In the morning, when the bugle sounded from the barracks they rose and looked
out of the window. She loved his body that was proud and blond and able to take
command. And he loved her body that was soft and eternal. They looked at the
faint grey vapour of summer steaming off from the greenness and ripeness of the
fields. There was no town anywhere, their look ended in the haze of the summer
morning. Their bodies rested together, their minds tranquil. Then a little
anxiety stirred in both of them from the sound of the bugle. She was called
back to her old position, to realize the world of authority she did not
understand but had wanted to serve. But this call died away again from her. She
had all.
She went downstairs to her work, curiously changed. She was in a new world of
her own, that she had never even imagined, and which was the land of promise
for all that. In this she moved and had her being. And she extended it to her
duties. She was curiously happy and absorbed. She had not to strive out of
herself to do her work. The doing came from within her without call or command.
It was a delicious outflow, like sunshine, the activity that flowed from her
and put her tasks to rights.
Bachmann sat busily thinking. He would have to get all his plans ready. He must
write to his mother, and she must send him money to Paris. He would go to
Paris, and from thence, quickly, to America. It had to be done. He must make
all preparations. The dangerous part was the getting into France. He thrilled
in anticipation. During the day he would need a time-table of the trains going
to Paris—he would need to think. It gave him delicious pleasure, using
all his wits. It seemed such an adventure.
This one day, and he would escape then into freedom. What an agony of need he
had for absolute, imperious freedom. He had won to his own being, in himself
and Emilie, he had drawn the stigma from his shame, he was beginning to be
himself. And now he wanted madly to be free to go on. A home, his work, and
absolute freedom to move and to be, in her, with her, this was his passionate
desire. He thought in a kind of ecstasy, living an hour of painful intensity.
Suddenly he heard voices, and a tramping of feet. His heart gave a great leap,
then went still. He was taken. He had known all along. A complete silence
filled his body and soul, a silence like death, a suspension of life and sound.
He stood motionless in the bedroom, in perfect suspension.
Emilie was busy passing swiftly about the kitchen preparing the
children’s breakfasts when she heard the tramp of feet and the voice of
the Baron. The latter had come in from the garden, and was wearing an old green
linen suit. He was a man of middle stature, quick, finely made, and of
whimsical charm. His right hand had been shot in the Franco-Prussian war, and
now, as always when he was much agitated, he shook it down at his side, as if
it hurt. He was talking rapidly to a young, stiff Ober-leutnant. Two private
soldiers stood bearishly in the doorway.
Emilie, shocked out of herself, stood pale and erect, recoiling.
“Yes, if you think so, we can look,” the Baron was hastily and
irascibly saying.
“Emilie,” he said, turning to the girl, “did you put a post
card to the mother of this Bachmann in the box last evening?”
Emilie stood erect and did not answer.
“Yes?” said the Baron sharply.
“Yes, Herr Baron,” replied Emilie, neutral.
The Baron’s wounded hand shook rapidly in exasperation. The lieutenant
drew himself up still more stiffly. He was right.
“And do you know anything of the fellow?” asked the Baron, looking
at her with his blazing, greyish-golden eyes. The girl looked back at him
steadily, dumb, but her whole soul naked before him. For two seconds he looked
at her in silence. Then in silence, ashamed and furious, he turned away.
“Go up!” he said, with his fierce, peremptory command, to the young
officer.
The lieutenant gave his order, in military cold confidence, to the soldiers.
They all tramped across the hall. Emilie stood motionless, her life suspended.
The Baron marched swiftly upstairs and down the corridor, the lieutenant and
the common soldiers followed. The Baron flung open the door of Emilie’s
room and looked at Bachmann, who stood watching, standing in shirt and trousers
beside the bed, fronting the door. He was perfectly still. His eyes met the
furious, blazing look of the Baron. The latter shook his wounded hand, and then
went still. He looked into the eyes of the soldier, steadily. He saw the same
naked soul exposed, as if he looked really into the man. And the man was
helpless, the more helpless for his singular nakedness.
“Ha!” he exclaimed impatiently, turning to the approaching
lieutenant.
The latter appeared in the doorway. Quickly his eyes travelled over the
bare-footed youth. He recognized him as his object. He gave the brief command
to dress.
Bachmann turned round for his clothes. He was very still, silent in himself. He
was in an abstract, motionless world. That the two gentlemen and the two
soldiers stood watching him, he scarcely realized. They could not see him.
Soon he was ready. He stood at attention. But only the shell of his body was at
attention. A curious silence, a blankness, like something eternal, possessed
him. He remained true to himself.
The lieutenant gave the order to march. The little procession went down the
stairs with careful, respectful tread, and passed through the hall to the
kitchen. There Emilie stood with her face uplifted, motionless and
expressionless. Bachmann did not look at her. They knew each other. They were
themselves. Then the little file of men passed out into the courtyard.
The Baron stood in the doorway watching the four figures in uniform pass
through the chequered shadow under the lime trees. Bachmann was walking
neutralized, as if he were not there. The lieutenant went brittle and long, the
two soldiers lumbered beside. They passed out into the sunny morning, growing
smaller, going towards the barracks.
The Baron turned into the kitchen. Emilie was cutting bread.
“So he stayed the night here?” he said.
The girl looked at him, scarcely seeing. She was too much herself. The Baron
saw the dark, naked soul of her body in her unseeing eyes.
“What were you going to do?” he asked.
“He was going to America,” she replied, in a still voice.
“Pah! You should have sent him straight back,” fired the Baron.
Emilie stood at his bidding, untouched.
“He’s done for now,” he said.
But he could not bear the dark, deep nakedness of her eyes, that scarcely
changed under this suffering.
“Nothing but a fool,” he repeated, going away in agitation, and
preparing himself for what he could do.
