It was five o’clock on the following evening that I saw the girl Marthe again. The doctor and I had arranged to go round to her lodging after dinner, by which time we hoped to have a letter for her from Pierre, by despatch-rider. But Brand was with me in the afternoon, having looked into my billet with an English conversation-book for HÉlÈne, who was anxious to study our way of speech. Madame ChÉri insisted upon giving him a glass of wine, and we stood talking in her drawing-room a while about the certain hope of victory, and then trivial things. HÉlÈne was delighted with her book and Brand had a merry five minutes with her, teaching her to pronounce the words.

“C’est effroyable!” cried HÉlÈne. “‘Through’... ‘Tough’ ‘Cough ‘... Mon Dieu, comme c’est difficile! There is no rule in your tongue.”

Madame ChÉri spoke of Edouard, her eldest boy, who had disappeared into the great silence, and gave me a photograph of him, in case I should meet him in our advance towards the Rhine. She kissed the photograph before giving it to me, and said a few words which revealed her strong character, her passionate patriotism.

“If he had been four years older he would have been a soldier of France. I should have been happy if he could have fought for his country, and died for it, like my husband.”

Brand and I left the house and went up towards the Grande Place. I was telling him about Pierre Nesle’s sister and our strange meeting with her the night before.

“I’m precious glad,” said Brand, “that no sister of mine was behind German lines. God knows how much they had to endure. Imagine their risks! It was a lucky escape for that girl HÉlÈne. Supposing she had failed to barricade her door?”

When we came into the Grande Place we saw that something was happening. It was almost dark after a shadowy twilight, but we could see a crowd of people surging round some central point of interest. Many of them were laughing loudly. There was some joke in progress. The women’s tongues sounded most loud and shrill.

“They’re getting back to gaiety,” said Brand. “What’s the jest, I wonder?”

A gust of laughter came across the square. Above it was another sound, not so pleasant. It was a woman’s shrieks—shriek after shriek, most blood-curdling, and then becoming faint.

“What the devil——!” said Brand.

We were on the edge of the crowd and I spoke to a man there.

“What’s happening?”

He laughed in a grim way.

“It’s the coiffure of a lady.. They are cutting her hair.”

I was mystified.

“Cutting her hair?”

A woman spoke to me, by way of explanation, laughing like the man.

“Shaving her head, monsieur. She was one of those who were too complaisant with German officers. You understand? There were many of them. They ought to have their heads cut off as well as their hair.”

Another man spoke gruffly.

“There would be a good many headless corpses if that were so. To their shame be it said. It was abominable. No pride. No decency.”

“But the worst will escape,” said another. “In private houses. The well-dressed demoiselles!”

“Tuez-les!” cried a woman. “Tuez-les!”

It was a cry for killing, such as women had screamed when pretty aristocrats were caught by the mobs of the French Revolution.

“My God!” said Brand.

He shouldered his way through the crowd, and I followed him. The people made a gap for us, seeing our uniforms, and desired us to enjoy the joke. What I saw when I came closer was a group of young men holding a limp figure. One of them was brandishing a large pair of scissors, as large as shears. Another held up a tangled mass of red hair.

“Regardez!” he shouted to the crowd, and they cheered and laughed.

I had seen the hair before, as I knew when I saw a girl’s face, dead-white, lifeless, as it seemed, and limp against a man’s shoulder.

“It is Marthe!” I said to Brand. “Pierre Nesle’s sister.”

A curious sense of faintness overcame me, and I felt sick.

Brand did not answer me, but I saw his face pale under its tan. He pushed forward through the crowd and I lost sight of him for a few moments. After that I saw him carrying the girl; above the heads of the people, I saw her head flopping from side to side horribly, a head with close-cropped hair. They had torn her clothes off her shoulders, which were bleeding.

“Help me,” said Brand.

I am not quite clear what happened. I have only a vague remembrance of the crowd making way for us, with murmurs of surprise and some hostile cries of women. I remember helping Brand to carry the girl—enormously heavy she seemed with her dead weight—but how we managed to get her into Dr. Small’s car is to this day a blank in my mind. We must have seen and hailed him at the corner of the Grande Place as he was going back to his billet. I have a distinct recollection of taking off my Burberry and laying it over the girl, who was huddled in the back of the car, and of Brand saying, “Where can we take her?” I also remember trying to light a cigarette and using many matches which went out in the wind. It was Brand’s idea that we should go to Madame ChÉri’s house for sanctuary, and by the time we had driven to that place we had left the crowd behind and were not followed.

“You go in and explain things,” said Brand. “Ask Madame to give the girl a refuge.”

I think Madame ChÉri was startled by the sight of the car, and perhaps by some queer look I had. I told her what had happened. This girl was the sister of Pierre Nesle, whom Madame ChÉri had met. The crowd, for some reason, had cut off her hair. Would Madame save the poor child, who was unconscious?

I shall never forget the face or speech of that lady, whom I had found so kind. She drew herself up very stiffly and a relentless expression hardened her face.

“If you were not English I should say you desired to insult me, sir. The people have cut off the creature’s hair. ‘For some reason,’ you say. There is only one reason. Because she was faithless to her country and to her sex, and was familiar with men who were the enemies of France, the murderers of our men, robbers and assassins. She has been well punished. I would rather burn down my house than give her shelter. If they gave her to the dogs to tear in pieces I would not lift my little finger to save her.”

HÉlÈne came in, and was surprised at the emotion of her mother’s voice.

“What is it, little maman?”

Madame ChÉri regained control of herself, which for a moment she had lost in a passion that shook her.

“It is a little matter. This officer and I have been talking about vile people who sold themselves to our enemy. He understands perfectly.”

“I understand,” I said gravely. “There is a great deal of cruelty in the world, madame, and less charity than I had hoped.”

“There is, praise be to God, a little justice,” said Madame ChÉri very calmly.

“Au revoir, madame!”

“Au revoir, monsieur!”

“Au revoir, mademoiselle!”

I was shocked then at the callousness of the lady. It seemed to me incredible. Now I am no longer shocked, but understand the horror that was hers, the loathing for a daughter of France who had—if the mob were not mistaken—violated the code of honour which enabled the French people to resist German brutality, even German kindness, which they hated worse, with a most proud disdain. That girl outside, bleeding and senseless in the car, had been friendly with German officers, notorious in her company with them. Otherwise she would not have been seized by the crowd and branded for shame. There was a fierce protective instinct which hardened Madame ChÉri against charity. Only those who have seen what war means to women close to it, in enemy hands, may truly understand, and, understanding, curse war again for all its destruction of souls and bodies.

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