The cars were ordered for five o’clock. Time for bed.
XI
The night in Amiens was dark and sinister when rain fell heavily out of a moonless sky. Hardly a torch-lamp flashed out except where a solitary woman scurried down the wet streets to lonely rooms. There were no British officers strolling about. They had turned in early, to hot baths and unaccustomed beds, except for one or two, with their burberries buttoned tight at the throat, and sopping field-caps pulled down about the ears, and top-boots which went splash, splash through deep puddles as they staggered a little uncertainly and peered up at dark corners to find their whereabouts, by a dim sense of locality and the shapes of the houses. The rain pattered sharply on the pavements and beat a tattoo on leaden gutters and slate roofs. Every window was shuttered and no light gleamed through.
On such a night I went out with Beach Thomas, as often before, wet or fine, after hard writing.
“A foul night,” said Thomas, setting off in his quick, jerky step. “I like to feel the rain on my face.”
We turned down as usual to the river. It was very dark—the rain was heavy on the quayside, where there was a group of people bareheaded in the rain and chattering in French, with gusts of laughter.
“Une bouteille de champagne!” The words were spoken in a clear boy’s voice, with an elaborate caricature of French accent, in musical cadence, but unmistakably English.
“A drunken officer,” said Thomas.
“Poor devil!”
We drew near among the people and saw a young officer arm in arm with a French peasant—one of the market porters—telling a tale in broken French to the audience about him, with comic gesticulations and extraordinary volubility.
A woman put her hand on my shoulder and spoke in French.
“He has drunk too much bad wine. His legs walk away from him. He will be in trouble, Monsieur. And a child—no older than my own boy who is fighting in the Argonne.”
“Apportez-moi une bouteille de champagne, vite! …” said the young officer. Then he waved his arm and said: “J’ai perdu mon cheval” (“A kingdom for a bloody horse!”), “as Shakespeare said. Y a-t’il quelqu’un qui a vu mon sacré cheval? In other words, if I don’t find that four-legged beast which led to my damnation I shall be shot at dawn. Fusillé, comprenez? On va me fusiller par un mur blanc—or is it une mure blanche? quand l’aurore se lève avec les couleurs d’une rose et l’odeur d’une jeune fille lavée et parfumée. Pretty good that, eh, what? But the fact remains that unless I find my steed, my charger, my warhorse, which in reality does not belong to me at all, because I pinched it from the colonel, I shall be shot as sure as fate, and, alas! I do not want to die. I am too young to die, and meanwhile I desire encore une bouteille de champagne!”
The little crowd of citizens found a grim humor in this speech, one-third of which they understood. They laughed coarsely, and a man said:
“Quel drôle de type! Quel numéro!”
But the woman who had touched me on the sleeve spoke to me again.
“He says he has lost his horse and will be shot as a deserter. Those things happen. My boy in the Argonne tells me that a comrade of his was shot for hiding five days with his young woman. It would be sad if this poor child should be condemned to death.”
I pushed my way through the crowd and went up to the officer.
“Can I help at all?”
He greeted me warmly, as though he had known me for years.
“My dear old pal, you can indeed! First of all I want a bottle of champagne—une bouteille de champagne—” it was wonderful how much music he put into those words—“and after that I want my runaway horse, as I have explained to these good people who do not understand a bloody word, in spite of my excellent French accent. I stole the colonel’s horse to come for a joyride to Amiens. The colonel is one of the best of men, but very touchy, very touchy indeed. You would be surprised. He also has the worst horse in the world, or did, until it ran away half an hour ago into the blackness of this hell which men call Amiens. It is quite certain that if I go back without that horse most unpleasant things will happen to a gallant young British officer, meaning myself, who with most innocent intentions of cleansing his soul from the filth of battle, from the horror of battle, from the disgusting fear of battle—oh yes, I’ve been afraid all right, and so have you unless you’re a damned hero or a damned liar—desired to get as far as this beautiful city (so fair without, so foul within!) in order to drink a bottle, or even two or three, of rich, sparkling wine, to see the loveliness of women as they trip about these pestilential streets, to say a little prayer in la cathédrale, and then to ride back, refreshed, virtuous, knightly, all through the quiet
