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They fell to discussing ways and means。 The chocolate could be cut
out； but not the cigarettes。 Sara Lee； arguing vehemently for them and
trying to forget other things； remembered suddenly how Uncle James had
hated cigarettes； and that Harvey himself disapproved of them。 Somehow
Harvey seemed； those days； to present a constant figure of disapproval。 He
gave her no moral support。
At Jean's suggestion she added to her report of so many men fed with
soup； so much tobacco； sort not specified； so ‘many small wounds dressed
… a request that if possible her allowance be increased。 She did it nervously；
but when the letter had gone she felt a great relief。 She inclosed a snapshot
of the little house。
Jean； as it happens； had lied about Henri。 Not once； but several times。
He had told Marie； for instance； that Henri was in England； and later on he
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THE AMAZING INTERLUDE
told Rene。 Then； having done his errand； he drove six miles back along the
main road to Dunkirk and picked up Henri； who was sitting on the bank of
a canal watching an ammunition train go by。
Jean backed into a lane and turned the car round。 After that Henri got
in and they went rapidly back toward the Front。 It was a different Henri；
however； who left the car a mile from the crossroads … a Henri in the
uniform of a French private soldier； one of those odd and mpracticable
uniforms of France during the first year； baggy dark blue trousers； stiff cap；
and the long…tailed coat； its skirts turned back and faced。 Round his neck
he wore a knitted scarf； which covered his chin； and； true to the instinct of
the French peasant in a winter campaign； he wore innumerable
undergarments； the red of a jersey showing through rents in his coat。
Gone were Henri's long clean lines； his small waist and broad
shoulders； the swing of his walk。 Instead； he walked with the bent…kneed
swing of the French infantryman； that tireless but awkward marching step
which renders the French Army so mobile。
He carried all the impedimenta of a man going into the trenches； an
extra jar of water； a flat loaf of bread strapped to his haversack； and an
intrenching tool jingling at his belt。
Even Jean smiled as he watched him moving along toward the
crowded crossroads … smiled and then sighed。 For Jean had lost everything
in the war。 His wife had died of a German bullet long months before； and
with her had gone a child much prayed for and soon to come。 But Henri
had brought back to Jean something to live for … or to die for； as might
happen。
Henri walked along gayly。 He hailed other French soldiers。 He joined a
handful and stood talking to them。 But he reached the crossroads before
the ammunition train。
The crossroads was crowded； as usual … many soldiers； at rest； waiting
for the word to fall in； a battery held up by the breaking of a wheel。 A
temporary forge had been set up； and soldiers in leather aprons were
working over the fire。 A handful of peasants watched； their dull eyes
following every gesture。 And one of them was a man Henri sought。
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THE AMAZING INTERLUDE
Henri sat down on the ground and lighted a cigarette。 The ammunition
train rolled in and halted； and the man Henri watched turned his attention
to the train。 He had been dull and quiet at the forge； but now he became
smiling； a good fellow。 He found a man he knew among the drivers and
offered him a cigarette。 He also produced and presented an entire box of
matches。 Matches were very dear； and hardly to be bought at any price。
Henri watched grimly and hummed a little song：
〃Trou la la； ce ne va guere； Trou la la； ca ne va pas。〃
Still humming under his breath； when the peasant left the crossroads
he followed him。 Not closely。 The peasant cut across the fields。 Henri
followed the road and entered the fields at a different angle。 He knew his
way quite well； for he had done the same thing each day for four days。
Only twice he had been a Belgian peasant； and once he was an officer； and
once he had been a priest。
Four days he had done this thing； but to…day was different。 To…day
there would be something worth while； he fancied。 And he made a mental
note that Sara Lee must not be in the little house that night。
When he had got to a canal where the pollard willows were already
sending out their tiny red buds； Henri sat down again。 The village lay
before him； desolate and ruined； a travesty of homes。 And on a slight rise；
but so concealed from him by the willows that only the great wings
showed； stood the windmill。
It was the noon respite then； and beyond the line of popiars all as quiet。
The enemy liked time for foods and the Belgians crippled by the loss of
that earlier train； were husbanding their ammunition。 Far away a gap in the
poplar trees showed a German observation balloon； a tiny dot against the
sky。
The man Henri watched went slowly； for he carried a bag of grain on
his back。 Henri no longed watched him； He watched the wind wheel。 It
had been broken； and one plane was now patched with what looked like a
red cloth。 There was a good wind； but clearly the miller was idle that day。
The great wings were not turning。
Henri sat still and smoked。 He thought of many things … of Sara Lee's
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THE AMAZING INTERLUDE
eyes when in the center of the London traffic she had held the dying
donkey； of her small and radiant figure at the Savoy； of the morning he
had found her at Calais； in the Gare Maritime； quietly unconscious that she
had done a courageous thing。 And he thought； too； of the ring and the
photograph she carried。 But mostly he remembered the things she had said
to him on their last meeting。
Perhaps there came to him his temptation too。 It would be so easy that
night； if things went well； to make a brave showing before her； to let her
see that these odd jobs he did had their value and their risks。 But he put
that from him。 The little house of mercy must be empty that night； for her
sake。 He shivered as he remembered the room where she slept； the corner
that was shot away and left open to the street。 So he sat and watched。
And at one o'clock the mill wheel began turning。 It was easy to count the
revolutions by the red wing。 Nine t