"Mademoiselle," he said, "shall I show you something that the eye of no man has seen before, and that, when we have seen it, shall never be seen again?"On her interested consent he called in Marie and Rene, ****** a great ceremony of the matter, and sending Marie into hysterical giggling.
"Now see!" he said earnestly."No eye before has ever seen or will again.Will you guess, mademoiselle? Or you, Marie? Rene?""A tear?" ventured Sara Lee."But - do I look like weeping?"He did not, indeed.He stood, tall and young and smiling before them, and produced from his pocket the walnut.
"Perceive!" he said, breaking it open and showing the kernel."Has human eye ever before seen it?" He thrust it into Marie's open mouth."And it is gone! Voila tout!"It was that evening, while Sara Lee cut bandages and Henri rolled them, that she asked him what his work was.He looked rather surprised, and rolled for a moment without replying.Then: "I am a man of all work," he said."What you call odd jobs.""Then you don't do any fighting?"
"In the trenches - no.But now and then I have a little skirmish."A sort of fear had been formulating itself in Sara Lee's mind.The trenches she could understand or was beginning to understand.But this alternately joyous and silent idler, this soldier of no regiment and no detail- was he playing a man's part in the war?
"Why don't you go into the trenches?" she asked with her usual directness."You say there are too few men.Yet - I can understand Monsieur Jean, because he has only one eye.But you!""I do something," he said, avoiding her eyes."It is not a great deal.It is the thing I can do best.That is all."He went away some time after that, leaving the littie house full and busy justifying its existence.The miller's son, who came daily to chat with Marie, was helping in the kitchen.By the warm stove, and only kept from standing over it by Marie's sharp orders, were as many men as could get near.Each held a bowl of hot soup, and - that being a good day - a piece of bread.Tall soldiers and little ones, all dirty, all weary, almost all smiling, they peered over each other's shoulders, to catch, if might be, a glimpse of Marie's face.
When they came too close she poked an elbow into some hulking fellow and sent him back.
"Elbow-room, in the name of God," she would beg.Over all the room hung the warm steam from the kettles, and a delicious odor, and peace.
Sara Lee had never heard of the word morale.She would have been astonished to have been told that she was helping the morale of an army.But she gave each night in that little house of mercy something that nothing else could give - warmth and welcome, but above all a touch of home.
That night Henri did not come back.She stood by her table bandaging, washing small wounds, talking her bits of French, until one o'clock.Then, the last dressing done, she went to the kitchen.Marie was there, with Maurice, the miller's son.
"Has the captain returned?" she asked."Not yet, mademoiselle.""Leave a warm fire," Sara Lee said."He will probably come in later."Maurice went away, with a civil good night.Sara Lee stood in the doorway after he had gone, looking out.Farther along the line there was a bombardment going on.She knew now what a bombardment meant and her brows contracted.Somewhere there in the trenches men were enduring that, while Henri -She said a little additional prayer that night, which was that she should have courage to say to him what she felt - that there were big things to do, and that it should not all be left to these smiling, ill-clad peasant soldiers.
At that moment Henri, in his gray-green uniform, was cutting wire before a German trench, one of a party of German soldiers, who could not know in the darkness that there had been a strange addition to their group.Cutting wire and learning many things which it was well that he should know.
Now and then, in perfect German, he whispered a question.Always he received a reply.And stowed it away in his tenacious memory for those it most concerned.
At daylight he was asleep by Sara Lee's kitchen fire.And at daylight Sara Lee was awakened by much firing, and putting on a dressing gown she went out to see what was happening.Rene was in the street looking toward the poplar trees.
"An attack," he said briefly."You mean - the Germans?" "Yes, mademoiselle."She went back into the little ruined house, heavy-hearted.She knew now what it meant, an attack.That night there would be ambulances in the street, and word would come up that certain men were gone - would never seek warmth and shelter in her kitchen or beg like children for a second bowl of soup.
On the kitchen floor by the dying fire Henri lay asleep.
