The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France | Page 7

a good soldier

is broken inside me. It is beyond mending."
His voice sank lower and lower. Father Courcy looked at him gravely.
"But your farm is a part of France. You belong to France. He that
saveth his life shall lose it!"
"Yes, yes, I know. But my farm is such a small part of France. I am
only one man. What difference does one man make, except to himself?
Moreover, I had done my part, that was certain. Twenty times, really,
my life had been lost. Why must I throw it away again? Listen, Father.
There is a village in the Vosges, near the Swiss border, where a relative
of mine lives. If I could get to him he would take me in and give me
some other clothes and help me over the frontier into Switzerland.
There I could change my name and find work until the war is over.
That was my plan. So I set out on my journey, following the
less-traveled roads, tramping by night and sleeping by day. Thus I
came to this spring at the same time as you by chance, by pure chance.
Do you see?"
Father Courcy looked very stern and seemed about to speak in anger.
Then he shook his head and said, quietly: "No, I do not see that at all. It
remains to be seen whether it was by chance. But tell me more about
your sin. Did you let your wife, Josephine, know what you were going
to do? Did you tell her good-by, parting for Switzerland?"
"Why, no! I did not dare. She would never have forgiven me. So I
slipped down to the post-office at Bar-sur-Aube and stole a telegraph
blank. It was ten days before my furlough was out. I wrote a message to
myself calling me back to the colors at once. I showed it to her. Then I
said good-by. I wept. She did not cry one tear. Her eyes were stars. She
embraced me a dozen times. She lifted up each of the children to hug
me. Then she cried: 'Go now, my brave man. Fight well. Drive the
damned Boches out. It is for us and for France. God protect you. Au
revoir!' I went down the road silent. I felt like a dog. But I could not
help it."
"And you were a dog," said the priest, sternly. "That is what you were,

and what you remain unless you can learn to help it. You lied to your
wife. You forged; you tricked her who trusted you. You have done the
thing which you yourself say she would never forgive. If she loves you
and prays for you now, you have stolen that love and that prayer. You
are a thief. A true daughter of France could never love a coward
to-day."
"I know, I know," sobbed Pierre, burying his face in the weeds. "Yet I
did it partly for her, and I could not do otherwise."
"Very little for her and a hundred times for yourself," said the priest,
indignantly. "Be honest. If there was a little bit of love for her, it was
the kind of love she did not want. She would spit upon it. If you are
going to Switzerland now you are leaving her forever. You can never
go back to Josephine again. You are a deserter. She would cast you out,
coward!"
The broken soldier lay very still, almost as if he were dead. Then he
rose slowly to his feet, with a pale, set face. He put his hand behind his
back and drew out a revolver. "It is true," he said, slowly, "I am a
coward. But not altogether such a coward as you think, Father. It is not
merely death that I fear. I could face that, I think. Here, take this pistol
and shoot me now! No one will know. You can say that you shot a
deserter, or that I attacked you. Shoot me now, Father, and let me out of
this trouble."
Father Courcy looked at him with amazement. Then he took the pistol,
uncocked it cautiously, and dropped it behind him. He turned to Pierre
and regarded him curiously. "Go on with your confession, Pierre. Tell
me about this strange kind of cowardice which can face death."
The soldier dropped on his knees again, and went on, in a low, shaken
voice: "It is this, Father. By my broken soul, this is the very root of it. I
am afraid of fear."
The priest thought for an instant. "But that is not reasonable, Pierre. It
is nonsense. Fear cannot hurt you. If you fight it you can conquer it. At
least you can disregard it, march through it, as if it were not there."

"Not this fear," argued