The Happy Foreigner | Page 4

his head, his body slipping, falling, falling. When she would have slowed the car to watch the end of the flight her client cried to her: "Why do you wait?"
Enormous American guns, trailed behind lorries driven by pink-faced boys swayed from side to side on the greasy road, and threatened to crush her like an egg-shell.
Everywhere she saw a wild disregard for life, everywhere she winced before the menace of speed, of weight, of thundering metal.
In the late afternoon, returning home in the half-light, she overtook a convoy of lorries driven by Annamites.
Hooting with her horn she crept past three lorries and drew abreast of the fourth; then, misjudging, she let the tip of her low mudguard touch the front wheel of the foremost lorry. The touch was so slight that she had passed on, but at a cry she drew up and looked back. The lorry which she had touched was overhanging the edge of the road, and its radiator, striking a tree, had dropped down into the valley below. Climbing from her car she ran back and was instantly surrounded by a crowd of Annamites who chirped and twittered at her, and wrung their little hands.
"What can I do?..." she said to them aloud, in distress.
But they understood nothing, and seemed to echo in their strange bird language, "What can we do ... what can we do?..." ("And I..." she thought in consternation, "am responsible for this!")
But the last lorry had drawn alongside, and a French sergeant descended from it and joined the Annamites. He walked to the edge of the road, saw the radiator below upon a rock, and shrugged his shoulders. Catching sight of Fanny's face of horror he laughed.
"Ne vous en fa?tes pas, mademoiselle! These poor devils sleep as they drive. Yes, even with their eyes open. We started nine this morning. We were four when we met you--and now we are three!"
On the third morning the rain stopped for an hour or two. Fanny had no run till the afternoon, and going into the garage in the morning she set to work on her car.
"Where can I get water?" she asked a man.
"The pump is broken," he replied. "I backed my car against it last night. But there is a tap by that broken wall on the piece of waste ground."
She crossed to the wall with her bucket.
Standing upon the waste ground was an old, closed limousine whose engine had long been injured past repair. One of the glass windows was broken, but it was as roomy and comfortable as a first-class railway carriage, and the men often sat in it in a spare moment.
The yard cleared suddenly for the eleven o'clock meal. As Fanny passed the limousine a man appeared at the broken window and beckoned to her. His face was white, and he wore his shirt, trousers, and braces. She stopped short with the bucket in her hand.
"On est delivr�� de cette bande!" he said, pointing to the yard, and she went a little nearer.
"Wait till I get my coat on," he said softly to her, and struggled into his coat.
He put both his hands on the window ledge, leant towards her, and said clearly: "Je suis le pr��sident Wilson."
"You are the President Wilson," she echoed, hunting for the joke, and willing to smile. He passed her out his water-bottle and a tin box. "You must fill these for me," he said. "Fill the bottle with wine, and get me bread and meat. Be quick. You know I must be off. The King expects me."
Where have you come from?"
"I slept here last night. I have come far. But I must be quick now, for it's late, and ... I believe in Freedom!" he finished emphatically.
"Well, will you wait till I have made you up a parcel of food?"
"Only be quick."
"Will you wait in the car? Promise to wait!"
"Yes. Be quick. Look sharp."
She put down her bucket and stretched up her hand for the bottle and the box. He held them above her a second, hesitating, then put them into her hand. She turned from him and went back into the yard. As she approached the door of the room where the men sat eating she looked round and saw that he was watching her intently. She waved once, soothingly, then slipped into the long room filled with the hum of voices and the smell of gravy.
"There is a poor madman in the yard," she whispered to the man nearest her. The others looked up.
"They've lost a man from the asylum. I heard in the town this morning," said one. "We must keep him here till we telephone. Have you told the brigadier, mademoiselle?"
"You tell him. I'll go back and talk to the man. Ask the brigadier to telephone."
"I'll come with you, mademoiselle,"