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night。 I'll return the picture。〃
He sat up very late； alternately reading the report and looking at the
picture。 It was unfortunate that Sara Lee had smiled into the camera。
Coupled with her blowing hair it had given her a light…heartedness； a sort
of joyousness； that hurt him to the soul。
He made some mad plans after he had turned out the lights … to flirt
wildly with the unattached girls he knew； to go to France and confront
Sara Lee and then bring her home。 Or … He had found a way。 He lay there
and thought it over； and it bore the test of the broken sleep that followed。
In the morning； dressing； he wondered he had not thought of it before。 He
was more cheerful at breakfast than he had been for weeks。
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THE AMAZING INTERLUDE
CHAPTER XIX
In the little house of mercy two weeks went by； and then a third。
Soldiers marching out to the trenches sometimes wore flowers tucked
gayly in their caps。 More and more Allied aeiroplanes were in the air。
Sometimes； standing in the streets； Sara Lee saw one far overhead； while
balloon…shaped clouds of bursting shells hung far below it。
Once or twice in the early morning a German plane； flying so low that
one could easily see the black cross on each wing； reconnoitered the
village for wagon trains or troops。 Always they found it empty。
Hope had almost fled now。 In the afternoons Marie went to the ruined
church； and there knelt before the heap of marble and masonry that had
once been the altar； and prayed。 And Sara Lee； who bad been brought up a
Protestant and had never before entered a Catholic church； took to going
there too。 In some strange fashion the peace of former days seemed to
cling to the little structure； roofless as it was。 On quiet days it silence was
deeper than elsewhere。 On days of much firing the sound from within its
broken walls seemed deadened； far away。
Marie burned a candle as she prayed； for that soul in purgatory which
she had once loved； and now pitied。 Sara Lee burned no candle； but she
knelt； sometimes beside Marie； sometimes alone； and prayed for many
things： that Henri should be living； somewhere； that the war might end；
that that day there would be little wounding； that some day the Belgians
might go home again； and that back in America Harvey might grow to
understand and forgive her。 And now and then she looked into the very
depths of her soul； and on those days she prayed that her homeland might；
before it was too late； see this thing as she was seeing it。 The wanton
waste of it all； the ghastly cruelty the Germans had brought into this war。
Sara Lee's vague thinking began to crystallize。 This war was not a
judgment sent from on high to a sinful world。 It was the wicked imposition
of one nation on other nations。 It was national。 It was almost racial。 But
most of all it was a war of hate on the German side。 She had never
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THE AMAZING INTERLUDE
believed in hate。 There were ugly passions in the world … jealousy； envy；
suspicion； but not hate。 The word was not in her rather limited vocabulary。
There was no hate on the part of the men she knew。 The officers who
stopped in on their way to and from the trenches were gentlemen and
soldiers。 They were determined and grave； they resented； they even
loathed。 But they did not hate。 The little Belgian soldiers were bewildered；
puzzled； desperately resentful。 But of hate； as translated into terms of
frightfulness； they had no understanding。
Yet from the other side were coming methods of war so wantonly cruel；
so useless save as inflicting needless agony； as only hate could devise。 No
strategic value justified them。 They were spontaneous outgrowths of
venom； nursed during the winter deadlock and now grown to full size and
destructive power。
The rumor of a gas that seared and killed came to the little house as
early as February。 In March there came the first victims； poor writhing
creatures； deprived of the boon of air； their seared lungs collapsed and
agonized； their faces drawn into masks of suffering。 Some of them died in
the little house； and even after death their faces held the imprint of horror。
To Sara Lee； burying her own anxiety under the cloak of service； there
came new and terrible thoughts。 This was not war。 The Germans had sent
their clouds of poisoned gas across the inundation； but had made no
attempt to follow。 This was killing； for the lust of killing； suffering； for the
joy of inflicting pain。
And a day or so later she heard of The Hague Convention。 She had not
known of it before。 Now she learned of that gentlemen's agreement among
nations； and that it said： 〃The use of poison or of poisoned weapons is
forbidden。〃 She pondered that carefully； trying to think dispassionately。
Now and then she received a copy of a home newspaper； and she saw that
the use of poison gases was being denied by Germans in America and set
down to rumor and hysteria。
So； on a cold spring day； she sat down at the table in the salle manger
and wrote a letter to the President； beginning 〃 Dear Sir〃； and telling what
she knew of poison gas。 She also； on second thought； wrote one to Andrew
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THE AMAZING INTERLUDE
Carnegie； who had built a library in her city。 She felt that the expense to
him of sending some one over to investigate would not be prohibitive； and
something must be done。
She never heard from either of her letters； but she felt better for having
written them。 And a day or two later she received from Mrs。 Travers； in
England； a small supply of the first gas masks of the war。 Simple and
primitive they were； those first masks； useless； too； as it turned out … a
square of folded gauze； soaked in some solution and then dried； with tapes
to tie it over the mouth and nose。 To adjust them the soldiers had but to
stoop and wet them in the ever…present water in the trench； and then to tie
them on。
Sara Lee gave them out that night； and there was much mirth in the
little house； such mirth as there had not been since Henri went away。 The
Belgians called it a bal masque； and putting them on bowed before one
another and requested dances； and even flirted coyly with each other over
their bits of white gauze。 And in the very middle of the gayety some one
propounded one of Henri's idiotic riddles； and Sara Lee went across to her
little room and closed the door and stood there with her eyes shut； for fear
she would scream。
Then； one day； coming out of the little church； she saw the low broken
gray car turn in at the top of the street and come slowly； so very slowly；
toward her。 There were two men in it。
One was Henri。
She ran； stumbling because of tears； up the street。 It was Henri！ There
was no mistake。 There he sat beside Jean； brushed and very neat； and very；
very white。
〃Mademoiselle！〃 he said； and came very close to crying himself when
he saw her face。 He was greatly excited。 His sunken eyes devoured her as
she ran toward him。 Almost he held out his arms。 But he could not do that；
even if he would； for one was bandaged to his side。
It is rather sad to record how many times Sara Lee wept during her
amazing interlude。 For here is another time。 She wept for joy and
wretchedness。 She stood on the running board and cried and smiled。 And
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Jean winked his one eye rapidly。
〃This idiot； mademoiselle；〃 he said gruffly； 〃this maniac … he would
not remain in Calais； with proper care。 He must come on here。 And rapidly。
Could he have taken the wheel from me we should have been here an hour
ago。 But for once I have an advantage。〃
The car jolted to the little house； and Jean helped Henri out。 Such a
strange Henri； smiling and joyous； and walking at a crawl； even with
Jean's support。 He protested violently against being put to bed； and when
he found himself
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