He took them out and counted them. Crazy-looking kale. It was funny you could buy things with it just like you could do with the real mazuma.
He beckoned to the waiter.
“Hey!” he remarked conversationally. “This is funny money you got here, ain’t it?”
But the waiter spoke no English and was unable to satisfy Jim Cooley’s craving for companionship. Never mind. His nerves were at rest now—body was glowing triumphantly from top to toe.
“This is the life,” he muttered to himself. “Only live once. Might as well enjoy it.” And then aloud to the waiter, “’Nother one of those big cognacs. Two of them. I’m set to go.”
He went—for several hours. He awoke at dawn in a bedroom of a small inn, with red streaks in his eyes and fever pounding in his head. He was afraid to look in his pockets until he had ordered and swallowed another cognac, and then he found that his worst fears were justified. Of the ninety-odd dollars with which he had got off the train only six were left.
“I must have been crazy,” he whispered to himself.
There remained his watch. His watch was large and methodical, and on the outer case two hearts were picked out in diamonds from the dark solid gold. It had been part of the booty of Jim Cooley’s heroism, for when he had located the paper in the German officer’s pocket he had found it clasped tight in the dead hand. One of the diamond hearts probably stood for some human grief back in Friedland or Berlin, but when Jim married he told Milly that the diamond hearts stood for their hearts and would be a token of their everlasting love. Before Milly fully appreciated this sentimental suggestion their enduring love had been tarnished beyond repair and the watch went back into Jim’s pocket where it confined itself to marking time instead of emotion.
But Jim Cooley had loved to show the watch, and he found that parting with it would be much more painful than parting with Milly—so painful, in fact, that he got drunk in anticipation of his sorrow. Late that afternoon, already a reeling figure at which the town boys jeered along the streets, he found his way into the shop of a bijoutier , and when he issued forth into the street he was in possession of a ticket of redemption and a note for two thousand francs which, he figured dimly, was about one hundred and twenty dollars. Muttering to himself, he stumbled back to the square.
“One American can lick three Frenchmen!” he remarked to three small stout bourgeois drinking their beer at a table.
They paid no attention. He repeated his jeer.
“One American—” tapping his chest, “can beat up three dirty frogs, see?”
Still they didn’t move. It infuriated him. Lurching forward, he seized the back of an unoccupied chair and pulled at it. In what seemed less than a minute there was a small crowd around him and the three Frenchmen were all talking at once in excited voices.
“Aw, go on, I meant what I said!” he cried savagely. “One American can wipe up the ground with three Frenchmen!”
And now there were two men in uniform before him—two men with revolver holsters on their hips, dressed in red and blue.
“You heard what I said,” he shouted. “I’m a hero—I’m not afraid of the whole damn French army!”
A hand fell on his arm, but with blind passion he wrenched it free and struck at the black mustached face before him. Then there was a rushing, crashing noise in his ears as fists and then feet struck at him, and the world seemed to close like water over his head.
V
When they located him and, after a personal expedition by one of the American vice consuls, got him out of jail, Milly realized how much these weeks had meant to her. The holiday was over. But even though Jim would be in Paris tomorrow, even though the dreary round of her life with him was due to recommence, Milly decided to take the trip to Château-Thierry just the same. She wanted a last few hours of happiness that she could always remember. She supposed they would return to New York—what chance Jim might have had of obtaining a position had vanished now that he was marked by a fortnight in a French prison.
The bus, as usual, was crowded. As they approached the little village of Château-Thierry, Bill Driscoll stood up in front with his megaphone and began to tell his clients how it had looked to him when his division went up to the line five years before.
“It was nine o’clock at night,” he said, “and we came out of a wood and there was the Western Front. I’d read about it for three years back in America, and here it was at last—it looked like the line of a forest fire at night except that fireworks were blazing up instead of grass. We relieved a French regiment in new trenches that weren’t three feet deep. At that, most of us were too excited to be scared until the top sergeant was blown to pieces with shrapnel about two o’clock in the morning. That made us think. Two days later we went over and the only reason I didn’t get hit was that I was shaking so much they couldn’t aim at me.”
The listeners laughed and Milly felt a faint thrill of pride. Jim hadn’t been scared—she’d heard him say so, many times. All he’d thought about was doing a little more than his duty. When others were in the comparative safety of the trenches he had gone into no-man’s land alone.
After lunch in the village the party walked over the battlefield, changed now into a peaceful undulating valley of graves. Milly was glad she had come—the sense of rest after a struggle soothed her. Perhaps after the bleak future, her life might be quiet as this peaceful land. Perhaps Jim would change someday. If he had risen once to such a height of courage there must be something deep inside him that was worth while, that would make him try once more.
Just before it was time to start home Driscoll, who had hardly spoken to her all day, suddenly beckoned her aside.
“I want to talk to you for the last time,” he said.
The last time— Milly felt a flutter of unexpected pain. Was tomorrow so near?
“I’m going to say what’s in my mind,” he said, “and please don’t be angry. I love you, and you know it; but what I’m going to say isn’t because of that—it’s because I want you to be happy.”
Milly nodded. She was afraid she was going to cry.
“I don’t think your husband’s any good,” he said.
She looked up.
“You don’t know him,” she exclaimed quickly. “You can’t judge.”
“I can judge from what he did to you. I think this shell-shock business is all a plain lie. And what does it matter what he did five years ago?”
“It matters to me,” cried Milly. She felt herself growing a little angry. “You can’t take that away from him. He acted brave.” Driscoll nodded.
“That’s true. But other men were brave.”
“You weren’t,” she said scornfully. “You just said you were scared to death—and when you said it all the people laughed. Well, nobody laughed at Jim—they gave him a medal because he wasn’t afraid.”
When Milly had said this she was sorry, but it was too late now. At his next words she leaned forward in surprise.
“That was a lie too,” said Bill Driscoll slowly. “I
