of Mrs. Horton standing in front of the pension. She came toward them swiftly, talking as she came.
“I’ve got some news for you,” she said. “The secretary of the American Aid Society just telephoned. They’ve located your husband, and he’ll be in Paris the day after tomorrow.”
When Jim Cooley, the war hero, left the train at the small town of Evreux, he walked very fast until he was several hundred yards from the station. Then, standing behind a tree, he watched until the train pulled out and the last puff of smoke burst up behind a little hill. He stood for several minutes, laughing and looking after the train, until abruptly his face resumed his normal injured expression and he turned to examine the place in which he had chosen to be free.
It was a sleepy provincial village with two high lines of silver sycamores along its principal street, at the end of which a fine fountain purred crystal water from a cat’s mouth of cold stone. Around the fountain was a square and on the sidewalks of the square several groups of small iron tables indicated open-air cafes. A farm wagon drawn by a single white ox was toiling toward the fountain and several cheap French cars, together with an ancient American one, were parked along the street.
“It’s a hick town,” he said to himself with some disgust. “Reg’lar hick town.”
But it was peaceful and green, and he caught sight of two stockingless ladies entering the door of a shop; and the little tables by the fountain were inviting. He walked up the street and at the first cafe sat down and ordered a large beer.
“I’m free,” he said to himself. “Free, by God!”
His decision to desert Milly had been taken suddenly—in Cherbourg, as they got on the train. Just at that moment he had seen a little French girl who was the real thing and he realized that he didn’t want Milly “hanging on him” any more. Even on the boat he had played with the idea, but until Cherbourg he had never quite made up his mind. He was rather sorry now that he hadn’t thought to leave Milly a little money, enough for one night—but then somebody would be sure to help her when she got to Paris. Besides, what he didn’t know didn’t worry him, and he wasn’t going ever to hear about her again.
“Cognac this time,” he said to the waiter.
He needed something strong. He wanted to forget. Not to forget Milly, that was easy, she was already behind him; but to forget himself. He felt that he had been abused. He felt that it was Milly who had deserted him, or at least that her cold mistrust was responsible for driving him away. What good would it have done if he had gone on to Paris anyways? There wasn’t enough money left to keep two people for very long, and he had invented the job on the strength of a vague rumor that the American Bureau of Military Graves gave jobs to veterans who were broke in France. He shouldn’t have brought Milly, wouldn’t have if he had had the money to get over. But, though he was not aware of it, there was another reason why he had brought Milly. Jim Cooley hated to be alone.
“Cognac,” he said to the waiter. “A big one. Tres grand.”
He put his hand in his pocket and fingered the blue notes that had been given him in Cherbourg in exchange for his American money. 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 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.
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 the 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 bijouterie, 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.
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.
