woodwork and shat- 
 tered homes — the ruins of the bombardment 
 of 19 14. Cavalry regiments gallop up the 
 streets, making them vibrate with the noise 
 of the onset, and very heavy motor-trucks^ 
 filled with ammunition, pass by with a thun- 
 dering noise. The dull firing of near-by can- 
 non continuously shakes the ground, and in 
 
 103
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 the air three aeroplanes come to start on their 
 flight, buzzing like gigantic beetles. It is war. 
 
 The swift feet of the two Parisian girls fly- 
 also over the sidewalk. The grand Don 
 QuLxote, des Assernes, in spite of his longer 
 steps, can hardly keep up with them. Sud- 
 denly, above all the noise of the warlike agita- 
 tion, the solemn notes of a tolling bell break 
 on the air. It is a sudden knell, agonizing, 
 bringing anxiety as it rings. It is the alarm 
 bell. And the passers-by hasten, and people 
 hide, and the rumor spreads: 
 
 "ItisaTaube!" 
 
 Des Assernes trembles because of his re- 
 sponsibilities. He doesn't care for his old 
 bones: but for the two precious children of 
 whom he is the guardian ! 
 
 "Find a refuge," he urges. 
 
 The young women look at each other. The 
 one idea of the loving Edith is clearly seen; 
 Louise responds: 
 
 "To the hospital first!" 
 
 And at the hospital Robert Picot is properly 
 stretched in his white bed. The white nurse, 
 seated at his side, is writing a letter from his 
 dictation. It is the first he has been allowed, 
 
 Z04
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 and he Is still only permitted to whisper the 
 words. It is all very intimidating. The ad- 
 jutant must keep himself to the most com- 
 monplace expressions. "Dear Mademoiselle 
 Edith, my wound is better. My thoughts 
 often turn toward you." Poor Picot ! no one 
 knows how his heart beats in pronouncing 
 these colorless words. 
 
 And at this point the door opens. The sil- 
 houette of a young girl, whose black tailor suit 
 reveals a slender waist, enlarged on the hips 
 with flounces, the skirt stopping short above 
 a high shoe, appears and stands on the thresh- 
 old; the blonde head turns toward all the 
 beds with a circular movement. Picot's heart 
 stops beating. Is it still the fleeting shade 
 that he pressed in his arms through the dark 
 trench? Is it an hallucination of the fever 
 returning? Is it Edith in the flesh? And 
 their eyes meet at last. Edith springs forward 
 with outstretched hands, and the wounded 
 man, forbidden to speak, murmurs very 
 softly: "Edith!" 
 
 At once the good, motherly nurse realizes 
 that the letter is of no more consequence. 
 So she smiles and moves away amiably, leav- 
 
 105
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 ing her place to Edith. Perfect silence, how- 
 ever, continues by the adjutant's bed. They 
 press each other's hands, they read in the 
 divine book of two loving eyes open to the 
 depth of the soul. They confess all that one 
 does not dare to say with ordinary words. 
 Edith asks Picot's pardon for the suffering 
 she has caused him. Picot almost excuses 
 himself for not having always been the hero 
 he is to-day. Then there is a formidable 
 thunder-clap, making the glass window-panes 
 of the room shake. Edith explains very 
 calmly: 
 
 ''It is a Taube throwing bombs on the 
 town." 
 
 How does it all happen? It is very simple: 
 with Monsieur des Assernes and Louise wait- 
 ing complaisantly in the parlor of the hospital 
 and not coming to greet Monsieur Robert for 
 a long time, until Edith and he may have ex- 
 hausted their conversation. But dumb con- 
 versation is inexhaustible. There are very 
 sweet moments whose flight is invisible. 
 Edith had not realized that she loved Rob- 
 ert so much. Robert had never loved Edith 
 so much. How beautiful life seems to the 
 
 io6
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 wounded man when the good nurse comes to 
 see if it doesn't tire him too much to talk and 
 Edith announces proudly: 
 
 ''Madame, I am the fiancee of Adjutant 
 Picot." 
 
 107
 
 XV 
 
 THE colonel of Picot's and Lecointre's 
 regiment, writing in his little salon, sees 
 a young officer coming toward his lodgings, 
 and, being near-sighted, asks himself which 
 one of his subalterns is coming to disturb him 
 at this early hour. I must inform you that 
 we are at present in Champagne, not far from 
 a little river bordered with poplars, named the 
 Suippe; the colonel's house is dug in a chalky 
 ravine in the middle of a well-known wood 
 called the Bois Sabot. The little salon con- 
 tains, in place of furniture, a bundle of hay 
 for an armchair and a soap-box for a table. 
 Very tame, the colonel's mare, in penetrating 
 the other day as far as this, devoured the bed 
 and the chair in the bedroom. Fortunately, 
 the upholsterer is not far away. 
 
 The regiment recently from the trenches 
 has taken shelter here. The word shelter is 
 only a form of speech, for here and there the 
 beeches, rent apart, show the naked white 
 
 io8
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 flesh of their torn trunks, a witness that the 
 great shells come often to visit the wood of 
 repose. Nevertheless, they are sufficiently 
 distant from the lines for the nerves of the 
 men to relax. Burlesque or sentimental songs 
 rise under the lopped trees. Barytones and 
 tenors, in a discordant chorus, mingle the 
 languishing melodies of the waltz with the 
 dramatic accents of Faust or of Mignon. 
 
 All of this music rises from shell-holes filled 
 with rain water, where the men wash their 
 linen, which they spread out to dry afterward 
 on the bushes in the thicket. One sees them 
 from a distance going between the trees, with 
 bare chests, and in dark-blue trousers. With 
 hatchets in their hands they procure wood for 
 screens and work at night. 
 
 "Colonel ..." 
 
 "Ah ! it is you, Lecointre. What do you 
 want to-day?" 
 
 Do not be surprised to see on Monsieur 
 Henri's faded blue sleeve a modest gold offi- 
 cer's stripe. He won it at Eparges, in a 
 counter-attack, taking the head of his section 
 when the chief had fallen. That day they 
 took a French trench from the Boches, and 
 
 109
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 three hundred meters in depth into the bar- 
 gain. 
 , "Colonel, I want a leave of absence." 
 
 "Ah ! Leave of absence, a leave of absence. 
 But if the big machine you know so well lets 
 loose on us during that time?" 
 
 I must tell you that we are in August, 1915, 
 and that the great machine in question is the 
 long-awaited offensive. 
 
 " Colonel, it seems that the preparations for 
 advance executed by the colonial troops re- 
 quire a few weeks more, and that before seven 
 days, at the least, nothing can possibly hap- 
 pen. On the other hand, my friend Picot, 
 the Adjutant Picot, so gloriously wounded in 
 the forest of Parroy, is convalescing in Paris; 
 if we had been able to see each other there I 
 should have been happy." 
 
 "Picot, yes, yes, the very brave Adjutant 
 Picot. Proposed for the medallion of honor, 
 I remember. You have never had any leave, 
 no? Well, my friend, go to Paris. Go to 
 Paris." 
 
 The person not seeing Sublieutenant Le- 
 cointre cut across the fields to overtake the 
 auto-ambulance for Chalons on the road from 
 
 no
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Suippes to Saint-Menehould, does not know 
 how fast a man can run. You must realize 
 that if he is able to catch this vehicle, he will 
 be able to reach the main line and take the 
 Paris train. Realize that a year has passed 
 since Monsieur Henri has seen Mademoiselle 
 Louise, and that Paris means her, and that, 
 if he meets this auto, he will be able as early 
 as to-morrow morning to press her dear hands 
 in his. Now it is no longer a man running, 
 it is a man flying over the trodden earth, 
 where the grass no longer grows. Each leap 
 makes him gain on one of the revolutions of 
 the carriage wheel. At last he is in sight of 
 the auto, which is stopping. An energetic 
 sign makes the chauffeur understand that he 
 must stop. The subHeutenant reaches the 
 step. It seems to him that he has gained the 
 whole world ! 
 
 At the Chalons station the Paris train is 
 signalled. Monsieur Henri has not even time 
 to send a despatch to the Rue du Cherche- 
 Midi. The train arrives, takes him, and car- 
 ries him away. Heavens, but the express is 
 slow ! Monsieur Henri feels that he could go 
 faster on foot. The dream is so beautiful! 
 
 Ill
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Will it not vanish if it is not seized in time? 
 Having lived through Charleroi, the battle of 
 the Marne, Eparges, the forest of Parroy, 
 Eparges again, the preparation for the Cham- 
 pagne offensive, escaping out of several hells, 
 and to see Louise again in the Rue du Cherche- 
 Midi shop, what a marvel ! 
 
 On leaving the eastern station Monsieur 
 Henri blinks his eyes a minute at the sight of 
 Paris. His Paris recovered again excites him 
 greatly. Paris, it is the air where Louise 
 breathes; it is the perfume of Louise, and it is 
 an entirely familiar and friendly atmosphere 
 making the old memories live. He jumps into 
 an open taxi. The early passing of the water- 
 ing carts causes a well known odor to rise 
 under the scorched trees. Here is the Place 
 Saint-Michel and the station for Choisy-le- 
 Roi. Here are the shops before which, not 
 long ago, he often stopped near the disdainful 
 Louise. Louise has changed since then. Her 
 letters have proved it to Lecointre. But what 
 will she say when she sees a hairy and dusty 
 soldier, with faded garments, bleached-out 
 cap and shoes, whitened by the chalk of 
 Champagne? In spite of himself he is 
 
 112
 
 MIIUBELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 carried back to the story formerly repeated 
 by Monsieur des Assernes, while he waited on 
 customers in the book-shop. Mirabelle of 
 Pampeluna had a cavalier, the lord of Catal- 
 pan, who always looked as if he had just 
 stepped out of a bandbox, if one believed the 
 descriptions of the legend. Monsieur Henri, 
 himself, had not had time for the stroke of a 
 brush. You will tell me that before present- 
 ing himself in the shop of the Rue du Cherche- 
 Midi, the sublieutenant would have at least 
 gone to the barber. Granted. But it was not 
 his idea, and I can do nothing about it. Here 
 he is, then, at the cross-road of the Croix- 
 Rouge, and here is the street so much desired. 
 Monsieur Henri notices that it has not 
 changed. The houses are always a little 
 crooked and have an atmosphere of Paris of 
 one hundred years ago. The passers-by have 
 a graver air than before the war. There are 
 women in mourning. But the city sweepers 
 perform their work as always. When Mon- 
 sieur Henri sees in a well known window the 
 yellow series of modern authors he had care- 
 fully dusted himself, each morning recently, 
 his heart grows faint. He is generous with 
 
 113
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 the chauffeur, who looks in a dazzled way at 
 his tip while the officer has already bounded 
 into the shop. 
 
 A young woman is there, in the rear, 
 straightening on the shelf the series of Alexan- 
 dre Dumas. She turns with a gracious move- 
 ment, making the flounces of her skirt move 
 and reveaHng her fine figure. She sees an offi- 
 cer just from the front. He looks at her. She 
 hesitates a second, then a divine smile, such 
 as Monsieur Henri had never beheld, brightens 
 up her face. She comes to him without say- 
 ing anything, a Httle timid, clasping her arms 
 around the neck of her hero, and embracing 
 him as she murmurs: 
 
 "I am so proud of you !" 
 
 Monsieur Henri is trembling with adoration 
 and happiness. See the dear hands, behold 
 the charming eyes which have seemed like a 
 vision to him, and here are the tender lips 
 which he had scarcely dared to look at in 
 former times. 
 
 "Is it true that you love me, Louise?" 
 
 "Ah! Don't you think so, my sweet-« 
 heart!" 
 
 "Do you remember, Louise, the time when 
 
 114
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 you asked me if I would throw myself for you 
 from the top of the Eiffel Tower?" 
 
 "Henri, it is not necessary for you to remind 
 me of my stupidity. I regret deeply that I 
 misunderstood you. But how was I able to 
 guess that you would be so brave, when I saw 
 you fishing for gudgeons at Choisy?" 
 
 "Louise, I am no more brave than any of 
 the others. We French have something in our 
 blood that makes us fight well and that is all. 
 After the war, if God keeps me alive, I shall 
 become a book-clerk again and an angler as 
 before. Perhaps then you will cease to love 
 me." 
 
 "Henri, could I ever forget what you have 
 been during this war, could I forget the hero- 
 ism which I should never have known if Mon- 
 sieur Robert had not told me about it?" 
 
 "Louise, when I thought I was fighting for 
 France and for you, I would rather have been 
 torn in pieces than retreat a step." 
 
 At these words Louise has a great desire to 
 cry, but she does not want Monsieur Henri 
 to see her tears; therefore she hides her face 
 on the sublieutenant's shoulder. The tears 
 run down and are absorbed in the dark- blue 
 
 US
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 coat. At this instant Monsieur Duval comes 
 down from the apartment above and arrives, 
 without any more noise than usual, opposite 
 this unexpected sight — his daughter in the 
 arms of an officer from the front! I should 
 be telling a falsehood if I should say, as cer- 
 tain authors do, that he stops senseless with 
 astonishment, as if lightning had struck at 
 his feet. No; he recognizes his clerk at once 
 and springs forward to press him to his heart 
 in his turn. 
 
 "My dear Henri, how happy I should be 
 if I were your father !" 
 
 "But you will be very soon, papa," says 
 Louise. 
 
 They laugh over that with an air of mutual 
 understanding, and Monsieur Duval asks: 
 
 "Well, how about the Boches?" 
 
 "We shall get them!" declares Monsieur 
 Henri fearlessly. 
 
 ii6
 
 XVI 
 
 PRECISELY the next day proves to be the 
 kind of Sunday to drive the soldier on 
 leave to Choisy-le-Roi to see the Bouchauds. 
 Carping critics may say to me: "How can the 
 police let him pass at the station if his ticket- 
 of-leave is viseed for Paris ? " I answer these 
 cavilling spirits in this way: Monsieur Henri, 
 thinking of everything, took care to obtain 
 his leave for Paris-Choisy. Others may regret 
 that the novelist, Xavier des Assernes, the 
 editor of "Mirabelle of Pampeluna," and one 
 of our most congenial characters, should not 
 have been present at the general reunion of 
 the Duval and Bouchaud families. Let these 
 persons be reassured. Monsieur des Assernes 
 arrived last evening from Toulouse. And if 
 they are astonished at the singular coincidence 
 which makes the novelist from Toulouse un- 
 expectedly drop in at Paris each time a con- 
 spicuous event occurs either in the Bouchaud 
 family, or in the Duval family, I could cite 
 the best story-tellers who, from Voltaire to 
 
 117
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Dumas, have used analogous circumstances in 
 their novels. But I prefer to show you the 
 bookseller, his family, as well as Sublieuten- 
 ant Lecointre and the novelist des Assernes 
 descending from the train at the Choisy sta- 
 tion, where the Bouchaud ladies are waiting 
 for them, waving their umbrellas. The de- 
 partment head and Adjutant Robert Picot, 
 resplendent with health and happiness, are 
 there, too. But who, then, is this young sol- 
 dier in a new outfit, whose costume of sky- 
 blue accentuates his fresh color, clear eyes, 
 and blond hair ? You would not have known 
 him. It is Georges Bouchaud, and I will tell 
 you at once why he is here. 
 
 Here is an entire family divided between a 
 desire to fete the soldier on leave and anxiety 
 to receive properly the celebrated man conde- 
 scending to visit Choisy for the first time. 
 While Monsieur Henri is falhng into the arms 
 of Monsieur Robert, Monsieur Bouchaud ex- 
 plains to des Assernes: "Monsieur, we are 
 only middle-class people earning our living. 
 I who am speaking to you am self-made, know- 
 ing nothing of Hterature, and it is a great honor 
 you are paying us in coming to visit us. At 
 
 ii8
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 least you will find two French soldiers here of 
 whom you will not be ashamed. We shall 
 treat you as well as we are able, and we shall 
 mingle your literary renown with our military 
 glory." 
 
 "Monsieur," says des Assernes, astonished, 
 "you are giving me, it seems to me, a recep- 
 tion almost academic." 
 
 "My goodness, monsieur," replies Father 
 Bouchaud, "no one has ever whispered such 
 a thing to me as you have just suggested. 
 These are ideas I have thought of quite easily 
 in the morning when I was smoking my pipe 
 in the arbor." 
 
 "Old pal," says Monsieur Henri to Adju- 
 tant Picot, "the last time I saw you was in 
 the trench in Lorraine; you were passing on a 
 stretcher, with motionless head, sunken eyes, 
 and your chest hidden by a large dressing. 
 I certainly believed it was the end. I sta- 
 tioned myself behind a ruined wall so that 
 my men should not notice that I was crying 
 like a child." 
 
 "On the contrary, I was in luck!" cries 
 Monsieur Robert, smiling. 
 
 And, pointing to Edith, he adds: "And, you 
 
 119
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 know, I don't regret the ball that penetrated 
 my chest. It was worth a fortune to me." 
 
 "How Monsieur Henri has exaggerated," 
 says good Madame Bouchaud. 
 
 "Do you remember, Monsieur Robert," 
 asks Madame Duval, "do you remember 
 when you caught a four-pound pike ? " 
 
 Chatting away they reach the stone pa- 
 vilion. The table is laid on the lawn before 
 the front steps. The table-cloth is dazzling 
 in the sun and the glass sparkles. With an 
 intelligent look Monsieur Bouchaud assigns 
 the champagne glasses to his brother-in-law. 
 
 "It is to drink the health of the lovers," he 
 says. 
 
 They go to the table joyously and then look 
 toward the younger member of the youthful 
 military circle, Georges Bouchaud, who is 
 somewhat impressed by the gold stripes of 
 Sublieutenant Lecointre. 
 
 "What luck, that Georges was able to have 
 his leave at this time," declares his cousin. 
 
 "But what has happened to his thumb?" 
 questions Monsieur Duval, whose glance is 
 piercing behind his eye-glass. 
 
 Then all eyes are levelled on Georges Bou- 
 
 I20
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 chaud's thumb. The young soldier blushes, 
 becomes scarlet, and shows his hand with a 
 large scar extending from the first thumb joint 
 to the life-line- They question him. They 
 w\'int to know about it. 
 
 ''That," he says at last, "is the scar of a 
 bayonet wound received in an assault. It 
 was at the labyrinth, two months ago." 
 
 "You did not leave it ? " asks his father. 
 
 "You must remember that they were ad- 
 vancmg; I was not going to miss the end of 
 
 it. . . ." 
 
 All forks are held suspended, all conversa- 
 tion stopped, and the ensumg silence lasts 
 several seconds, while all eyes are turned with 
 admiration toward the nineteen-year-old hero. 
 They are just discovering Georges. They had 
 not known him; he is reveahng himself. Then 
 his father turns toward des Assernes: 
 
 "There are no more children, monsieur. 
 And do you know by what happy chance he 
 is with us to-day, that big lad? Well, mon- 
 sieur, it is because he is going to the Darda- 
 nelles in a week." 
 
 "He is going to fight the Turks!" cries 
 Mademoiselle Louise. 
 
 121
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "The crusades are beginring again!" adds 
 the novelist. 
 
 "That will be fine," says Georges. "At 
 first I shall go to see Marseilles; then there 
 will be the voyage, and at last I shall learn to 
 know a new country." 
 
 "The feelings of this soldier-child," remarks 
 des Assernes, "do not differ from those of the 
 knight of Catalpan returning to Barbary. 
 The worthy desire to travel was joined to the 
 passion for fighting for a great idea. It is 
 true, we are not going for the purpose of mak- 
 ing material conquests in Turkey, but to bring 
 the modern Saracens back to reason, as they 
 are leagued, quite naturally, with the barbari- 
 ans against the civilization of Latin Catholi- 
 cism. The knights of the Middle Ages, like 
 the Allies of to-day, defended refinement, hu- 
 mane manners, and the divine passion for 
 liberty much more than they fought for cer- 
 tain leagues of territory. And what charms 
 me most in this alliance is that in this new 
 crusade, according to the splendid wish of 
 Joan of Arc, we go hand in hand with the 
 English." 
 
 "By the way," asks Sublieutenant Le- 
 
 122
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 cointre, "where are you then, monsieur, with 
 your Mirabelle of Pampeluna ? " 
 
 You may well imagine that des Assernes is 
 only waiting for a word to speak of his dear 
 Mirabelle, and now he starts off immediately 
 on this subject: 
 
 "My dear friend, when I had the honor to 
 accompany these charming young ladies to 
 Luneville we left Mirabelle in a Saracen cha- 
 teau, where she found herself by a miracle in 
 the place of her cavalier, the lord of Catal- 
 pan, who had been invisibly transported to 
 Pampeluna. When the jailers, coming as 
 usual to bring to the noble prisoner his meagre 
 pittance of a little mouldy bread and a jug of 
 bitter water, opened the iron shutter of the 
 door they were greatly astonished to behold 
 the beautiful young lady. They demanded 
 of her how she came here. But because she 
 had had no experience with the Saracens, 
 Mirabelle did not explain anything to them. 
 Meanwhile they saw the iron rings duly riv- 
 eted to their pegs, and these heathen admired 
 the workmanship and artifice of it all. Then 
 they ran to the emir of Barbary to tell him 
 of the adventure. The emir, who was very 
 
 123
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 old, did not disturb himself, having passed 
 the curious age. But his son, hearing them 
 speak of a Christian girl lying under the straw 
 in one of the vast prisons, announced in his 
 language that he was going to see himself how 
 matters stood. He went. This young prince, 
 although Saracen, was kind-hearted. When 
 he saw this noble young lady of France bound 
 by chains which made her delicate limbs black 
 and blue, and fatigued them, he was moved 
 with great pity and profound indignation, and 
 commanded them to give her back her liberty. 
 This, Mirabelle, as just as she was wise, re- 
 fused. 'For,' said she, 'I He in this place be- 
 cause of faith in God, in place of my knight, 
 and I must be a captive as long as he would 
 have been.' And the Saracen knight mar- 
 velled at so much good faith in a lady. ' Never 
 have I seen so much uprightness,' he said. 
 He had cheese fritters brought to her, some 
 sweets, and brightly colored eggs. Then he 
 went to find the sultan to arrange with him 
 about the Hberation of the lord of Catalpan, 
 and when it was all understood he returned to 
 tell Mirabelle that she was free. But it was 
 a sad freedom, for the emir's son became 
 
 124
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 very melancholy whenever he thought of it. 
 You have guessed it: he was very much in 
 love. He gave her a sumptuous room with 
 black slaves to serve her. And every day he 
 came to tell her of his torment. The noble 
 lady was thinking of other things than this 
 little emir. She talked to him seriously to 
 persuade him that she could not love any 
 other knight than her own; how could she 
 then think of an infidel ? But she said these 
 hard words with so much sweetness that the 
 Saracen lord, instead of resigning himself, 
 only loved her more. 
 
 "During this time the lord of Catalpan did 
 not tarry in the castle of Pampeluna, from 
 which the life had flown away. He had only 
 one idea — to go and deHver Mirabelle. He 
 ran straight to the castle of FoLx, to obtain 
 new arms and men-of-war. Here he is at 
 Aigues-Mortes. He embarks with his little 
 band after chartering a new ship with his 
 money, and we see them again at the mercy 
 of the waves and sailors." 
 
 Here, des Assernes, relating without fatigue, 
 as he tastes one by one the duck with green 
 peas, the traditional roast mutton, the Rus- 
 
 125
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 sian salad, and the ice-cream, starts at the 
 sound of a double report. It is the two Bou- 
 chauds, father and son, making the cham- 
 pagne pop. He is obliged to stop a moment. 
 The three soldiers raise their glasses to victory 
 and the two fiancees wet their Ups in the foam, 
 each smiling at her lover. The air is mild, the 
 sky clear, and the country serene. Charming 
 interlude ! Exquisite hour of respite ! How 
 far away the war is now ! Our three warriors 
 laugh heartily as they drink interminable 
 toasts: their ears long to forget the noise of 
 cannon, their eyes the sight of the war-har- 
 assed country at the front. Love agitates 
 the women struggling not to think of the dan- 
 gers hanging over these precious heads. They 
 are granted this day to take breath. Is it 
 not the way of the French to enjoy a dream 
 as well as a reality ? This is a day of dreams. 
 Soon they serve the coffee and the liqueurs, 
 and the cigarettes mingle their fragrant smoke 
 with the perfume of the heliotrope beds./ 
 
 126
 
 XVII 
 
 IT is the close of the day. Twilight never 
 comes without some melancholy. Under 
 a leafy thicket of the green island where the 
 launch had taken the guests, Henri and Louise 
 are seated side by side, hand in hand. And 
 do not think that they talk the rather stupid 
 bilhngs and cooings too often customary be- 
 tween lovers. The heroic times have made a 
 deep impression on their souls. Tender ca- 
 resses remain the same; meanwhile they do 
 not degenerate into insipidity. 
 
 "Louise," says Monsieur Henri, "when 
 Monsieur des Assernes describes to us the 
 gracious and high-spirited Mirabelle, so wise, 
 faithful, and brave, do you know whom I 
 see?" 
 
 "No," replies the young girl, thus telling a 
 falsehood. 
 
 "It is of you that I think, and it is you I 
 picture, Louise, because you are as beautiful 
 and as wise and as brave." 
 
 127
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "Henri," she replies gravely, "I do not 
 know whether I am as good as this beautiful 
 lady; but I have often said that if you should 
 be killed in this horrible war I should prefer to 
 die in your place." 
 
 Alas! with this one word, the bird of ill 
 omen they had driven away reappears. It 
 hovers now over the two lovers as their faces 
 grow sober. 
 
 "Don't say that," replies Monsieur Henri. 
 "I should prefer to die twice. But, since you 
 have brought up the idea of possible separa- 
 tion, Louise, it is necessary that I should tell 
 you that the offensive is near and that there 
 is a strong chance that I may not return. I 
 am at present the head of the section. It is a 
 fine post ... a little dangerous." 
 
 Louise's eyes grow large and full of agony. 
 They take in tenderly the entire person of 
 the subHeutenant, so robust under his uni- 
 form. Great God ! would it be possible to see 
 this body bathed in blood and stretched out 
 forever on the cold earth? She shudders 
 without crying. 
 
 "Henri ... but I do not want it! I do 
 not wish you to die." 
 
 128
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 The officer replies, smiling sadly: 
 
 ''Our happiness is a small thing, Louise, in 
 comparison with the deliverance of the coun- 
 try. Certainly I am pierced with the thought 
 of leaving you forever in this life. Neverthe- 
 less, I have made my sacrifice to France. We 
 come to desire victory, that is to say the hap- 
 piness of all, more than our own special hum- 
 ble good fortune. Would you love me as 
 much, Louise, if I spoke otherwise?" 
 
 Louise has taken her face in her hands to 
 hide the horrible emotion overwhelming her. 
 
 "You know well that I love you in the same 
 way, Henri, and that I also have made my 
 sacrifice. But there are moments when one 
 shudders before the anguish. 
 
 She quickly wipes away the tears forming 
 pearls in her eyes and at last smiles at her 
 fiance. The great trees protecting them are 
 not surprised at this heroic dialogue. They 
 have existed for centuries, these oaks and 
 these poplars of the He de France, and it is 
 perhaps not the first conversation they have 
 heard of this kind. When this was a favorite 
 residence of a king, more than one lord, leav- 
 ing for Flanders or the Palatinate, said here 
 
 129
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 his impetuous farewells to his lady. And pre- 
 viously, in the glorious century of the con- 
 quests, how many soldiers torn from the arms 
 of their sweethearts have spoken in the same 
 way under the trees ! And still farther in the 
 past, who knows if a similar warrior has not 
 used the same words here with the dear lassie 
 he was leaving behind ! History is only rep- 
 etition, and France is always France. 
 
 130
 
 XVIII 
 
 WE are in the trenches opposite the cote 
 de Tahure on the evening of the 24th 
 of September, 191 5. In the captain's cave, 
 with white chalk walls, lighted with a candle 
 in a dark lantern, a majority of the officers of 
 the 8th are reunited. Under the sacks of 
 heaped-up earth protecting the roof they hear 
 less distinctly, but in a more agonizing way, 
 perhaps, the uninterrupted roUing of the thun- 
 der. Everything has rocked for two days, 
 under the bombardment which is tearing up 
 the enemy trenches. The captain asks, forc- 
 ing his voice to make himself heard in the din; 
 
 "Have you seen the men?" 
 
 "They are perfectly cahn and in good form, 
 captain," says a lieutenant. "A short time 
 ago they sang." 
 
 "Oh ! To-night they are able to sing," says 
 the captain. 
 
 Life at the front has changed lately. The 
 blue helmet is seen, determining forever the 
 characteristic appearance of the soldier of the 
 
 131
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 great war. We have also the white cave, 
 with its hehneted shadows thrown by the 
 candle on the chalky walls, and these men, 
 seated on the straw mattress of their chief or 
 on a plank, are doing what is quite unusual 
 this evening. They are not especially sleepy 
 while waiting for the formidable assault of 
 the morrow. And the captain has taken from 
 his canteen two bottles of old Medoc, a wind- 
 fall hoarded for an important occasion. 
 
 "Captain," says Sublieutenant Picot gayly, 
 "you are right to sacrifice your stores, for the 
 future is doubtful for all of us who are here." 
 
 I have purposely said "Sublieutenant" 
 Picot. It is not a mistake. The gold stripe 
 was waiting for the adjutant on his return to 
 the 8th, after his convalescence, passed at 
 Choisy-le-Roi. 
 
 "It is all the same to us," says Lecointre, 
 "if to-morrow should be the last day, we ac- 
 knowledge that Hfe has been good and its end 
 beautiful, for before closing our eyes we shall 
 have foreseen victory." 
 
 "And that is worth the cost, gentlemen," 
 adds the captain. "To your health !" 
 
 "To the victory of to-morrow!" roar the 
 seven men present, hfting their glasses. 
 
 132
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!" punctu- 
 ate solemnly the large howitzers and the 
 "75's," each time shaking the entire dugout 
 cave and the men to their very inmost souls. 
 
 "I," says a little lieutenant, "shall be con- 
 tent to die after having seen that, for it must 
 be fine!" 
 
 "It will be great sport !" cries the captain. 
 
 "Gentlemen," says Lecointre, lifting his 
 glass for the second time, "I propose to drink 
 to those whom we may not see again and to 
 whom heavy misfortune is coming. ..." 
 
 "To the women of France !" flings out joy- 
 ously the little lieutenant. 
 
 Arms are raised again, waving the glasses. 
 But this time the glasses tremble slightly. It 
 is perhaps because the bombardment is re- 
 doubled and the ground is shaken. 
 
 "To my fiancee!" announces Picot faith- 
 fully. 
 
 The gay little lieutenant says: 
 
 "To my mother!" 
 
 Then the captain, his eyes determinedly 
 fixed on the candle of the lantern: 
 
 "I have three little children. . . ." 
 
 In leaving their shelter, a quarter of an 
 hour later, to regain their sections, Picot and 
 
 133
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Lecointre plunge into the darkness of the 
 opaque night, where they are obliged to feel 
 their way by seeking with their hands the 
 rough places in the wall of the trench. Their 
 feet stumble about the ground through the 
 mire, for a fine rain has begun to fall this after- 
 noon. The thunder has become unbearable. 
 The strained ear-drums feel as if they were 
 bursting. 
 
 ''Listen!" says Picot suddenly. 
 
 "No need of listening, old pal," roars Le- 
 cointre, "I hear enough." 
 
 "But no, you do not understand me ! I am 
 speaking of the noise between the reports of 
 the cannon." 
 
 At this moment a French fusee, like a bright 
 Roman candle, shoots off at the right, making 
 a dazzling and fugitive day. The entire dev- 
 astated plain can be seen. The trenches are 
 marked by large hummocks of earth. Hun- 
 dreds of thousands of men are underneath, 
 crouching, immovable, listening. But as 
 everything is enveloped in thick night again, 
 a murmur seems to come from the immense 
 ant-hill. It is heard, when by the action of 
 the artillery, several seconds pass between the 
 
 134
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 fires of the battery. Their features are drawn 
 with disquietude. Is it by chance a wave of 
 discontent running through the invisible mass 
 in the shadow ? Is it that at the approach of 
 the formidable assault an instinctive and 
 brutish protest rises flrom these French 
 breasts ? Lecointre and Picot are shocked at 
 this suspicion. However, at regular intervals, 
 quickly smothered by the thunder of the artil- 
 lery, the uproar is heard. The two officers Us- 
 ten more attentively. The subterranean army 
 watching there i3 composed of all the people 
 of France. They are come from Brittany and 
 the coasts of Provence, from Lorraine and 
 Anjou; invaded Artois and Flanders have fur- 
 nished some, as well as Auvergne and Savoy; 
 Norman lads are crowded with Parisians and 
 the Vendeens with the Gascons. And now as 
 the clamor grows more distinct they recognize 
 words. Between the frightful detonations of 
 the large pieces and the sharper ones of the 
 " 75's" the men shout at the top of their lungs: 
 
 " Susette, Susette, 
 II ne Jaul pas croire d, V amour I " 
 
 135
 
 XIX 
 
 THREE days later, installed in a German 
 officer's shelter passed over by the bom- 
 bardment, Robert Picot, after having copi- 
 ously disinfected with the smoke of many 
 pipes and cigars, writes to Edith: 
 
 "My dearest, here I am again about and 
 very much alive, after having known during 
 the days of Saturday and Sunday, with the 
 excitement of the assaults, the intoxication of 
 victory. When this letter reaches you, the 
 papers will have told you in detail the whole 
 history of this Champagne offensive. We 
 have gained much ground and somewhat 
 weakened our enemies. Later, when the his- 
 tory of this war is written in its entirety, the 
 value of our effort will be determined, even 
 if we did not attain the definite object that 
 we hoped for. To-day, my beloved, I want 
 to tell you, so that you may report to Made- 
 moiselle Louise, who will be proud of it, the 
 heroic conduct of my brave friend, Lecointre. 
 
 "At a quarter of nine on Saturday morning 
 
 136
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 the rain deluging Champagne we leaped over 
 in the parapet. Lecointre commanded the 
 section next to mine. In these moments one 
 pays little attention to his neighbor. He has 
 only one idea. He asks if each man is doing 
 his duty and that is all. From the parapet 
 we rushed out to the plain. The fire of the 
 machine-guns had begun to hit us. It was 
 ten minutes after our mass of men jumped on 
 the ground that I felt a giving way on my 
 right. Several fusees burst in the air, and 
 their fragments made a hole in the human 
 quadrilateral, rending it apart like a herd of 
 cattle struck by lightning. After which a 
 torpedo fell between our two squares. My 
 dearest, what a cataclysm ! What a Day of 
 Judgment ! One might have said that a crater 
 had just opened and a jet of black smoke, ob- 
 scuring everything, rose in a sooty column. I 
 shall never forget what I saw then, Edith. A 
 man thrown to the earth by the explosion sud- 
 denly rose, black with powder and with soot, 
 brandishing his hunting-knife. I did not rec- 
 ognize him, but at his voice I trembled; it was 
 Lecointre. He roared in the infernal din: 
 * Close up your ranks ! Close up your ranks 1 ' 
 
 137
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 And he wheeled around his section like a shep- 
 herd-dog around his sheep. One did not 
 hear the whistle of the balls until they grazed 
 him, but it was a hail-storm of bullets. He 
 was not hit. He had reformed his section, 
 which entered with mine into the German 
 trench. All that only lasted two minutes. 
 My dear Edith, Lecointre is a hero and I wish 
 I were like him." 
 
 And while the former gloveseller peacefully 
 writes these lines on the table of the van- 
 quished enemy. Sublieutenant Lecointre, be- 
 fore going to verify the number of mattocks 
 and shears of his section, wrote in haste to 
 his dear Louise: 
 
 "My dearest, I am safe and sound. Alas ! I 
 wish I could say as much of my poor com- 
 rades! It costs dear to redeem French soil 
 from the Boches! I have seen my young 
 friend fall near me, a lieutenant twenty-three 
 years old who was gayety itself, and our cap- 
 tain has received the severest wounds. God 
 be thanked Picot is uninjured. And, my dear 
 Louise, you must tell your cousin about it; his 
 bravery has been above all praise. His mod- 
 esty will make him keep silence, no doubt. I 
 
 138
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 have seen him, under the barrage fire, leading 
 his section toward the trenches of the second 
 line and penetrating the first, knife in hand. 
 In these moments, my dearest Louise, we be- 
 come a little savage as the yells of the men 
 mingle with the uninterrupted rumbling of 
 thunder, and one thinks no more of being 
 afraid for his life. But I truly think that I 
 should not have had the disconcerting aplomb 
 of our brave Picot, charging right toward the 
 Boches, who surrendered at the mere sight 
 of him, while farther away these men threw 
 hand-grenades to vanquish the last resistance 
 of the menacing enemies. Yes, my dear 
 Louise, tell Mademoiselle Edith that she may 
 be proud of him." 
 Qu'un ami veritable est une douce chose t 
 
 139
 
 XX 
 
 THREE days after the Purification of 
 Our Lady, on the eve of Saint Doro- 
 thea, the count Mainfroy of Catalpan and his 
 attendants landed near the country of Bar- 
 bary, on the border of the sea, and they dis- 
 embarked in the night so that the Saracens 
 might not see them. Then Mamfroy sent 
 spies to discover the place of the Christian 
 camp where he was advised to go, before de- 
 livering his lady. The lord of Catalpan and 
 his retainers rode on horses many days and 
 many nights. At the break of day they rode 
 quietly, and the same by the light of the stars, 
 enduring at each turn the assaults of the Sara- 
 cens. And the count and his followers thus 
 killed many infidels. The Monday before 
 Ash Wednesday the little troop arrived in the 
 Christian camp near a river. And the knight 
 knew from a distance that it was the Christian 
 camp, so they made great haste to reach it, 
 singing sweet songs of France. Then the 
 count of Foix saw his nephew and began to 
 
 140
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 weep, as he had thought he was enchained in 
 a deep prison. The young lord embraced 
 him and told him the miracle by which he was 
 saved. When he heard it, the count of Foix 
 loudly praised God and His Mother. 'Alas !' 
 replied the young lord, *I am not able to re- 
 joice over my liberty because my lady, Mira- 
 belle of Pampeluna, has taken my place in a 
 castle of Barbary.' 'My nephew,' replied the 
 count, 'eagerness to deliver your lady is a 
 noble desire; but a better plan is to fight for 
 the king of France, who is planning hi this 
 place a great enterprise and must not be left 
 in such peril and danger.' 'By the head of 
 God ! ' cries Mainfroy, ' I shall fight first be- 
 fore going to save my lady.' 'Well said!' 
 cries the count of Foix. And again he hands 
 his banner to his nephew. 
 
 "It was Shrove Tuesday when the Chris- 
 tian army crossed the river by a ford. And 
 the stallion carrying Count Mainfroy was 
 drowned because he tried to climb too steep a 
 river bank. It was a wonder to see all this 
 company cross these waters. Soon the Sara- 
 cen camp, which was built there, was agitated 
 and its mangonels began to throw many stones 
 
 141
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 and the archers many arrows. So the Chris- 
 tian knight always advanced and marched 
 toward a beautiful town of Barbary, whose 
 square towers and flat roofs they saw at a dis- 
 tance. The Knights Templars from Cyprus 
 went with their spears to the help of Mainfroy 
 and from the other bank of the river threw 
 fiery weapons, burning the Saracen machines. 
 And when they were all burned to ashes, they 
 did not throw any more limestone or rocks. 
 Then the Christians went on without obstacle 
 and arrived before the town. When, banner in 
 hand, the lord of Catalpan saw the high walls 
 of the ramparts from which the torrents of 
 boiling oil had poured down, he was inflamed 
 by the greatest desire of conquest he had 
 ever known. And he cried loudly, raising his 
 banner: 'At them ! At them ! ' Then as they 
 swerved he saw what he could never forget, 
 namely, on a great highway leading to the en- 
 trance of the town, a great lord riding on a 
 horse draped with cloth of gold. This lord 
 was surrounded by so many other knights that 
 they filled the roads and the country from the 
 river to this place. And the great lord, with 
 the noble face, had overcome everything. 
 And because divine majesty mingled with the 
 
 142
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 sweetness of his features, Mainfroy knew that 
 it was the king of France. 'By Saint Denis/ 
 he thought, 'if I never see my lady again I 
 shall send my troop under the oil and the 
 stones to conquer this town for my lord. Then 
 stones were hurled to break down the doors; 
 and as water pours into the hole in a ship, 
 Mainfroy's archers entered through the open- 
 ings and massacred the infidels. Then a Sar- 
 acen engine, hurling stones and rocks, threw 
 at the forehead of the good knight such a large 
 paving-stone that he fell down as if dead. 
 In great fear and misery the count of Foix 
 ran to help his nephew, but drew back with 
 horror on perceiving the suflfering of that 
 brave face, which was no longer more than a 
 gaping hole pouring out blood and from 
 which the eyes were gone. So the prayer of 
 the brave knight was granted that he should 
 not see his lady again until the city should be 
 taken, for it fell into the hands of the king of 
 France, and Mainfroy lived, tended by the 
 Knights Templars, but he would never see 
 either the light of day nor the lady who was 
 more to him than the light, that is to say the 
 lovely Mirabelle." 
 Thus read des Assernes, one evening in 
 
 143
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 March, 1916, in the private end of the book- 
 shop, Rue du Cherche-Midi. At this point in 
 his reading a client wanting a novel and calling 
 Monsieur Duval away from the absorbed audi- 
 ence causes an interruption and gives Made- 
 moiselle Louise a chance to ask him: 
 
 "But did this poor Mainfroy remain blind 
 allof hisUfe?" 
 
 "Alas! yes, mademoiselle," repUes des As- 
 sernes, with sincere sadness; have you not per- 
 fectly understood that he lost not only his 
 sight but his eyes, which was irreparable ? " 
 
 "He must have been very much disfig- 
 ured!" says Madame Duval. 
 
 "Madame," continues des Assernes, "one is 
 not beautiful, indeed, when one loses the orna- 
 ment and the light of the countenance, and 
 when in its place there are two gaping holes. 
 But my troubadour is very discreet about it. 
 The flower of good French taste in literature 
 had already bloomed. Rude as he may have 
 been, the writer of the Middle Ages knew al- 
 ways how to stop on the edge of horror and 
 disgust. The lord of Catalpan was assuredly 
 not in a pleasant predicament. But the 
 beauty of this leonine knight must always re- 
 
 144
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 main for us independently of his features. 
 Although his face is disfigured, he remains, 
 nevertheless, an ideal and charming person. 
 Our admiration for him and our respect cause 
 us to draw a veil over his terrible scars." 
 
 "I should like to know," asks Mademoiselle 
 Louise, impatient, "if Mirabelle was deliv- 
 ered, if she saw her knight again, and what 
 she felt when she no longer found in him any- 
 thing but an object of horror." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," repHes des Assernes, "you 
 approach here the most delicate, moving, dra- 
 matic, and charming passage of this beautiful 
 story. Unhappily I have not had up to the 
 present the time to make a fair copy of it. 
 Nevertheless, here is a resume of what hap- 
 pened. ..." 
 
 With this they settle themselves more com- 
 fortably in the private part of the shop. 
 Monsieur Duval, having seen his customer 
 out, comes back to take his place again, and 
 des Assernes, seeing that every one is hanging 
 on his words, continues: 
 
 "When the town was conquered and our 
 hero recovered, the count of Foix said to his 
 nephew that it was now right for him to go to 
 
 145
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 save his lady. Behold, the blind knight in- 
 trusted with a mission singular enough in his 
 condition. You will all exclaim at the impos- 
 sibility. But it was not an enterprise too 
 reckless for a lord of the character of Main- 
 froy. He had a horse, his lance, and his shield 
 brought to him, and climbed into the saddle. 
 As he had a faithful esquire, he charged him 
 to lead the stallion by the bridle. One hun- 
 dred men at arms followed them, and they 
 had a spy for a guide. Meanwhile Mirabelle 
 of Pampeluna was pining away, and almost 
 dying, in her room ornamented with silver 
 crescents. One day she heard a loud noise in 
 front of the castle; she went to the loopholes 
 and saw the crusaders. You may imagine 
 whether her heart beat, for in the proud bear- 
 ing of the chief of the troop she had no hesi- 
 tation in recognizing her knight. I think that 
 you do not doubt a single minute whether the 
 knight of Catalpan, blind as he was, was still 
 invincible. To conquer the Saracen castle 
 was for him the work of an instant. And then 
 he searches from room to room for the lady of 
 his thoughts, while the black slaves fled, utter- 
 ing piercing cries. But when he arrived at 
 
 146
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 Mirabelle's room and the sound of his name 
 spoken by the sweet lips of the lady froze him 
 to the very marrow, the knight remained on 
 the threshold as if insensible. There were 
 several truly tragic seconds. The poor lord, 
 feeling that he had lost all attractiveness, did 
 not dare to advance; the lady was as over- 
 whelmed by what she found in the face that 
 had recently so charmed her. I think that in 
 her place I should have hidden in a corner 
 heaving sighs of horror. For, indeed, in 
 love. . . ." 
 
 "Monsieur des Assernes," reproves Made- 
 moiselle Louise, "you are not a woman really 
 in love. You are only a romance writer. 
 Otherwise, you would not spHt so many hairs 
 over this scene which should move along with 
 great simpUcity. Did your troubadour give 
 so many words to it?" 
 
 "Heavens," replies Monsieur des Assernes, 
 a little embarrassed, "I acknowledge that, 
 in the text, the plot is unravelled in two 
 lines: 'Dear love, I have found you again!' 
 cried Mirabelle; to which Mainfroy responded : 
 'Lady, turn your lovely eyes away from me, 
 for a more hideous thing has come to me than 
 
 147
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 leprosy.' Then the lady went to him and 
 kissed him on the forehead." 
 
 "You see, Monsieur des Assernes," says 
 Louise reprovingly, "that Mirabelle did not 
 stand on ceremony. As for me, I have thought 
 several times that Henri might return muti- 
 lated. Do not fear in the least that in that 
 case I should be obliged to force myself not 
 to flee like a silly fool. No, no, too happy if 
 he should return, even if he lacked an arm, 
 an eye, or a leg." 
 
 Des Assernes, moved, murmurs: 
 
 "I am only half surprised at you, mademoi- 
 selle, for women are angels." 
 
 "My dear master, you speak like an old 
 bachelor," continues Monsieur Duval. 
 
 148
 
 XXI 
 
 ON Sunday, in winter, the family Bou- 
 chaud came to spend the day with the 
 Duvals instead of receiving them at Choisy- 
 le-Roi. 
 
 Now, at the end of the day, behind the 
 closed blinds of the shop front, the two young 
 women offer tea to des Assernes and to the 
 two reunited families in the lighted shop. 
 You will no doubt ask who is the robust, 
 helmeted soldier devouring tarts and little 
 cakes, handed to him by the young ladies. I 
 was sure you would not recognize him, because 
 he has greatly changed. Well, it is Georges 
 Bouchaud. He is twenty years old now, and 
 he has seen so many things! The south of 
 France, Marseilles, and the sea. His torpe- 
 doed steamer was wrecked and he was picked 
 up by an Italian trawler. He has experienced 
 camps in the sand under a torrid sun, the 
 European castle, and the Asiatic castle, 
 trenches in front of the Turks and terrible 
 
 149
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 assaults against modern Saracens. He has 
 seen the minarets of Constantinople soaring 
 in his dreams, as of old the crusaders saw 
 Jerusalem; he returned, a deck passenger, 
 looking over the sea on the surface of the 
 water for the periscopes of Boche submarines. 
 Then they sent him back to Artois to be with 
 the English. He has spent the rainy and cold 
 months in the trenches,which are deep streams 
 where one's legs splash along, eating and sleep- 
 ing at the bottom of mud holes. Then sud- 
 denly, in February, there was the transfer by 
 auto to Verdun and the desperate defense. 
 Now, he is come from Fort Vaux for 
 seven days' leave. You must not be aston- 
 ished if this gamin has acquired some ma- 
 turity. 
 
 ''Tell Monsieur des Assemes what it is like 
 at Verdun," directs his mother naively, 
 
 ''Bah!" repHes the little warrior, recently 
 returned from his nightmare, " those are things 
 that one is not able to imagine. It is neces- 
 sary to have been there." 
 
 "That is what they all say, monsieur," re- 
 marks Father Bouchaud, "it is necessary to 
 have been there." 
 
 ISO
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "Poor children !" sighs Monsieur Duval. 
 
 "Henri is at Hill No. 304," says Louise. 
 
 "Robert, too," says Edith. 
 
 "What do you suppose is happening at this 
 moment, what are they doing while we are 
 here taking tea so tranquilly?" asks Louise 
 quite dreamily of herself. 
 
 "The fact is," replies des Assernes, "that in 
 this quiet circle, domestic and intimate, we 
 have no doubt at all that fifty or sixty leagues 
 from us there is carnage and horror. Here we 
 live, there they are d^ing. And meanwhile, 
 my dear Duval, if we seek for the reason of 
 the sacrifice of our most brilliant intellects 
 and of many of our fallen geniuses on the field 
 of honor, we see that at the end of the reckon- 
 ing this rare and precious blood was only 
 spilled to safeguard perfectly these walls of 
 old books; I might say that they represent, 
 so to speak, the form and the substance of the 
 French spirit. War is the most profound of 
 human mysteries." 
 
 "Would you like some more sandwiches?" 
 asks Louise of the young cousin. "What an 
 appetite ! There, my boy, and there again ! " 
 
 The two young girls surround Georges,
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 laughing. Monsieur Bouchaud says to des 
 Assernes in a low voice: 
 
 "Monsieur, I am delighted to hear you 
 speak in this way, you who have a superior 
 mind. But, for myself, I cannot comprehend 
 why this rascal, made, as you see, with the 
 arms and legs of a giant, should return to- 
 morrow down there with the 420th and be 
 crushed as I crush a fly. Such an idea, mon- 
 sieur, cannot enter the mind of a father." 
 
 "Monsieur," replies des Assernes, "it is not 
 necessary to try to expatiate on the war. It 
 is enough for us to understand the task it im- 
 poses upon us. The soldiers defending Ver- 
 dun at this moment are not philosophers. If 
 your son should think of deserting ..." 
 
 "Oh, monsieur!" says Father Bou- 
 chaud. 
 
 "I was relying on you there, monsieur," 
 says des Assernes. "The feeling of national 
 honor has affected you so that you have be- 
 come suspicious. You would not protect your 
 son in the least if it dishonored him. You 
 would sooner consent to his death. This is 
 the fact: it is your feeling and that of thou- 
 sands of soldiers who secure by their sacrifice 
 
 152
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 the conservation of an ideal which we adore 
 without understanding it. It was the same 
 with the crusaders who went across the sea for 
 France. They obeyed their heroic instinct 
 telling them to die to safeguard noble senti- 
 ments. We have been heirs for centuries of 
 all that they fought for. Except for the cru- 
 sades, monsieur, all the beautiful books you 
 see ranged on the shelves would not have ex- 
 isted, and perhaps in your store, the Meilleur 
 Marche, one could not have purchased such 
 marvels of taste to-day and the finest fash- 
 ions, for it is all one nation; yesterday and to- 
 day are all one. That is why your little sol- 
 dier on leave whom I see feasting on cakes to- 
 day, and taking life so boyishly, will go to- 
 morrow courageously to the Eastern Station 
 to return to the loophole where he mounts 
 guard day and night against the enemies of 
 the noble works his uncle sells here. And if 
 he did not go, monsieur, you would be the 
 first to be grieved." 
 
 "Evidently, monsieur; and I ask myself 
 how I can understand myself in the confusion 
 of such contradictory feelings." 
 
 "Monsieur," replies des Assernes, "Mira- 
 
 153
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 belle of Pampeluna, my heroine of the Middle 
 Ages, was no less divided than you between 
 her love and her patriotism. This contradic- 
 tion is not new, as you see." 
 
 "My dear master," says Monsieur Duval, 
 "a propos of Mirabelle of Pampeluna, have 
 you been able to decipher the end of that 
 beautiful story?" 
 
 Des Assernes, smiling as he thinks of his 
 story, proceeds: 
 
 "I have not resisted the desire that you sug- 
 gest in the least, my dear Duval. Before I 
 had read the substance of the manuscript, I 
 tried to find the smallest leaf of the scattered 
 parchment. It is full of magnificence and de- 
 scribes the marriage of the noble lady with 
 Count Mainfroy of Catalpan, which took place 
 at Sain t-Jean-d 'Acre, where Mirabelle had 
 been taken to a place of safety, I think, with 
 the queen of France. It describes the cos- 
 tumes of the ladies, the presents of the young 
 bride, details glistening like cathedral win- 
 dows. The silk, gold, ermine, jewels, pearls, 
 embroideries, inlays, iridescent trinkets and 
 works of art, pearly and embossed, all spark- 
 led and shone, and I remember also the ele- 
 
 154
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 phant of painted glass, a gift from the sultan 
 of Egypt. But what you must see in the 
 midst of this fairy scene is the poetic appear- 
 ance of Mirabelle on the arm of the blind 
 and disfigured knight. They have reached the 
 fulfilment of their vows, having surmounted 
 many vicissitudes, and they exchange an 
 amorous duet which after six hundred years 
 still vibrates in our ears like fresh and delicious 
 music. I have thought of you, ladies, in de- 
 ciphering these Gothic and illegible charac- 
 ters; I foresaw what would be your felicity, 
 you who are modern Mirabelles of Pampeluna, 
 the day when the two heroes you love come 
 to bring you back victory and love." 
 
 "If they ever return!" says Edith, wiping 
 away a furtive tear. 
 
 "Ah ! if I could only know what is happen- 
 ing there at this moment !" says Louise. 
 
 155
 
 XXII 
 
 BUT at the moment when Louise speaks 
 thus, this is what is happening at Hill 
 304, which Monsieur Henri, chief of the sec- 
 tion in the 8th, has held for three days in a 
 first-line trench. 
 
 The fading twilight bathes in a gray atmos- 
 phere the fair and lovely country of the 
 Meuse. The green hill crowned with thick 
 woods curves in soft lines; it descends on the 
 right side into a contracted valley through 
 which the Bethincourt River flows, and climbs 
 again in a new elevation. And the other hill 
 stripped bare is the Mort-Homme. Some- 
 times, if the eye is able to penetrate into ra- 
 vines made by the same hills and valleys, 
 white cliffs may be seen in the misty distance 
 and the clear waters of the Meuse flowing at 
 their feet. Opposite is the black mass of the 
 Corbeaux wood, already plunged in darkness. 
 
 And in the calm Elysium of this peaceful 
 scene the formidable cataclysm of an artillery 
 battle is let loose. 
 
 156
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 The trench, where Sublieutenant Lecoin- 
 tre's section has taken shelter, was dug with 
 difficulty in the chalk of the north side. But, 
 shooting from the Corbeaux wood, the ene- 
 mies have nibbled little by little the foot of 
 the hill, and on a platform which breaks the 
 slope at one point, they, too, are clinging to 
 another trench, opposite the French. And 
 while the two companies of infantry lie in wait 
 for each other, challenge and expect each 
 other, the great shells rain ceaselessly down, 
 levelling the declivity, filling up the trenches, 
 annihilating the shelters, machine-guns, mus- 
 kets, soldiers, and petty officers. 
 
 Below, to the southeast, Verdun, the invisi- 
 ble fortress, sleeps. It has become sacred less 
 through its role than by the blood of those who 
 have died in its defense. 
 
 Sublieutenant Lecointre is seated in a re- 
 cess in his shelter and, with his elbows on his 
 knees, tries to dream a minute. But it is im- 
 possible. He cannot even bring back the 
 vision of Louise. It wavers and is obliterated. 
 Besides, everything is about to end. Death is 
 there in possession of him, of his friends and 
 of his men. A bursting shell on the parapet 
 
 157
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 has just entombed three soldiers of his sec- 
 tion near by; they are working to extricate 
 their corpses, hoping in vain that life has not 
 left them altogether. The next time it will be 
 his turn. Life is pouring out for him the last 
 bitter drops of the cup. A little earlier, a lit- 
 tle later ! One cannot even imagine the hor- 
 ror of this minute. 
 
 In seeing Monsieur Henri despondent in 
 this way, you think perhaps with some regret: 
 "Here is a shattered hero who has lost his 
 heroism." Do not deceive yourself. It is as 
 noble for Monsieur Henri and for thousands 
 of men crouched with him in this section of 
 hell to cling thus immovable, under shell-fire 
 during six consecutive days and nights, as to 
 rush en masse in the open field to brilliant 
 warfare. If all these men were not warriors 
 of the first rank they would long ago have 
 marched past, huddled together, to Chattan- 
 court, by the steepest slopes of the western 
 hilltop. But no, they stick to their untenable 
 trenches, because the honor of France requires 
 that they should die rather than }deld. Noth- 
 ing can dislodge them. Only, at the end of 
 sixty or eighty hours, they no longer care to 
 
 158
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 laugh; the imperishable sense of honor alone 
 sustains the worn-out creature. 
 
 The little white houses that you see at the 
 bottom of the valley, between the poplars 
 trembling on the border of the river of Beth- 
 incourt, form the village of Esnes. They 
 climb up on the slopes of Hill 304 on this side 
 and cling also on the other side to the slopes 
 of the Mort-Homme. It is there that the 
 third company, with Monsieur Robert, is sup- 
 porting the first line. 
 
 From the house where Monsieur Robert is 
 billeted, at the end of the valley, through the 
 windows, now without panes, the entire sector 
 may be seen. This house is an old mill over- 
 hanging the little river of Bethincourt. The 
 water-gates, and the site of the wheel, are still 
 to be found. The clear water runs between 
 the stones. There must be trout under the 
 green poplars. But Monsieur Robert does not 
 think of watching their dark passage in the 
 transparent water. His eyes are lifted to the 
 hill of Mort-Homme, rising on the right. 
 For, on the hillside where the sparse growth of 
 vegetation barely conceals the chalky subsoil, 
 little black ants are climbing slowly. And 
 
 159
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 there they separate in two horizontal bands, 
 coming out of their ant-hill, and from place to 
 place the movement increases and multiplies. 
 Soon the entire hill is covered. From time to 
 time one sees in the air above the poor little 
 climbing ants the bursting of a formidable 
 bomb, and afterward its ball of smoke, green 
 and sulphurous, floats for a long time like a 
 light balloon; then they crouch on the ground; 
 one can no longer distinguish the black streaks 
 of their lines. Later they rise and begin to 
 run again in bare spaces on the mountain. 
 
 And Monsieur Robert trembles, for he 
 knows that these black ants, so small, so tiny, 
 on the high hill, are his comrades leaving for 
 the assault on the enemy trenches. 
 
 And the movement increases; by half sec- 
 tions the troops come from here, there, and 
 everywhere; they descend the slope of Mort- 
 Eomme and remount Hill 304. Monsieur 
 Robert knows that his regiment will take part 
 in its turn. The regiment is a thing secretly 
 dear. Civilians hardly understand what a 
 number may mean on a man's collar. Mon- 
 sieur Robert is moved with profound anguish. 
 But it is time to rejoin his section. In the 
 
 160
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 kitchen where his captain remains at the tele- 
 phone he receives an order to gather his men 
 together behind the church. He himself pro- 
 ceeds to a barn with a battered-in roof, where 
 it is already night. The men are on the 
 straw, where one can vaguely perceive their 
 blue coats moving. 
 
 "Get up, boys!" says the sublieutenant; 
 "our comrades are about to go over the barbed 
 wire. We must be equipped to aid them.". 
 
 Many of the men are sleeping; one sees them 
 stretching their weary limbs, yawning. Picot 
 begins again: 
 
 "Boys, we are here to help our comrades. 
 They are in a dangerous position. It would 
 not be right for them to be killed without us." 
 
 In silence the men fasten their knapsack 
 straps and put them over their chests in the 
 darkness. Not a word is heard. As he grows 
 accustomed to the darkness Picot now sees the 
 bearded men and the beardless boys of class 
 '15. His heart is touched by so much resigna- 
 tion in their fearlessness. 
 
 He murmurs on leaving them : 
 
 "Boys, we will get them." 
 
 Night comes when they are assembled be- 
 
 i6i
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 hind the church. There are seven or eight 
 companies of various regiments. The men 
 speak low. No trumpets, no drums. They 
 march, by sections, to cut across the right side 
 of Hill 304. They are, in their turn, Uttle 
 creeping ants. But here the thicket, although 
 cut down in many gaps, still hides the men. 
 Then they arrive at the trenches. Soon the 
 non-commissioned officers have the grenades 
 passed along. One knows that the grenades 
 mean that there will be an immediate assault. 
 A clatter of arms is heard through the crowded 
 trenches. "Fix bayonets!" Still the slow 
 moments are punctuated by claps of thunder 
 and the noise of continuous explosions. At 
 the head of the trench occupied by Robert 
 Picot, one is constantly disturbed by the pas- 
 sage of the stretcher-bearers carrying wounded 
 men on litters, still covered with blood, with 
 unrecognizable dangling heads, black with the 
 smoke of the fusillade. Suddenly there is the 
 signal of the whistle, short and shrill, that they 
 are waiting for. With grenades in their pock- 
 ets, a gun in the right hand, the left hand free 
 to enable them to jump, the sections leap over 
 the parapet. The first German trench having 
 
 162
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 been taken, the question is how to aid their 
 comrades to hold their ground. The waves of 
 bluecoats bound along. It is a veritable 
 flood rolling in. And the shells continue to 
 make holes in the rushing surge, and the line 
 of stretcher-bearers continues to carry the 
 human wrecks toward the post of safety hid- 
 den in a grove of Hill 304. 
 
 Picot, sensitive and nervous, in the fascina- 
 tion of this exciting and intoxicating assault, 
 sees a wounded man pass and turn his head. 
 He shivers with horror, for the unknown man 
 whose regiment and grade he is unable to dis- 
 tinguish, has no face left. The ball destroy- 
 ing his two eyes seems, as a result of coagu- 
 lated blood, to have removed all of his fea- 
 tures. ' ' Why have the stretcher-bearers taken 
 up this unfortunate man?" asks Picot of him- 
 self. And he continues his way to carry out 
 the mission of his section, without knowing 
 that the Uving corpse he has just passed is 
 Lecointre. 
 
 163
 
 D 
 
 XXIII 
 
 you suffer much?" asks the young 
 assistant doctor, leaning over Mon- 
 sieur Henri's stretcher. 
 
 The other stretchers lie in a straight line in 
 a large trench at the door of a safety post dug 
 quite deep in the earth. 
 
 "I do not suffer enormously," replies Mon- 
 sieur Henri, "but the blood makes me blind 
 and I do not see, I cannot see you." 
 
 The doctor says: 
 
 "I am the doctor. What is your name?" 
 
 "Sublieutenant Lecointre. You don't rec- 
 ognize me then, old fellow?" 
 
 "Ah, pardon," says the doctor, moved. "It 
 is so badly lighted here." 
 
 Water now trickles down over the half- 
 destroyed face. Thick cotton and dressings 
 fill the bloody cavities. Twice the wounded 
 man feels the needle of a syringe piercing his 
 flesh for an antitetanus inoculation, and then 
 for an inoculation of serum, for he has lost 
 rivers of blood and his heart grows weak. 
 
 164
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 In this mouldy cave the attendants come 
 and go, dressing the wounds of the injured and 
 assisting the doctor. Monsieur Henri asks in 
 the tone of distress of a wounded man in dan- 
 ger of fainting: 
 
 "Are my eyes not involved then?" 
 
 The attendants look at each other and they 
 glance at the doctor, who responds sadly: 
 
 "But no, my dear man, we shall save your 
 eyes quite easily." 
 
 In a corner the chaplain on his knees con- 
 fesses a dying man and embraces him before 
 he breathes his last sigh. At a sign, two 
 stretcher-bearers run, Hfting the sublieuten- 
 ant's Utter and carrying it away to make place 
 for others. Then the inert body is balanced 
 again through the winding trenches by four 
 tired arms. After that Monsieur Henri, in a 
 feverish coma, feels himself carried in an auto, 
 jolting desperately over a road full of shell- 
 holes, which must be traversed at full speed, 
 for the Boche cannon ferret out the motor 
 ambulances on the way. At last there is a 
 little bed in a smooth and comfortable train. 
 Then the arrival in a hospital. 
 
 "Lift this bandage, first of all," he begs, 
 
 165
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "so that I may see something at last ! This 
 darkness stifles me!" 
 
 A soft hand takes his, and a woman's voice 
 replies: 
 
 "You must still have a little patience, my 
 dear wounded man; when you are well rested 
 we shall rid you of them." 
 
 "Where am I?" asks Monsieur Henri. 
 
 "In Paris, at the Rue Cambon hospital." 
 
 "In Paris!" says the sublieutenant, smil- 
 ing like a child. " In Paris ? But then . . . ? " 
 
 You can guess the rest. 
 
 i66
 
 XXIV 
 
 MONSIEUR HENRI has waited twenty- 
 four hours for Louise. He is a little 
 nervous. Each time that the door of his room 
 opens he is obliged to make an effort not to 
 tear away the blinding bandage. At times he 
 feels like crying, for he is very weak, and he 
 also feels a little childish vexation with his 
 attendant. She is no doubt very good, this 
 nurse; since yesterday he feels himself pam- 
 pered by her like an old patient in whom she 
 is especially interested. She continually 
 comes in to inform herself about his condition 
 and asks what he wants. See, here she is 
 again. But no, there are a few steps, a rustle 
 of skirts. Monsieur Henri instinctively raises 
 himself. Two arms are thrown around his 
 neck. He murmurs: "Louise!" 
 
 I do not need to tell you that the first kiss 
 lasts a long time. Then Madame Duval 
 stammers, quite upset: "The good weather is 
 here; when you are quite well, Monsieur Henri, 
 
 167
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 you will go once more to fish for pike at 
 Choisy-le-Roi." 
 
 But Monsieur Henri sighs: "Louise, how I 
 long to see you ! How hard it is not to be 
 able to look at you." 
 
 Whereupon, God be thanked, Monsieur 
 Henri is not able to see that both of them are 
 crying. Alas! they have been warned; they 
 know well that it is all over, that the poor eyes 
 no longer exist, that he will never see Louise 
 again. The dear hands press his own. Lou- 
 ise says: 
 
 "What difference does that make, since I 
 am here near you?" 
 
 "Louise, I long to see you !" 
 
 And she feels the hand of the wounded man 
 searching for the features of her face. . . . 
 
 On the way back Madame Duval says 
 simply to her daughter: "It is very sad, my 
 poor child, to think that you are to marry a 
 blind man." 
 
 "What do you want, mamma?" says Lou- 
 ise. "He might not have returned at all, and 
 I have feared it day and night. Now he has 
 come, I am too happy to be sorry for my- 
 seK. Besides we shall love each other more 
 
 i68
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 now, for I shall bring light to him, and do 
 not wish him to hear of his blindness from 
 any one but me, for I shall tell him so ten- 
 derly that he will not think about his suffer- 
 ing." 
 
 169
 
 XXV 
 
 THE following Sunday the Bouchaud and 
 Duval families are reunited around the 
 bed of Monsieur Henri, in the room where a 
 gracious and sweet nurse appears from time 
 to time. 
 
 "... And you know," . declares Monsieur 
 Henri, " they will never take Verdun." 
 
 "Georges is down there, too," says Mon- 
 sieur Bouchaud. "He is at Fort Vaux, the 
 poor lad!" 
 
 "Louise," asks Monsieur Henri, "would 
 you be willing to read yesterday's official news 
 tome?" 
 
 And while Louise reads aloud the announce- 
 ment of the furious cannonade resounding on 
 both banks of the Meuse and the counter- 
 attacks to the north of Vaux and of Hill 304, 
 Monsieur Henri, Hstening with all his ears, in 
 spite of the thick bandage hiding more than 
 half of his face, appears anxious and troubled. 
 Verdun ! And he sees it again in his heart. 
 
 170
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 "Robert is hunting for you through his en- 
 tire section," says Mademoiselle Edith. "He 
 wrote me a desperate letter this morning; his 
 comrades have assured him that they saw you 
 fall, mortally wounded. I reassured him as 
 quickly as possible." 
 
 "It is a curious thing," says M. Bouchaud 
 then, who loves to find the reason and cause 
 of everything, "that the French have turned 
 their eyes for weeks toward a menaced fortress 
 and then are told that it is dismantled and 
 has no longer any importance. One no longer 
 sees anything but Verdun. At the glove 
 counter the women talk about it. An Ameri- 
 can said to me yesterday: 'Oh ! it would make 
 me furious if the Germans should take Ver- 
 dun,' I responded: 'Madame, my son is 
 fighting there.' She replied as she rose: 'Oh ! 
 I am delighted to salute the father of a great 
 hero. I love the soldiers of Verdun.' This 
 is what the neutrals think of you, Monsieur 
 Henri." 
 
 "And Monsieur des Assernes and Mirabelle 
 of Pampeluna, what has become of them .^ " in- 
 quires the wounded man. 
 
 "The romance of Mirabelle is ended," re- 
 
 171
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 plies Louise, in a somewhat trembling voice. 
 "The lord of Catalpan had his eyes torn out 
 when a Saracen town was taken. But he was 
 able, nevertheless, to deliver Mirabelle, and 
 he married her in the middle of a beautiful 
 court." 
 
 "Did she marry a blind man?" asks Mon- 
 sieur Henri, in a peculiar voice. 
 
 "Yes. Do you find that extraordinary, my 
 dear Henri?" 
 
 "It is certainly devotion," says the officer. 
 
 "It is certainly happiness," says Louise. 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "Of course. They would be so united. 
 She would become indispensable to him. He 
 would see through her eyes; he could not walk 
 without giving her his hand. She would feel 
 that she is his whole life. He would know 
 that she no longer exists, that she could not 
 exist except for him. What a union, what in- 
 timacy, what sweetness!" 
 
 A profound silence reigns in the room where 
 each heart is bursting with emotion. Sud- 
 denly a sigh rends the breast of the wounded 
 man." 
 
 "I understand," he says. "I am blind." 
 
 172
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 His hands feel for Louise's and clasp them 
 convulsively. 
 
 "Are you afraid of hfe ? " asks his fiancee. 
 
 "No," says the wounded man. "I am 
 happy." 
 
 173
 
 XXVI 
 
 WE are at the dessert of a magnificent 
 wedding-feast, and have arrived at 
 the ice-cream, in the dining-room of the Rue 
 du Cherche-Midi. 
 
 "Of course," says Monsieur Duval, "we 
 should have been more elegant at a hotel, but 
 for a war marriage, without any ceremony, it 
 is better at home." 
 
 Indeed, they have only invited Robert 
 Picot and Monsieur des Assernes. Unhappi- 
 ly, there is one empty place, that of the gal- 
 lant Uttle Georges, the defender of the Fort 
 Vaux, who is now, with his heroic com- 
 mander, a prisoner in Germany. But his 
 glory hovers over them here; his misfortune 
 and his courage unite to make the thought 
 of him poetic. All of his life people will say 
 to his family, " Georges was at Vaux." Mon- 
 sieur Bouchaud realizes it perfectly. 
 
 "The poor lad," he sighs, "he is so fond of 
 ice-cream ! The cursed Boches would never 
 
 174
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 let him have a taste of it, we understand that ! 
 Anyway, we are not ashamed of him, are we, 
 mamma?" 
 
 "Certainly not," says the mother, "but 
 they should give permission to soldiers to re- 
 turn to see their families. That would help 
 them to be patient." 
 
 "The French do it finely," says Monsieur 
 Bouchaud, "the Boches never." 
 
 The bride bends continuously toward her 
 dear wounded man, whom she watches as if 
 he were a little child, guiding his hand toward 
 the plate, cutting his cakes and peeling his 
 fruit. 
 
 Robert Picot, who has received the Legion 
 of Honor, murmurs in Edith's ear: 
 
 "I should like to lose my sight, too." 
 
 "I cannot wish for it," says Edith he- 
 roically, "for France has need of you to 
 the very end. But even without that, dear 
 Robert ..." 
 
 Over the champagne, des Assemes, who has 
 been silent for a moment, rises and says, with 
 his wine-glass in his hand: 
 
 * ' Where am I ? Is it the twentieth century, 
 is it the thirteenth? Am I assisting at the 
 
 175
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 wedding of Mirabelle of Pampeluna, or at one 
 of a Parisian of the present day? Can the 
 hero I see here so admired by us be the book- 
 clerk, as modest as he is learned, who recently 
 searched through the octavos with me, or, in- 
 deed, the crusading knight, blinded before 
 Mansourah by the blow of a Saracen stone? 
 And this other hero attending him, does he 
 come from Damietta or from Verdun? To- 
 day, as yesterday, I find again among the 
 women the same nobility, the same bravery, 
 and the same idea of honor. Among the men 
 unconquerable courage and sacrifice for the 
 glory of the country. What harmony be- 
 tween the centuries ! In spite of vicissitudes, 
 evolutions, and transformations, France is one 
 and always like herself. What she was seven 
 hundred years ago, under the white robe of 
 chivalry, so I find her again to-day, her ex- 
 pression graver, a little sobered by the medita- 
 tions of science, filled with the smoke of in- 
 dustry, railroads, and steamboats, but graced 
 with the same passion, with the same youth 
 and charm which fascinates the world and 
 disconcerts even her barbaric enemies. I lift 
 my glass to the France of Mirabelle and to the 
 
 176
 
 MIRABELLE OF PAMPELUNA 
 
 France of Edith Bouchaud and of Louise Le- 
 cointre!" 
 
 And each one raises his glass to immortal 
 France ! 
 
 177
 
 uc 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LlBJWRYFACl^^^^