Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 947
A bullfinch was piping lustily in a young tree as she began her task; a blackbird answered from somewhere among the hawthorns with a bewildering series of complicated trills.
As the little mistress-of-the-bells scrubbed and beat the clothes with her paddle, and rinsed and wrung them and soaped them afresh, she sang softly under her breath, to an ancient air of her pays, words that she improvised to fit it — vrai chanson de laveuse:
“A blackbird whistles
I love!
Over the thistles
Butterflies hover,
Each with her lover
In love.
Blue Demoiselles that glisten,
Listen, I love!
Wind of the west, oh, listen,
I am in love!
Sing my song, ye little gold bees!
Opal bubbles around my knees
All afloat in the soap-sud broth,
Whisper it low to the snowy froth;
And Thou who rulest the skies above,
Mary, adored — I love — I love!”
Slap-slap! went her paddle; the sud-spume flew like shreds of cotton; iridescent foam set with bubbles swirled in the stone-edged basin, constantly swept away down stream by the current, constantly renewed as she soaped and scrubbed, kneeling there in the meadow grass above the pool.
The blackbird came quite near to watch her; the bullfinch, attracted by her childish voice as she sang the song she was making, whistled bold response, silent only when the echoing slap of the paddle startled him where he sat on the trembling tip of an aspen.
Blue dragon flies drifted on glimmering wings; she put them into her song; the meadow was gay with butterflies’ painted wings; she sang about them, too. Cloud and azure sky, tree tops and clover, the tiny rivulet dancing through deep grasses, the wind furrowing the fields, all these she put into her chansonnette de laveuse. And always in the clear glass of the stream she seemed to see the smiling face of her friend, Djack — her lover who had opened her eyes of a child to all things beautiful in the world.
Once or twice, from very far away, she fancied she heard the distant singing of the negro muleteers sunning themselves down by the corral. She heard, at quarter-hour intervals, her bells melodiously recording time as it sped by; then there were intervals of that sweet stillness which is but a composite harmony of summer — the murmur of insects, the whisper of leaves and water, capricious seconds of intense silence, then the hushed voice of life exquisitely audible again.
War, wickedness, the rage and cruelty of the Beast — all the vile and filthy ferocity of the ferocious Swine of the North became to her as unreal as a tragic legend half-forgotten. And death seemed very far away.
* * *
Her washing was done; the wet clothing piled in her basket. Perspiration powdered her forehead and delicate little nose.
Hot, flushed, breathing deeply and irregularly from her efforts under a vertical sun, she stood erect, loosening the blouse over her bosom to the breeze and pushing back the clustering masses of hair above her brow.
The water laughed up at her, invitingly; the last floating castle of white foam swept past her feet down stream. On the impulse of the moment she unlaced her blue wool skirt, dropped it around her feet, stepped from it; unbuckled both garters, stripped slippers and stockings from her feet, and waded out into the pool.
The fresh, delicious coolness of the water thrilled and encouraged her to further adventure; she twisted up her splendid hair, bound it with her blue kerchief, flung blouse and chemisette from her, and gave herself to the sparkling stream with a sigh of ecstasy.
Alders swept the eastern edges of the current where the rivulet widened beyond the basin and ran south along the meadow’s edge to the Wood of Sainte Lesse — a cool, unruffled flow, breast deep, floored with sand as soft as silver velvet.
She waded, floated, swam a little, or, erect, roamed leisurely along the alder fringe, exploring the dim green haunts of frog and water-hen, stoat and bécassine — a slim, wet dryad, gliding silently through sun and dappled shadow.
Where the stream comes to Sainte Lesse Wood, there is a hill set thick with hazel and clumps of fern, haunted by one roe-deer and numerous rabbits and pheasants.
She was close to its base, now, gliding through the shade like some lithe creature of the forest; making no sound save where the current curled around her supple body in twisted necklaces of liquid light.
Then, as she stood, peering cautiously through tangled branches for a glimpse of the little roe-deer, she heard a curious sound up on the hill — an inexplicable sound like metal striking stone.
She stood as though frozen; clink, clink came the distant sound. Then all was still. But presently she saw a scared cock-pheasant, crouching low with flattened neck outstretched, run like a huge rat through the hazel growth, out across the meadow.
She remained motionless, scarcely daring to draw her breath. Somebody had passed over the hill — if, indeed, he or she had actually continued on their mysterious way. Had they? But finally the intense quiet reassured her, and she concluded that whoever had made that metallic sound had continued on toward Sainte Lesse Wood.
She had taken with her a cake of soap. Now, here in the green shade, she made her ablutions, soaping herself from head to foot, turning her head leisurely from time to time to survey her leafy environment, or watch the flight of some tiny woodland bird, or study with pretty and speculative eyes the soap-suds swirling in a dimpled whirlpool around her thighs.
The bubbles fascinated her; she played with them, capriciously, touching one here, one there, with tentative finger to see them explode in a tiny rainbow shower.
Finally she chose a hollow stem from among a cluster of scented rushes, cleared it with a vigorous breath, soaped one end, and, touching it to the water, blew from it a prodigious bubble, all swimming with gold and purple hues.
Into the air she tossed it, from the end of the hollow reed; the breeze caught it and wafted it upward until it burst.
Then a strange thing happened! Before her upturned eyes another bubble slowly arose from a clump of aspens out of the hazel thickets on the hill — a big, pearl-tinted, translucent bubble, as large as a melon. Upward it floated, slowly ascending to the tree-tops. There the wind caught it, drove it east, but it still mounted skyward, higher, higher, sailing always eastward, until it dwindled to the size of a thistledown and faded away in mid-air.
Astounded, the little mistress-of-the-bells stood motionless, waist deep in the stream, lips parted, eyes straining to pierce the dazzling ether above.
And then, before her incredulous gaze, another pearl-tinted, translucent bubble slowly floated upward from the thicket near the aspens, mounted until the breeze struck it, then soared away skyward and melted like a snowflake into the east.
Moving as stealthily as some sinuous creature of the water-weeds, the girl stole forward, threading her way among the rushes, gliding, twisting around tussock and alder, creeping along fern-set banks, her eyes ever focused on the clump of aspens quivering against the sky above the hazel.
She could see nobody, hear not a sound from the thicket on the little hill. But another bubble rose above the aspens as she looked.
Naked, she dared not advance into the woods — scarcely dared linger where she was, yet found enough courage to creep out on a carpet of moss and lie flat under a young fir, listening and watching.
No more bubbles rose above the aspens; there was not a sound, not a movement in the hazel.
For an hour or more she lay there; then, with infinite caution, she slipped back into the stream, waded across, crept into the meadow, and sped like a scared fawn along the bank until she stood panting by the stone-rimmed pool again.
Sun and wind had dried her skin; she dressed rapidly, swung her basket to her head, and started swiftly for Sainte Lesse.
Before she came in sight of the White Doe Tavern, she could hear the negro muleteers singing down by the corral. Sticky Smith still squatted in the garden by the river-wall, smoking his pipe. Her father lay asleep in his chair, his wrinkled hands still clasping the fishing pole, the warm breeze blowing his white hair at the temples.
She disposed of the wash; then she and Sticky Smith gently aroused the crippled bell-master and aided him into the house.
The old peasant woman who cooked for the inn had soup ready. The noonday meal in Sainte Lesse had become an extremely simple affair.
“Monsieur Steek,” said the girl carelessly, “did you ever, as a child, fly toy balloons?”
“Sure, Maryette. A old Eyetalian wop used to come ‘round town selling them. He had a stick with about a hundred little balloons tied to it — red, blue, green, yellow — all kinds and colours. Whenever I had the price I bought one.”
“Did it fly?”
“Yes. The gas in it wasn’t much good unless you got a fresh one.”
“Would it fly high?”
“Sure. Sky-high. I’ve seen ’em go clean out of sight when you got a fresh one.”
“Nobody uses them here, do they?”
“Here? No, it wouldn’t be allowed. A spy could send a message by one of those toy balloons.”
“Oh,” nodded Maryette thoughtfully.
Smith shook his head:
“No, children wouldn’t be permitted to play with them things now, Maryette.”
“Then there are not any toy balloons to be had here in Sainte Lesse?”
“I rather guess not! Farther north there are.”
“Where?”
“The artillery uses them.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. The balloon and flying service use ‘em, too. I’ve seen officers send them up. Probably it is to find out about upper air currents.”
“Our flying service?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ballons d’essai,” she nodded carelessly. But she was not yet entirely convinced regarding the theory she was pondering.
After lunch she continued to be very busy in the laundry for a time, but the memory of those three little balloons above the aspens troubled her.
Smith had gone on duty at the corral; Kid Glenn sauntered clanking into the bar and was there regaled with a bock and a tranche.
“Monsieur Keed,” said Maryette, “are any of our airmen in Sainte Lesse today?”
Glenn drained his glass and smacked his lips:
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“No balloonists, either?”
“I don’t guess so, Maryette. We’ve got the Boche flyers scared stiff. They don’t come over our first lines anymore, and our own people are out yonder.”
“Keed,” she said, winningly sweet, “do you, in fact, love me a little — for Djack’s sake?”
“Yes’m.”
“I borrow of you that automatic pistol. Yes?” She smiled at him engagingly.
“Sure. Anything you want! What’s the trouble, Maryette?”
She shrugged her pretty shoulders:
“Nothing. It just came into my cowardly head that the path to the lavoir is lonely at sundown. And there are new muleteers in Sainte Lesse. And I must wash my clothes.”
“I reckon,” he said gravely, unbuckling his weapon-filled holster and quietly strapping it around her shoulder with its pocketed belt of clips.
“You will not require it this afternoon?” she asked.
“No fear. You won’t either. Them mule-whacking coons is white.”
She understood.
“Some men who seem whitest are blacker than any negro,” she remarked. “Eh, bien! I thank you, Keed, mon ami, for your complaisance. You are very amiable to submit to the whim of a silly girl who suddenly becomes afraid of her own shadow.”
Glenn grinned and glanced significantly at the cross dangling from her bosom:
“Sure,” he said, “your government decorates cowards. That’s why it gave you the Legion.”
She blushed but looked up at him seriously:
“Keed, if I flew a little toy balloon in the air, where would the west wind carry it?”
“Into the Boche trenches,” he replied, much interested in the idea. “If you’ve got one, we’ll paint ‘To hell with Willie’ on it and set it afloat! But we’ll have to get permission from the gendarmes first.”
She said, smiling:
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t any toy balloons.”
She picked up her basket with its new load of soiled linen, swung it gracefully to her head, ignoring his offered assistance, gave him a beguiling glance, and went away along the sheep-path.
Once more she followed the deep-trodden and ancient trail through copse and pasture and over the stream down into the meadow, where the west wind furrowed the wild-flowers and the early afternoon sun fell hot.
She set her clothes to soak, laid paddle and soap beside them, then, straightening up, remained erect on her knees, her intent gaze fixed on the distant clump of aspens, delicate as mist above the hazel copse on the little hill beyond.
It was a whole hour before her eyes caught the high glimmer of a tiny balloon. Only for a moment was it visible at that distance, then it became merged in the dazzling blue above the woods.
She waited. At last she concluded that there were to be no more balloons. Then a sudden fear assailed her lest she had waited too long to investigate; and she sprang to her feet, hurried over the single plank used as a footbridge, and sped down through the alders.
Here and there a pheasant ran headlong across her path; a rabbit or two scuttled through the ferns. Nearing the hazel copse she slackened speed and advanced with caution, scanning the thicket ahead.
Suddenly, on the ground in front of her, she caught sight of a small iron cylinder. Evidently it had rolled down there from the slope above.
Very gingerly she approached and picked it up. It was not very heavy, not too big for her skirt pocket.
As she slipped it into the pocket of her blue woolen peasant-skirt, her quick eye caught a movement among the hazel bushes on the hillside to her right. She sank to the ground and lay huddled there.
CHAPTER XXV
KAMERAD
DOWN THE SLOPE, through the thicket, came a man. She could see his legs only. He wore dust-coloured breeches and tan puttees, like Sticky Smith’s and Kid Glenn’s, only he wore no big, clanking Mexican spurs.
The man passed in front of her, his burly body barely visible through the leaves, but not his features.
She rose, turned, ran over the moss, hurried through the ferns of the warren, retracing her steps, and arrived breathless at the lavoir. And scarcely had she dropped to her knees and seized soap and paddle, than a squat, bronzed, powerfully built young man appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, stepping briskly out of the bushes.
He did not notice her at first. He looked about for a place to jump, found one, leaped safely across, and came on at a swinging stride across the meadow.
The girl, bending above the water, suddenly struck sharply with her paddle.
Instantly the man halted in his tracks, knee deep in clover.
Maryette, apparently unconscious of his presence, continued to soap and scrub and slap her wash, singing in her clear, untrained voice of a child the chansonette she had made that morning. But out of the corner of her eyes she kept him in view — saw him come sauntering forward as though reassured, became aware that he had approached very near, was standing behind her.
Turning presently, where she knelt, to pick up another soiled garment, she suddenly encountered his dark gaze; and her start and slight exclamation were entirely genuine.
“Mon Dieu!” she said, with offended emphasis, “one does not approach people that way, without a word!”
“Did I frighten mademoiselle?” he asked, in recognizable French, but with an accent unpleasantly familiar to her. “If I did, I am very sorry and I offer mademoiselle a thousand excuses and apologies.”
The girl, kneeling there in the clover, flashed a smile at him over her shoulder. The quick colour reddened his face and powerful neck. The girl had been right; her smile had been an answer that he was not going to ignore.
“What a pretty spot for a lavoir,” he said, stepping to the edge of the pool; “and what a pretty girl to adorn it!”
Maryette tossed her head:
“Be pleased to pass your way, monsieur. Do you not perceive that I am busy?”
“It is not impossible to exchange a polite word or two when people are busy, is it, mademoiselle?” he asked, laughing and showing a white and perfect set of teeth under a short, dark mustache.
She continued to wring out her wash; but there was now a slight smile on her lips.
“May I not say who I am?” he asked persuasively. “May I not venture to speak?”
“Mon dieu, monsieur, there is liberty of speech for all in France. That blackbird might be glad to know your name if you choose to tell him.”
“But I ask your permission to speak to you!” There seemed to be no sense of humour in this young man.
She laughed:
“I am not curious to hear who you are!... But if it affords you any relief to explain to the west wind what your name may be—” She ended with a disdainful shrug. After a moment she lifted her pretty eyes to his — lovely, provocative, tormenting eyes. But they were studying the stranger closely.
He was a powerfully built, dark-skinned young man in the familiar khaki of the American muleteers, wearing their insignia, their cap, their holster and belt, and an extra pouch or wallet, loaded evidently with something heavy.
She said, coolly:
“You must be one of the new Yankee muleteers who came with that beautiful new herd of mules.”
He laughed:
“Yes, I’m an American muleteer. My name is Charles Braun. I came over in the last transport.”
“You know Steek?”
“Who?”
“Steek! Monsieur Steekee Smeete?”
“Sticky Smith?”
“Mais oui?”
“I’ve met him,” he replied curtly.
“And Monsieur Keed Glenn?”
“I’ve met Kid Glenn, too. Why?”
“They are friends of mine — very intimate friends. Of course,” she added, nose up-tilted, “if they are not also your friends, any acquaintance with me will be very difficult for you, Monsieur Braun.”
