“Ça ne fait rien,” declared Father Anton, viewing the resultant mess with equanimity, and he added, still speaking in his own language, “My sister will sweep it up. Sit down, my friend. Be at ease and tell me how I can help you.”

  Will had hoped that Father Anton might be able to speak English but in this he was disappointed.

  “I am sorry,” said the priest, shaking his head sadly. “Often I have wished I could speak your language. There were English soldiers in the village during the war but I could not learn to speak to them—not a word! It was too difficult, you see. They spoke so quickly and the pronounciation was so strange.”

  He paused and looked at Will doubtfully. “But you cannot understand what I say?”

  “Je comprends assez bien—si vous parlez—lentement,” declared Will, waving his hands wildly. “Je ne peux pas—parler—moi-même.”

  “But you speak well! Your accent is excellent! I can see that all you require is practice. What can I do for you, my friend?”

  “Rae Elliot Murray,” said Will slowly. “Perhaps you knew him. He was here. He lived at the farm of Jean Leyrisse.”

  The old man nodded. “Oui, c’est ça. I knew him well. He was a fine young man; one would not forget him in a hurry.”

  “He was my friend. I would like——”

  “Ah yes! You would like to visit his grave. But that is easy. I will show you.”

  Will was surprised; he had presumed Rae’s grave to be in one of the large military cemeteries where so many of his companions lay (all he had hoped to get from Father Anton was information). He tried to explain and at last he managed to make his meaning plain.

  “But yes, I can tell you,” nodded the priest. “I can tell you many things about the young man—his name is very difficult for me to say. He was a fine young man, light-hearted and full of the joy of life. War is a sad business.”

  “You said you would show me his grave.”

  “Yes, he lies here, in our little churchyard. Jean Leyrisse arranged it with the authorities—how, I do not know. I hope there is no trouble about it?”

  Will shook his head.

  “Ah, good! For my part I liked the idea. It seemed natural at the time. Come, my friend, and I will show you.” The old man seized his battered hat and made for the door.

  “Vos souliers!” exclaimed Will.

  “Ah yes,” agreed Father Anton, looking down at his feet and smiling. “How fortunate that you noticed! My sister would have been annoyed if I had gone out in my slippers; she made them for me herself, you see. She is a good kind creature, but she is annoyed with me when I am absent-minded—and alas I am often absent-minded—but there are so many things to think about and when one becomes old one cannot think of many things all at once.”

  2

  The priest had been changing his shoes as he spoke and now he stood up and announced himself ready. “It is not far,” he declared. “He lies in a sheltered corner of our little churchyard and Jean Leyrisse lies beside him. To me that seems good: the old French farmer and the young English soldier—n’est-ce pas? But come, my friend, we are wasting time.” He shouted to an unseen presence in the back premises that he was going out, and led the way across his garden.

  “Jean Leyrisse is dead?” asked Will, hoping he had misunderstood, for the whole object of his coming had been to speak to the old farmer.

  “Alas, yes! Jean Leyrisse is dead. It was an acute inflammation of the lungs. He died only a few weeks after your friend was killed. That was the reason they sold the farm and departed, What else could they do, poor things? It was impossible for Julie and her mother to manage the farm themselves—one could see that—but what a loss to my parish! Ah, what a loss! They were good to my poor people, you see. It was a loss to me also for they were kind to me. Every week I went to dinner; it was a definite arrangement—every Wednesday. Madame Leyrisse was an excellent cook.” He shook his head sadly. Obviously he had enjoyed his weekly dinner at the Leyrisses’ farm.

  “Madame Leyrisse is dead too?”

  “No, no! She has gone away—she and her daughter—but no doubt you know this already. How my sister would scold me for chattering! She is always telling me I talk too much.”

  It was true that he was a talker. He had said Will required practice in speaking French but it was obvious that he would not get much practice while he was in the old priest’s company. All the same it was beginning to come back to him—words and phrases that he thought he had forgotten sprang into his mind—and although he was aware that what he said was “all wrong” grammatically he had ceased to care.

  “There is the church,” continued the priest. “It is old and very beautiful as you can see. Later I will show you the church, but first I will show you the grave of your friend. It is this way. How glad I am that you came to-day for you will see the flowers! Yesterday was his birthday—as you probably know—so the flowers will still be fresh. They do not last long in the warm sunshine. It seems a pity——”

  “Flowers?” asked Will when he could get a word in edgeways.

  “Roses. Yes, it is always red roses—and she never forgets. Usually she brings them herself, but if it is impossible for her to come she sends them to me in a large box carefully packed in moss. She relies upon me to put them upon his grave if she cannot come herself.”

  “Who sends them?” asked Will, but Father Anton was not listening. Perhaps he was a little deaf.

  “It is a long journey,” he explained. “She cannot come and go in a day so she must stay the night at the auberge in the village and this costs money. They are not very well off. Sometimes there are other things to prevent her from coming; her mother is not strong.”

  So far it had not been as difficult as Will had expected, for his guide had done all the talking (and luckily he spoke so clearly and distinctly that he was easy to understand), but now there were all sorts of questions Will wanted to ask. He was struggling to find words when his guide stopped at a grave in a corner of the little churchyard. Upon it lay a large wreath of beautiful red roses. The cross which marked it was of white marble and bore Rae’s name but nothing more.

  “We did not know,” explained Father Anton. “None of us knew what else to put, nor how to spell the name of his regiment. It seemed better to put nothing than to put it wrong. But you can tell me, n’est-ce pas? You can write it on a paper, very clearly, and I will have it done. I will see to it myself so that there will be no mistake. How glad I am that you have come! It has worried me considerably that only his name and nothing more——”

  “Padre,” said Will, trying to stem the tide. “Ecoutez un moment, je vous prie.”

  “Yes, yes, what is it?”

  “Is it permitted that I address you as Padre?”

  “Why not, my friend? That is what the English soldiers called me—and you are English. Perhaps you too are a soldier? You have the bearing of one who has——”

  “Padre, listen! Who sent the roses?”

  “But I have told you! It is she, the widow of your friend; she sends them every year on his birthday—or brings them herself if it is possible.”

  “His widow!” exclaimed Will in stupefied tones.

  “But of course. Who else?”

  “Rae’s widow! But Rae was not married!”

  “He was married,” declared Father Anton.

  “There is some mistake!”

  “There is no mistake. I can tell you that—none better—for it was I who married them. Only a handful of people were present at the ceremony: Julie’s parents and her brother—who was afterwards killed in the Résistance—and Monsieur le Colonel and one or two other officers. The marriage was very quiet—that goes without saying—for were we not in the midst of war? It was no occasion for feasting and gaiety. One was not in the mood for such things. But in spite of the quietness—or perhaps because of it—the marriage was very beautiful. The bride was beautiful and the bridegroom was handsome—and both were so young.”

  Will had been trying to interrupt this monologue and now, when the priest paused for breath, he tried again, but it was useless. Before Will could find words the priest continued:

  “Both were so young,” he repeated sadly. “There was a radiance in their faces like a light shining from within. It seemed to me that those two were made for each other; it seemed to me that le bon Dieu intended the marriage to take place. You see, monsieur, it was not as if they were strangers to me. I had known Julie since she was a little child, so I knew she could be trusted, and my instinct told me that this man she had chosen was good all through. So when they came to me and said they wanted to be married I consented. What else could I do?”

  “It was legal?”

  “Legal!” cried Father Anton indignantly. “But of course! What do you think? It was wartime and all the country was in a mess, but even in wartime one must keep the law. You may see the record if you doubt my word.”

  “Forgive me, Padre,” said Will. “I do not doubt your word. It is because I am so—so (what on earth was surprised? Oh yes.) Parce que je suis étonné,” declared Will emphatically.

  “But why? Why should you be astonished? Is it not natural for young people to marry? It is true that it happened very quickly, but in those days everything happened quickly. There was so little time and none of us knew how long we had to live.”

  Will nodded.

  “There was a feeling of urgency,” added Father Anton.

  “Yes,” agreed Will. He knew, only too well, that feeling of urgency, the feeling that if anything was to be done it must be done at once—or it might never be done at all.

  For a few moments they were silent. Then Will said, “I must see her.”

  “You must see her?”

  “Yes,” nodded Will.

  “Whom must you see?”

  “The wife of my friend, of course.”

  “But that is impossible! I have told you she is not here any longer. She has gone away.”

  “All the same I must see her,” declared Will. “You will tell me where she lives and I will——”

  “I cannot tell you that.”

  “You must tell me!” cried Will. “We cannot—just—leave it. I must see her—and—and talk to her. Don’t you understand, Padre?”

  “Mais oui, mon ami, I understand very well that you want to see Julie, but I cannot help you.”

  “You can tell me her address.”

  The old man shook his head. “No, I do not know her address. I would tell you if I could, for it would be good and right for you to talk to Julie—but I cannot help you.”

  Will stared at him incredulously. “You mean you have forgotten her address?”

  “I never knew it. Julie never told me.”

  “But, Padre——”

  “I can see that this seems strange to you, but none the less it is true. When Madame Leyrisse left here she bought a villa in the south and that is where they live—she and Julie. I know no more.”

  “A villa in the south!” exclaimed Will. “That is all you know?”

  “It is strange,” agreed Father Anton, gazing at Will in a bewildered manner. “Now that I think about it I can see that it is very strange indeed. I can see that I ought to know their address—but it never occurred to me to ask.”

  “You lost touch with them——”

  “But no, I have never lost touch with them! Once a year Julie comes with her roses; she tells me about her mother and we walk round the garden together—we talk of old times before the war. Then Julie goes away. A year passes—years pass quickly when one is old—and then she comes again.” He sighed and added, “Sometimes she does not come.”

  “Has she never once mentioned the town where she lives? One would think she would have—have mentioned its name——”

  “One would think so. Yes, indeed, it would have been only natural. I can see that now.” He hesitated and then added, “One begins to think that Julie withheld the information deliberately … and yet there seems no reason for it.”

  Will had the same idea. She had withheld her address deliberately. It would be easy enough, of course. Now that he had seen Father Anton he realised how easy it would be. Father Anton never asked questions; he was absolutely devoid of curiosity. He liked to talk, not to listen, and a word here and there kept him talking happily for hours.

  “There seems no reason for it,” repeated the priest in bewildered tones.

  There could be only one reason—or so Will thought—Madame Leyrisse and her daughter did not want to be found … but somehow or other he must find them.

  “What am I to do!” he exclaimed in despair.

  “I am sorry, my friend. It grieves me that I cannot help you—but there it is. Julie comes and goes like the swallows, and like the swallows she is a welcome visitor. It is delightful to see her and I look forward eagerly to her arrival. Yesterday when the box came by post I felt sad. Yes, I felt sad for I knew she would not come herself. It will be a year before I can hope to see the dear child—and I am getting no younger. Who knows if I shall still be here!”

  “The box!” cried Will. “Is there not an address on the box?”

  “It is possible——” began Father Anton doubtfully.

  Will did not wait to hear more. He left the priest standing in the churchyard and ran back to the house—and it was as well that he had hurried for he found the priest’s sister on her knees in the study sweeping up the moss. Already the paper in which the box had been wrapped was crumpled and torn and pressed into the waste-paper basket ready for burning.

  “What are you doing?” exclaimed the old woman angrily. “Is there not enough mess already without you strewing paper all over the floor! Who are you, may I ask? What right have you to be here? Where have you come from? Leave that box alone. It is quite a good box and when I have dried it carefully …”

  Will did not listen. He was examining the box; he was smoothing out the crumpled paper. There was no name upon it, no address, the only clue was the postmark, and even that had been partly obliterated by the dampness of the moss … but it was the only clue, and although Will could make nothing of it himself he had hopes that the post office authorities might help him. He remembered reading somewhere—probably in a detective story—that post office authorities were able to trace postmarks with very little data to come and go on, so he removed the label very carefully and put it in his pocket.

  By this time Father Anton had arrived and was arguing with his sister; or at least she was arguing and he was endeavouring to defend himself. The conversation, carried on rapidly and fiercely, was unintelligible to Will but their demeanour was easily understood. Will disliked “scenes”; he was a man of peace; so he took his leave hastily and walked down to the village where he found a very comfortable little auberge in which to spend the night.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning Will woke early and after his coffee and rolls (which to tell the truth seemed a poor substitute for his usual Scottish breakfast of porridge and bacon and eggs) he hurried off to the post office to see if the postmark on the label could be identified. Although it was still early they were busy, but he managed to get hold of a young clerk who was interested in the unusual request.

  “Is it a police matter?” he asked, his bright brown eyes gleaming intelligently through his spectacles.

  “No, just some friends I want to find. I have been away for years and they have moved,” explained Will. He had thought out this explanation beforehand; it seemed a bit thin but it was the best he could do. If the post office authorities could not help him he might have to go to the police, but that would be the last resort.

  “I will try,” said the young clerk, looking at the label doubtfully. “If monsieur will leave it with me I will do my best. There is not a great deal of the postmark to be seen.”

  Will agreed that there was very little. He was turning away feeling somewhat hopeless when it suddenly occurred to him to inquire if there happened to be a letter for him. He had given his father Poste Restante, Badlieu, as his first address—and although it was unlikely that his father had written to him so soon after his departure it seemed foolish not to ask. Much to his surprise a letter was produced and handed across the counter. The letter was addressed in his father’s writing and was extremely bulky. This also was surprising, and slightly alarming, for although Mr. Hastie was a good correspondent and had always written regularly to Will when he was serving overseas it seemed strange that he could have found much to say so soon after Will’s departure from Broadmeadows.

  Crossing the street to a little café, Will sat down upon a bench beneath a lime tree and opened the letter forthwith.

  Broadmeadows,

  Torfoot

  Dear Will,

  No doubt you will be surprised to receive such a long epistle from me, especially as we agreed before you left home that except for an occasional postcard there would be no need to correspond while you were away. The fact is I am exceedingly dull without you, my dear fellow, and having news of an interesting nature to impart I could not forbear to write. The news concerns our friends at Langford—let me hasten to assure you that they are all in good health.

  (Will paused here to chuckle, for obviously the news—whatever it was—had pleased the old boy considerably. Only when Mr. Hastie was in particularly good form were his letters couched in this Pickwickian style. Anyhow there was no need for Will to be alarmed, so he ordered a cup of coffee and continued to read the letter at his ease.)

  This morning, whilst still at breakfast, I was informed by our good Mistress McTaggie that Miss Elliot Murray had called to see me. Naturally I was surprised—nay, apprehensive—and hastened to the front door where Mistress McTaggie had left her. (By the way I really must “speak” to Mistress McTaggie, albeit tactfully, anent this inhospitable manner of treating visitors.)

 

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