The French lady spoke to him again, and indicated a doorway, so that there was no time for bitter tears.
A big room—the lounge, if that was what the French called it.
A gloomy room—gloomy because the tattered curtains were drawn across the windows, admitting the light of what must still be early morning through innumerable rents.
Shattered china and glass. A fallen chandelier in the middle of the floor amongst the plaster —
Soft furnishings, furniture, china and glass—
There was someone lying on the huge high-backed settee, covered from chin to boots by a blanket.
The French lady whispered unintelligible words softly in his ear. All he could make out from them was the familiar
'officier anglais'.
He crunched across the floor towards the settee, skirting the chandelier. In the half-light all he could make out was a dirty white face—grey-white against the brown-white of the enveloping blanket-which he couldn't recognize. He realized that he had had the feeling, for no rational reason, that the wounded officer would be Tetley-Robinson, he couldn't think why. But this must be one of the new subalterns, like Chris dummy4
Chichester, whose names and faces alike were still vague to him. This wasn't either Tetley-Robinson or Chris Chichester, certainly ... yet—yet —
The eyes opened slowly, as though the crunching of his boots had awakened the wounded man from sleep.
The head moved and the eyes fastened on him.
'Who's that?' The voice was weak, but instantly recognizable.
And yet the act of recognition only left Bastable more confused: how could he have failed to recognize Major Audley, whose face he knew so well, at that first glance?
He knelt down beside the settee.
'M— . . . Nigel?' he stared at the recognizable-unrecognizable mask. Audley's face had been stretched and had fallen in on itself, and then covered with sweat and grime and coated with fine dust which adhered to the twenty- four-hour bristles on his chin and cheek. The eyes, which had darker shadows under them, like bruises, had sunk into his head.
'Who's that?' Audley repeated.
'Harry Bastable,' said Bastable.
'Harry . . . ?' Audley could make nothing of the Christian name.
'Bastable.' Harry Bastable swallowed. 'C Company —
Bastable, Nigel.'
'Bastable!' The exclamation was little more than a whisper.
The eyes closed, then opened again. 'Bastable ...?'
dummy4
'I'm here, Nigel. Captain Willis and I are here.'
The eyes disengaged from Bastable's. 'Willis?'
'We came back, Nigel. What happened?'
Audley moved his head, still peering past Bastable.
'Willis . . . Where's Willis?'
Bastable had the feeling that he had been rejected. 'He's not here at the moment. He'll be here eventually, Nigel.'
'Willis . . .' The voice-trailed off and the eyes closed.
Bastable leaned forward and lifted the blanket, first a little, then more, and finally (when the eyes still didn't open to accuse him) enough to see what lay beneath it.
The French lady said something, and although Bastable didn't understand a word of what she said he knew what she was saying.
So this was another new experience, he thought as he lowered the blanket gently. He had seen dead men, so now he was seeing a dying one. It was just another new experience.
The French lady's presence behind him also had a steadying effect. He must not disgrace himself, or the Prince Regent's Own. He was going to see a lot of this, and, at a guess, it would more often be worse than this, hard though that was to imagine.
Just another new experience. He had to hold on to that, and not be sick.
dummy4
In the meantime . . .
'Nigel?' He paused. 'Can you hear me, Nigel?'
The eyelids fluttered, but remained closed. Bastable turned towards the French lady. 'Madame ... s'il vous plait . . .' he searched for the word, and as usual found nothing in his vocabulary except 'ou est' and 'combien', and now 'pour le chien'. 'Damn!'
