The Girl Philippa
reverent heads, awed by this stroke of autocratic genius, and somebody
named a brand of caviar after the Czar of all the Russias. Which holy
tribute, however, built no strategic railroads in the West.
Meanwhile, the spinning world swung on around its orbit; tides rose and
ebbed; the twin sentinels of the skies relieved each other as usual, and
a few billion stars waited patiently for eternity.
Ausone, lying in the sun, was waiting, too, amid its still trees and
ripening fields.
In the summer world around, no hint of impending change disturbed the
calm serenity of that August afternoon--no sense of waiting, no prophecy
of gathering storms. But in men's hearts reigned the breathless
stillness which heralds tempests.
Silently as a kestrel's shadow gliding over the grass, an ominous shade
sped over sunny France, darkening the light in millions of smiling eyes,
subduing speech, stilling all pulses, cautioning a nation's ardent heart
and conjuring its ears to listen and its lips to silence.
And, as France sat silent, listening, hand lightly resting on her hilt,
came the far cry from beyond the Vosges--the voices of her lost
children.
Now she had risen to her feet, loosening the blade in its scabbard. But
she had not yet drawn it; she still stood listening to the distant shots
from Longwy in the north, to the noise of the western winds blowing
across the channel; and always she heard, from the east, the lost voices
of her best beloved, calling, calling her from beyond the Vosges.
As they approached Ausone, driving full speed, Warner and Halkett
encountered the Sais omnibus returning, and drew rein.
In it was the Harem, much annoyed because not permitted to sketch in the
Ausone streets.
They had seen nothing of any touring car containing several men and a
young girl. That did not interest them. What preoccupied their minds
was that they had been sketching in the streets of Ausone, and had been
politely requested to desist by several unappreciative policemen. So
they had collectively shaken the dust of Ausone from their several and
indignant feet, and were now en route to Sais to paint hay stacks.
Requesting to know whether they might still be permitted to paint
haystacks at Sais, Warner offered them no encouragement, pointing out
that Sais was in the zone of future military operations.
In the face of such an outrageous condition of affairs, there is no
doubt that Art shrieked as loudly as did Freedom when her popular hero
fell. Anyway, her devotees now protested in chorus; but Warner advised
them to pack their trunks and go to Paris while the going was good; and
the Sais omnibus rolled away with the Harem still volubly denouncing a
government which dared to interfere with Haystack Art on any pretext
whatever.
As Warner drove forward Halkett said:
"The chances are that the military will requisition that omnibus before
evening. It wouldn't surprise me if they stopped us at the entrance to
Ausone and took your horse and cart."
And it happened as he had feared; red-legged soldiers halted them at the
town entrance; a polite but resolute young officer refused to argue the
matter, but insisted that they descend, accept an official voucher for
the temporary loan of their horse and cart, and continue their journey
on foot.
As yet, however, punts, rowboats, and skiffs were not subject to
requisition by the authorities. Halkett noticed a skiff tied to the
shore near a small house on the river bank; so they climbed a stile,
crossed the newly mown hayfield, and found an old man fishing from his
doorstep in the rear of the house.
For thirty francs they bought the boat outright; the old man shuffled
into the house and returned with the home-made oars; Warner took them;
Halkett pushed off and sprang in; and they pulled away up the river,
breasting a glassy current over which swallows darted and played and
dipped, starring the calm surface with a hundred spreading circles.
Rushes swayed inshore where meadows bordered the Recollette, and dragon
flies with turquoise bodies sailed glittering into the breeze. Trees
swept the surface of the water with tender leaves still untarnished by
the ripening world of waning summer; and in shady coves the cattle stood
to their knees in the crystal flood, staring with moony eyes at the
passing skiff.
Presently Warner sent the skiff inshore, and when it lay floating in the
shadow of the trees under the right bank of the stream, he rested on his
oars.
"The cafe garden is just ahead, around that next turn," he said. "If
you'll take the oars, I'll get out on the bank and look over the
situation."
"Don't you want me?"
"I don't know; I'll see what things look like first. Do you mind?"
"I'll wait if you say so. But there's a rough crowd hanging about that
cafe, as you know."
"I know it," said Warner grimly.
"Are you armed?"
"I certainly am, Halkett. But I don't count on any trouble, because
Wildresse can't afford to make any. If there's a row in that cabaret at
such a time as this, the police will make short work of it. I think
I'll have no difficulty in finding my little friend Philippa and in
taking her out of that miserable place."
Halkett said:
"Don't forget yourself and beat up Wildresse for what we saw him do to
Philippa. You can attend to that later: the idea now is to take the
child back to Sais."
"I'll try to remember," said Warner with a somber glance at his friend.
Then he handed him the oars and, making his way to the stern, leaped
lightly to the grassy bank.
*CHAPTER XVI*
Warner entered a paved lane leading up the slope, between two high,
stucco walls. It bore the name, "Impasse d'Alcyon," painted under the
rusty bracket of a gas lamp projecting from the wall. A few chickens
and a pig moved aside to let him pass.
The Impasse d'Alcyon emerged upon the market square of Ausone to the
left of the Cabaret de Biribi; and, as Warner came out into the sunny,
deserted square, the first thing he caught sight of was a written notice
nailed up over the doorway of the Cabaret de Biribi:
AVIS IMPORTANT
The town of Ausone is proclaimed to be in a state of siege. Place and
town will remain under government of the military authorities, aided by
the municipality. Both are within jurisdiction of military headquarters
in charge of the secteur which includes place, town, and environs of
Ausone.
BY ORDER OF THE MAYOR.
The Cabaret de Biribi will remain closed until further notice. For the
convenience of the public, the Cafe Biribi, adjoining, will remain open
between the hours of seven A.M. and nine P.M. until further notice.
The cafe, separated from the cabaret by a clipped privet hedge, formed
the southeastern angle of the square.
Under its orange and white awning the tables on the terrace were crowded
with people lingering over after-luncheon coffee and cognac--quiet,
serious, solid citizens, accustomed to their dejeuner at that time and
place, whose habits of long standing had not so far been altered in the
sudden and general upheaval in the accustomed order of things.
Waiters came and went as usual; men consulted the files of provincial
and Paris papers; one or two were playing dominoes inside the cafe.
Warner, pausing at the entrance to the terrace, summoned a waiter.
"The cabaret is closed, then?" he asked.
"Since last night, Monsieur."
"By the police?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Why?"
The waiter said respectfully:
"It is usual in time of war to close places of amusement. Besides, music
and dancing are in questionable taste at such a time as this."
"Certainly. Where is Monsieur Wildresse?"
"The Patron is absent."
"Where can I find him?"
The waiter shrugged:
"The Patron went away this morning. I do not know where. He has not
yet returned."
"Are you quite certain?"
"Perhaps Monsieur had better ask the _caissiere_. Maybe the Patron has
returned."
So Warner entered the cafe. In the cool, subdued light of the interior,
he saw the cashier behind her counter--a fresh-faced, plump, dark-eyed
country girl, who returned his salute with a smile that showed her white
teeth.
"Monsieur Wildresse?" he inquired. "May I see him for a moment?"
"The Patron is absent, Monsieur."
"When do you expect him to return?"
"We do not know. Sometimes he goes to Paris and remains a week or two."
"Do you suppose he has gone to Paris?"
"We do not know. He never tells us where he is going."
Warner thought hard for a moment, then:
"It seems that the cabaret is closed," he said.
"Locked up, Monsieur."
"I wonder if you could tell me where I might find the _caissiere_ of the
cabaret--Mademoiselle Philippa?"
The girl shook her head:
"I think she went to Paris."
"When?"
"The other day. We understood that she had gone to Paris."
"No," said Warner, "she did not go to Paris. Has she not returned to
Ausone?"
The _caissiere_ rapped with her pencil and a waiter hastened to the
desk.
"Pierre, didn't you say something about Mademoiselle Philippa this
morning?"
"I said that I thought I saw her. It was somebody who resembled her, no
doubt."
Warner wheeled around:
"When?"
"It was before noon, some time----"
"Where?"
"Monsieur, they were putting up and locking the shutters of the cabaret,
and on the top floor somebody inside was lowering the lateen shades and
drawing the blue curtains.
"I thought I saw Mademoiselle Philippa--I thought I saw her face for a
moment behind one of the windows in the Patron's apartment."
"And what do you think about it now?"
"_Ma foi_, Monsieur, if Mademoiselle Philippa has gone to Paris, I could
not have seen her at the window."
"But you saw somebody there?"
"I thought I did."
"Could we go to the cabaret and inquire?"
"It is locked up. There is nobody now within."
"How do you know?"
"They locked and padlocked it from the outside. They even removed the
geraniums and the three cats. The place is empty, Monsieur. I know,
because I helped remove the cats and the potted plants. Everybody and
everything was transferred last night to the cafe. And at noon today
the police put seals on the doors."
Warner forced a smile:
"That, of course, settles it. I'm sorry. I wanted to see the Patron
and Mademoiselle Philippa. Another time will do."
He thanked the waiter, lifted his hat to the _caissiere_, turned, and
walked over to a table by the opposite wall, where he ordered coffee and
cognac and a newspaper, as though he had just lunched.
When his coffee was brought, he opened the paper and leaned back against
the padded leather seat, pretending to read, but studying the room and
everybody in it.
It was a cafe typical of almost any half dead provincial town in
France--large, rather dimly lighted, shabbily furnished with
marble-topped tables ranged around the walls and two ancient billiard
tables occupying the center of the room.
In the corner near the door was the cashier's cage and desk; on the same
side of the room, in the further corner, a swinging leather door, much
battered, gave exit and entrance to the waiters as they went to or
arrived from kitchen and cellar.
And one thing occurred to him immediately: the same kitchen, and perhaps
the same cellar, had supplied both cabaret and cafe. Therefore, there
must still be some passage of communication between the cabaret--which
had been locked and sealed by the authorities--and the cafe which the
police had decreed must remain open for the convenience of the public.
Deeply perturbed by what the waiter had said concerning the glimpse he
had caught of somebody resembling Philippa, and made doubly anxious by