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mobilised. It’s the war.”
Mobilised—already?
Within the first twenty-four hours? A man of Fortin’s age and
authority? Campton was terrified by the uncanny rapidity with which
events were moving, he whom haste had always confused and disconcerted, as if
there were a secret link between his lameness and the movements of his will. He
rang up Dastrey, but no one answered. Evidently his friend was out, and his
friend’s bonne also. “I suppose she’s
mobilised: they’ll be mobilising the women next.”
At
last, from sheer over-agitation, his fatigued mind began to move more
deliberately: he collected his wits, laboured with his more immediate
difficulties, and decided that he would go to Fortin-Lescluze’s house, on the
chance that the physician had not, after all, really started.
“Ten
to one he won’t go till tomorrow,” Campton reasoned.
The
hall of the hotel was emptier than ever, and no taxi was in sight down the
whole length of the rue Royale, or the rue Boissy d’Anglas, or the rue de
Rivoli: not even a horse-cab showed against the deserted distances. He crossed
to the métro , and painfully descended
its many stairs.
VI.
Campton,
proffering twenty francs to an astonished maid-servant, learned that, yes, to
his intimates—and of course Monsieur was one?—the doctor was in, was in fact
dining, and did not leave till the next morning.
“Dining—at six
o’clock ?”
“Monsieur’s
son, Monsieur Jean, is starting at once for his depot. That’s the reason.”
Campton
sent in his card. He expected to be received in the so-called “studio,” a lofty
room with Chinese hangings, Renaissance choir-stalls, organ, grand piano, and
post-impressionist paintings, where Fortin-Lescluze received the celebrities of
the hour. Mme. Fortin never appeared there, and Campton associated the studio
with amusing talk, hot-house flowers, and ladies lolling on black velvet
divans. He supposed that the physician was separated from his wife, and that
she had a home of her own.
When
the maid reappeared she did not lead him to the studio, but into a small
dining-room with the traditional Henri II sideboard of waxed walnut, a hanging
table-lamp under a beaded shade, an India-rubber plant on a plush pedestal, and
napkins that were just being restored to their bone rings by the four persons
seated about the red-and-white checkered table-cloth.
These
were: the great man himself, a tall large woman with grey hair, a tiny old
lady, her face framed in a peasant’s fluted cap, and a plain young man wearing
a private’s uniform, who had a nose like the doctor’s and simple light blue
eyes.
The
two ladies and the young man—so much more interesting to the painter’s eye than
the sprawling beauties of the studio—were introduced by Fortin-Lescluze as his
wife, his mother and his son. Mme. Fortin said, in a deep alto, a word or two
about the privilege of meeting the famous painter who had portrayed her
husband, and the old mother, in a piping voice, exclaimed: “Monsieur, I was at Sedan in 1870. I saw the Germans. I saw the
Emperor sitting on a bench. He was crying.”
“My
mother’s heard everything, she’s seen everything. There’s no one in the world
like my mother!” the physician said, laying his hand on hers.
“You
won’t see the Germans again, ma bonne
mère!” her daughter-in-law added, smiling.
Campton
took coffee with them, bore with a little inevitable talk about the war, and
then eagerly questioned the son. The young man was a chemist, a preparateur in
the laboratory of the Institut Pasteur. He was also, it appeared, given
Mobilised—already?
Within the first twenty-four hours? A man of Fortin’s age and
authority? Campton was terrified by the uncanny rapidity with which
events were moving, he whom haste had always confused and disconcerted, as if
there were a secret link between his lameness and the movements of his will. He
rang up Dastrey, but no one answered. Evidently his friend was out, and his
friend’s bonne also. “I suppose she’s
mobilised: they’ll be mobilising the women next.”
At
last, from sheer over-agitation, his fatigued mind began to move more
deliberately: he collected his wits, laboured with his more immediate
difficulties, and decided that he would go to Fortin-Lescluze’s house, on the
chance that the physician had not, after all, really started.
“Ten
to one he won’t go till tomorrow,” Campton reasoned.
The
hall of the hotel was emptier than ever, and no taxi was in sight down the
whole length of the rue Royale, or the rue Boissy d’Anglas, or the rue de
Rivoli: not even a horse-cab showed against the deserted distances. He crossed
to the métro , and painfully descended
its many stairs.
VI.
Campton,
proffering twenty francs to an astonished maid-servant, learned that, yes, to
his intimates—and of course Monsieur was one?—the doctor was in, was in fact
dining, and did not leave till the next morning.
“Dining—at six
o’clock ?”
“Monsieur’s
son, Monsieur Jean, is starting at once for his depot. That’s the reason.”
Campton
sent in his card. He expected to be received in the so-called “studio,” a lofty
room with Chinese hangings, Renaissance choir-stalls, organ, grand piano, and
post-impressionist paintings, where Fortin-Lescluze received the celebrities of
the hour. Mme. Fortin never appeared there, and Campton associated the studio
with amusing talk, hot-house flowers, and ladies lolling on black velvet
divans. He supposed that the physician was separated from his wife, and that
she had a home of her own.
When
the maid reappeared she did not lead him to the studio, but into a small
dining-room with the traditional Henri II sideboard of waxed walnut, a hanging
table-lamp under a beaded shade, an India-rubber plant on a plush pedestal, and
napkins that were just being restored to their bone rings by the four persons
seated about the red-and-white checkered table-cloth.
These
were: the great man himself, a tall large woman with grey hair, a tiny old
lady, her face framed in a peasant’s fluted cap, and a plain young man wearing
a private’s uniform, who had a nose like the doctor’s and simple light blue
eyes.
The
two ladies and the young man—so much more interesting to the painter’s eye than
the sprawling beauties of the studio—were introduced by Fortin-Lescluze as his
wife, his mother and his son. Mme. Fortin said, in a deep alto, a word or two
about the privilege of meeting the famous painter who had portrayed her
husband, and the old mother, in a piping voice, exclaimed: “Monsieur, I was at Sedan in 1870. I saw the Germans. I saw the
Emperor sitting on a bench. He was crying.”
“My
mother’s heard everything, she’s seen everything. There’s no one in the world
like my mother!” the physician said, laying his hand on hers.
“You
won’t see the Germans again, ma bonne
mère!” her daughter-in-law added, smiling.
Campton
took coffee with them, bore with a little inevitable talk about the war, and
then eagerly questioned the son. The young man was a chemist, a preparateur in
the laboratory of the Institut Pasteur. He was also, it appeared, given
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