He had spent the early summer roaming about the East looking, as he had looked at Hong-Kong, for work that might lead to fortune and finding none. A touch of fever had caused a friendly doctor at Penang to pack him off to Europe by the first boat. It had been a Will o’ the Wisp chase mainly in the rains, when the Straits Settlements are not abodes2 of delight. It is bad enough that your boots should be mildewed4 every morning; but when the mildew3 begins to attack your bones it is best to depart. Martin embarked5 philosophically6. He had tried the East because it was nearer to his original point of departure. Now he would try the West—America or Canada. In a temperate8 climate he could undertake physical labour. His muscles were solid, and save for the touch of fever of which the sea-air had soon cured him, his health was robust9. He could hew10 wood, draw water, dig the earth. In a new country he could not starve. At the last pinch he could fall back on the profession he had learned at the H?tel des Grottes. Furthermore, by eating the bread and choosing the couch of hardship he had spent comparatively little of his capital. His vagabondage had hardened him physically11 and morally. He knew the world. He had mixed with all kinds and conditions of men. Egypt seemed a sensuous12 dream of long ago. He deafened13 his heart to its memories. It would take ten years to make anything of a fortune. If he succeeded, then, in ten years’ time, he would seek Lucilla. In the meanwhile he would not waste away in despair. He faced the future with confidence. While standing14 with his humble15 fellow passengers in the bows of the vessel16, he felt his pulses thrill at the first sight of the blue islands of Marseilles. It was France, country almost of his adoption17. He rejoiced that he had decided18 not to book his ticket to Southampton, but to pass through the beloved land once again before he sailed to another Hemisphere. Besides, his money and most of his personal effects (despatched from Egypt) were lying at Cook’s office in Paris. The practical therefore turned sentiment into an easy channel. He landed, carrying his bag in his hand, bought a paper on the quay19 from a screaming urchin20, and to his stupefaction found the world on the brink of war.
At Gibraltar he had not seen a newspaper. None had penetrated21 to the steerage and he had not landed. He had taken it for granted that the good, comfortable old earth was rolling its usual course. Now, at Marseilles, he became aware of every one in the blazing sunshine of the quays22 staring at newspapers held open before them. At the modest hotel hard by, where he deposited his bag, he questioned the manager. Yes, did not he know? Austria had declared war on Servia. Germany had rejected all proposals from England for a conference. The President of the Republic had hurried from Russia. Russia would not allow Servia to be attacked by Austria. France must join Russia. It was a coup23 prepared by Germany. “Ca y est, c’est la guerre,” said he.
Martin went out into the streets and found a place on the crowded terrace of one of the cafés on the Cannebière. All around him was the talk of war. The rich-voiced Proven?aux do not speak in whispers. There was but one hope for peace, the successful intervention24 of England between Russia and Austria. But Germany would not have it. War was inevitable25. Martin bribed26 a chasseur to find him some English papers, no matter of what date. With fervent27 anxiety he scanned the history of the momentous28 week. What he read confirmed the talk. Whatever action England might take, France would be at war in a few days. He paid for his drink and walked up the Cannebière. He saw no smiling faces. The shadow of war already overspread the joyous29 town. A battalion30 of infantry31 passed by, and people stood still involuntarily and watched the soldiers with looks curiously32 stern. And Martin stood also, and remained standing long after the clanging tram-cars temporarily held up had blocked them from his sight. And he knew that he could not go to America.
In a little spot in the heart of France lived all the friends he had in the world; all the brave souls he had learned to love. Brant?me appeared before him as in a revelation, and a consciousness of ingratitude33 smote34 him so that he drew a gasping35 breath. Not that he had forgotten them. He had kept up a fitful correspondence with Bigourdin who had never hinted a reproach. But until an hour or two ago he had been prepared to wipe Brant?me out of his life, to pass through France without giving it an hour of greeting—even an ave atque vale.
In the past seven months of mad folly36 and studied poverty, where had he met characters so strong, ideals so lofty, hearts so loyal? What had he learned among the careless superficial Anglo-American society in Egypt comparable with that which he had learned in this world-forgotten little bourgeoisie in France? Which of them had touched his nature below the layer of his vanity? What ideals had he met with in the East? Could he so term the complacent37 and pessimistic opportunism of the Tudsleys; the querulous grumbling38 of officials; the honest dulness of sea-captains and seamen39? He judged superficially, it is true; for one has to strike deep before one can get at the shy soul of a Briton. But a man is but the creature of his impressions. From his own particular journeyings of seven months he had returned almost bewilderingly alone. East of Marseilles there dwelt not a human being whose call no matter how faint sounded in his ears. England, in so far as intimate personal England was concerned, had no call for him either. Nor had America, unknown, remote, unfriendly as Greenland.
Jostled, he walked along the busy thoroughfare, a man far away, treading the paths of the spirit. In this mighty41 convulsion that threatened the earth, there was one spot which summoned him, with a call clear and insistent42. His place was there, in Périgord, to share in its hopes and its fears, its mourning and its joy.
He returned to the hotel for his bag and took the first train in the direction of Brant?me. What he would do when arrived, he had no definite notion. It was something beyond reason that drove him thither43. Something irresistible44; more irresistible than the force which had impelled45 him to Egypt. Then he had hesitated, weighed things for and against. Now, one moment had decided him. It never occurred to him to question. Through the burning south of France he sped. As yet only the shadow of war hung over the land; the awful Word had not yet gone forth46. Swarthy men and women worked in the baking vineyards and gathered in the yellow harvest. But here and there on flashing glimpses of white road troops marched dustily and military waggons47 lumbered48 along. And in the narrow, wooden-seated third-class carriage on the slow and ever stopping train, the talk even of the humblest was of war. At every station some of the passengers left, some entered. There seemed to be a sudden concentration homewards. At every station were soldiers recalled from leave to their garrisons49. These, during the journey, were questioned as authoritative50 functionaries51. Yes, for sure, there would be war. Why they did not know, except that the sales bêtes of Germans were, at last, going to invade France.
Said one, “I saw an officer yesterday in our village—the son of Monsieur le Comte de Boirelles who has the big chateau52 là-bas—we have known each other from childhood—and he said, ‘Hein, mon brave, ca y est!’ And I said: ‘What, mon lieutenant53?’ And he said, ‘V’là le son, le son du canon.’ Fight like a good son of Boirelles, or I’ll cut off your ears.’ And I replied, quasiment comme ?a: ‘You will not have the opportunity, mon lieutenant, you being in the artillery54 and I in the infantry.’ And he laughed with good heart. ‘Anyhow,’ said he, ‘if you return to the village, when the war is over, without the military medal, and I am alive, I’ll make my mother do it, in the courtyard of the chateau, with her own scissors.’ I tell you this to prove to you that I know there is going to be war.”
And the women, holding their blue bundles on their knees in the crowded compartment—for in democratic France demos is not allowed the luxury of luggage-racks—looked at the future with anxious eyes. What would become of them? The government would take their men. Their men would be killed or maimed. Even if the men returned safe and sound, in the meantime, how would they live? Ah, mon Dieu! Cette rosse de guerre! They cursed the war as though it were a foul55 and conscious entity56.
The interminable journey, by day, by night, with tedious waits at great ghostly junctions57, at last was over. Martin emerged from the station of Brant?me and immediately before him stood the familiar ramshackle omnibus of the H?tel des Grottes. Old Grégoire, the driver, on beholding58 him staggered back and almost fell over the step of the vehicle.
“Monsieur Martin! C’est vous?”
Recovering, he advanced with great, sun-glazed hand.
“Yes. It is indeed I,” laughed Martin.
“It is everybody that will be content,” cried Grégoire. “How one has talked of you, and wished you were back. And now, that this sacrée guerre is coming——”
“That’s why I’ve come,” said Martin. “How are monsieur and mademoiselle?”
Both were well. It was they who would be glad to see Monsieur Martin. The old fellow, red-faced, white-haired, clean shaven, with a comfortable gash59 of a mouth, clapped him on the shoulder.
“Mais v’là un solide gaillard?”
“Tu trouves?”
Why, of course Grégoire found him transformed into a stout60 fellow. When he had arrived a year ago he was like a bit of wet string. What a thing it was to travel. And yet he had been in China where people ate rats and dogs, which could not be nourishing food. In a fortnight, on the good meat and foie gras of Périgord, he would develop into a veritable giant. If Monsieur Martin would enter. . . . He held the door open. No one else had arrived by the train.
The omnibus jolted61 and swayed along the familiar road, through the familiar cobble-paved streets, along the familiar quays, past many a familiar face. They all seemed to chant the welcome of which the old driver had struck the key. Martin felt strangely happy and the tears were very near his eyes. Monsieur Richard, the butcher, catching62 sight of him, darted63 a pace or two down the pavement so as to make sure, and threw up both hands in greeting. And as they turned the corner of the hill surmounted64 by the dear grey tower of the old Abbey, Monsieur le Curé saw him and smiled and swept a salute65 with his old dusty hat, which Martin acknowledged through the end window of the omnibus.
They drew up before the familiar door of the old white inn. Baptiste was there, elderly, battered66, in his green baize apron67.
“Mais, mon Dieu, c’est vous?—mais—— ” He wrung68 Martin’s hand. And, as once before, on the return of Félise, not being able to cope with his emotions, he shouted on the threshold of the vestibule: “Monsieur, monsieur, c’est Monsieur Martin qui arrive!”
“Qu’est-ce que tu dis là?” cried a familiar voice from the bureau.
“C’est Monsieur Martin.”
Martin entered, and in the vestibule encountered Bigourdin.
“Mais mon vieux,” cried the vast man. “C’est toi? C’est vraiment toi, enfin?”
It was the instinctive69, surprised and joyous greeting of the two servants. Martin stood unstrung. What had he done to deserve it? Before he could utter a word, he felt two colossal70 arms swung round him and a kiss implanted on each cheek. Then Bigourdin held him out and looked at him, and, like Grégoire, told him how solid he looked.
“Enfin! You’ve come back. Tell me how and when and why. Tell me all.”
Martin’s eyes were moist. “My God!” said he, with a catch in his voice, “you are a good fellow.”
“Not a bit, mon cher. We are friends, and in friendship there is something just a little bit sacred. But tell me, nom d’une pipe! all about yourself.”
“I was on my way,” said Martin, with his conscientious71 honesty, “from Penang to New York. At Marseilles I heard for the first time of the war in which France will be involved and of which we have so often talked. And something, I don’t know what, called me here—et me voici!”
“C’est beau. C’est bien beau de ta part,” said Bigourdin seriously. “Let us go and find Félise.”
Now, when a Frenchman characterises a deed as beau, it is in his opinion very fine indeed.
But before they could move, Euphémie rushed from her kitchen and all but embraced the wanderer and Joseph, late plongeur at the Café de l’Univers and now waiter at the h?tel, came shyly from the salle-à-manger, and the brightness of his eyes was only equalled by the lustre72 of the habiliments that formerly73 had belonged to Martin. Bigourdin despatched him in quest of Félise. Soon she came, from the fabrique, looking rather white. Joseph had shot his news at her. But she came up looking Martin straight in the eyes, her hand extended.
“Bonjour, Martin. I am glad to see you again.”
“So am I,” said he. “More than glad. It’s like coming back to one’s own people.”
“Neither have I,” she said. “Not since January. She seems to be a bird of passage through other people’s lives.”
Bigourdin laughed, shaking a great forefinger76. “I bet that is not original. I bet you are quoting your old philosopher of a father!”
“And how is the good Fortinbras?” asked Martin, to turn a distressful78 conversation.
“A merveille! We are expecting him by any train. It is I who am making him come. To-morrow I may be called out. France will want more than the Troupes79 Métropolitaines and the Réserves to fight the Germans. They will want the Territorials80, et c’est moi, l’armée territoriale.” He thumped81 his chest. “It was written that I should strike a blow for France like my fathers. But while I am striking the blow who is to look after my little Félise and the H?tel des Grottes? It is well to be prepared. When the mobilisation is ordered, there will be no more trains for civilians82.”
“And what do you feel about the war, Félise?” asked Martin.
Bigourdin hugged her. “That is a daughter of France! I am proud of our little girl. On dirait une Jeanne d’Arc. But where is the Frenchwoman now who is not animated85 by the spirit of La Pucelle d’Orléans?”
“In the meanwhile, mon oncle,” said Félise, disengaging herself demurely86 from his embrace, “Martin looks exceedingly dusty and hungry, and no one has even suggested that he should wash or eat or have his bag carried up to his room.”
Bigourdin regarded her with admiration87. “She is wonderful. She thinks of everything. Baptiste. Take up Monsieur Martin’s things to the chambre d’honneur.”
“But, my dear fellow,” Martin protested, “I only want my old room in which I have slept so soundly.”
But Bigourdin would have none of it. He was the Prodigal88 Son. “Et justement!” he cried, slapping his thigh89, “we have a good calf90’s head for déjeuner. Yes, it’s true,” he laughed delightedly. “The fatted calf. It was fatted by our neighbour Richard. C’est extraordinaire!”
So Martin shaved and washed in the famous bath room, and changed, and descended91 to the salle-à-manger. The only guests were a few anxious-faced commercial travellers at the centre table. All but one were old acquaintances. He went the round, shaking hands, amid cordial greetings. It was the last time, they said. To-morrow they would be mobilised. The day after they would exchange the sample box for the pack of the soldier; in a week they would have the skin torn off the soles of their feet; and in a month they would be blown to bits by shells. They proclaimed a lack of the warrior92 spirit. They had a horror of blood, even a cat’s. It stirred up one’s stomach. Mais enfin one did not think of such unimportant things when France was in peril93. If your house was in danger of being swept away by flood, there was no sense in being afraid to catch cold through having your feet wet. Each in his way expressed the same calm fatalistic patriotism94. They had no yearning95 to be killed. But if they were killed—they shrugged96 their shoulders. They were France and France was they. No force could dismember them from France without France or themselves bleeding to death. It was very simple.
Martin left them and sat down with Bigourdin and Félise, at their table in the corner by the door. It was the first time he had ever done so. Félise ate little and spoke97 less. Now and again, as he told of his mild adventures in the Far East, he caught her great dark eyes fixed98 on him, and he smiled, unaccountably glad. But always she shifted her glance and made a pretence99 of eating or drinking. Once, when Bigourdin, called by innkeeper’s business to one of the commercial travellers, had left the table, she said:
“You have changed. One would say it was not the same man.”
“What makes you think so?” he laughed.
“You talk differently. There is a different expression on your face.”
“I’m sorry,” said he.
“I don’t see why you should be sorry,” said Félise.
“If you no longer recognise me,” said he—they talked in French—“I must come to you as a stranger.”
She bit her lip and flushed. “I did not know what I was saying. Perhaps it was impertinent.”
“How could it be, Félise?” he asked, bending across the table. “But if I have changed, is it for the better or the worse?”
“Would you be a waiter here again?”
Martin looked for a second into his soul.
“No,” said he.
“Voilà!” said Félise.
“But I couldn’t tell you why.”
“It’s not necessary,” said Félise.
Bigourdin joined them. The meal ended. Félise went off to her duties. Bigourdin said:
“Let us go and drink our coffee at the Café de l’Univers. Everybody is there, at this hour, the last day or two. We may learn some news.”
They descended the hill and walked along the blazing quays. Martin knew every house, every stone, every old woman who pausing from beating her linen100 on the side of the Dronne waved him a welcome. And men stopped him and slapped his shoulder and shook him by the hand.
“You recognise the good heart of Périgord,” said Bigourdin.
Martin replied, with excusable Gallic hyperbole: “C’est mon pays. I find it again, after having wandered over the earth.”
They turned into the narrow, cool Rue40 de Périgueux. On the opposite side of the street, they saw Monsieur Foure, adjoint du maire, walking furiously, mopping a red forehead, soft straw hat in hand. He sped across to them, too excited to realise that Martin had gone and returned.
“Have you heard the news? The Mayor has received a telegram from Paris. The order of mobilisation goes out to-day.”
“Bon,” said Bigourdin.
The terrace of the Café de l’Univers was crowded with the notables of the town, who, in their sober way, only frequented the café after dinner. The special c?terie had their section apart, as at night. They were all assembled—Fénille of the Compagnie du Gaz; Beuzot, Professor of the Ecole Normale; the Viriots, father and son; Thiébauld, managing director of the quarries101; Béno?t of the railway; Rutillard, the great chandler of corn and hay; and they did not need the adjoint du Maire to tell them the news. The fresh arrivals, provided speedily with chairs by the waiters, were swallowed up in the group. And Martin was assailed102.
“Et maintenant, l’Angleterre. Qu’est-ce qu’elle va faire?”
It was the question on all French lips that day until England declared war.
And Martin proclaimed, as though inspired from Whitehall, that England would fight. For the moment his declaration satisfied them. The talk swayed from him excitedly. France at war, at last, after forty years, held their souls. They talked in the air, as men will, of numbers, of preparations, of chances, of the solidarity103 of the nation. When there was a little pause, the square-headed, white-haired Monsieur Viriot rose and with a gesture, imposed silence.
“This is a moment,” said he, “for every misunderstanding between loyal French hearts to be cleared up. We are now brothers in the defence of our beloved country. Mon brave ami Bigourdin, donne-moi ta main.”
Bigourdin sprang up,—in the public street—but what did that matter?—and cried: “Mon vieux Viriot,” and the two men embraced and kissed each other, and every one, much affected104, cried “Bravo! Bravo!” And then Bigourdin, reaching over the marble tables, took young Lucien Viriot’s hands and embraced him and shook him by the shoulders, and cried: “Here is a cuirassier who is going to cut through the Germans like bladders of lard!”
Fortinbras arrived late at night, probably by the last regular train-services; for on the next day and for many days afterwards there were wild hurry and crowds and confusion on roads and railways all through France.
Into the town poured all the men of the surrounding villages, and the streets were filled with them and their wives and mothers and children, and strange officers in motor-cars whirled through the Rue de Périgueux. Bands of young men falling into the well-remembered step marched along the quays to the station singing the Marseillaise, and women stood at their doorsteps blowing them kisses as they passed. And at the station the great military trains adorned107 with branches of trees and flowers, steamed away, a massed line of white faces and waving arms; and old men and women young and old waved handkerchiefs until the train disappeared, and then turned away weeping bitterly. Martin, Fortinbras and Bigourdin went to many a train to see off the flower of the youth of the little town. Lucien Viriot went gallantly108. “A good war horse suits me better than an office-stool,” he laughed. And Joseph, sloughing109 for ever Martin’s shiny black raiment, went off too; and the younger waiters of the Café de l’Univers, and Beuzot, the young professor at the Ecole Normale, and the son of the adjoint, and le petit Maurin, who helped his mother at her Débit de Tabac. Many a familiar face was carried away from Brant?me towards some unknown battle-line and the thunder and the slaughter—a familiar face which Brant?me was never to see again. And after a day or two the town seemed futile110, like a ball-room from which the last dancers had gone.
Grave was the evening c?terie at the Café de l’Univers. The rumour111 had gone through France that England more than hesitated. Fortinbras magnificently defended England’s honour. He had been very quiet at home, tenderly shy and wistful with Félise, unsuggestive of paths to happiness with Martin; his attitude towards intimate life one of gentle melancholy112. He had told Martin that he had retired113 from business as Marchand de Bonheur. He had lost the trick of it. At Bigourdin’s urgency he had purchased an annuity114 which sufficed his modest and philosophic7 needs. No longer having the fierce incentive115 to gain the hard-earned five-franc piece, no longer involved in a scheme of things harmonious116 with an irregular profession, he was like the singer deprived of the gift of song, the telepathist stricken with inhibitory impotence. For all his odd learning, for all his garnered117 knowledge of the human heart, and for all his queer heroic struggle, he stood before his own soul an irremediable failure. So an older and almost a broken Fortinbras had taken up his quarters at the H?tel des Grottes. But stimulated118 by the talk of war, he became once more the orator119 and the seer. He held a brief for England and his passionate120 sincerity121 imposed itself on his hearers.
“Thank God!” said he afterwards, “I was right.”
But in the meanwhile, Martin, strung in every fibre to high pitch by what he had heard, by what he had seen and by what he had felt, knew that just as it was ordained122 that he should come to Brant?me, so it was ordained that he should not stay.
“You talk eloquently123 and with conviction, Monsieur,” said the Mayor to Fortinbras—there were a dozen in the familiar café corner, tense and eager-eyed, and Monsieur Cazensac, the Gascon proprietor124, stood by—“but what proofs have you given us of England’s co-operation?”
Martin, with a thrill through his body, said in a loud voice:
“Monsieur le Maire, there is not a living Englishman with red blood in his veins125 who has any doubt. I, the most obscure of Englishmen, speak for my country. Get me accepted as a volunteer, the humblest foot-soldier, and I will fight for France. Take up my pledge, Monsieur le Maire. It is the pledge of the only Englishman in Brant?me on behalf of the British Empire. There are millions better than I from all ends of the earth who will be inspired by the same sentiments of loyalty126. Get me accepted!”
In English Martin could never have said it. Words would have come shyly. But he was among Frenchmen, attuned127 to French modes of expression. A murmur128 of approbation129 arose.
“Yes,” cried Martin. “I offer France my life as a pledge for my country. Get me accepted, Monsieur le Maire.”
The Mayor, a lean, grey-eyed, bald-headed man, with a straggly, iron-grey beard, looked at him intently for a few moments.
“C’est bien,” said he. “I take up your pledge. I have to go to-morrow to Périgueux to see Monsieur le Préfet, who has a certain friendliness130 for me. He has influence with the Ministère de la Guerre. Accompany me to Périgueux. I undertake to see that it is arranged.”
“I thank you, Monsieur le Maire,” said Martin.
Then everybody talked at once, and lifted their glasses to Martin, and Monsieur Viriot despatched Cazensac for the sweet champagne131 in which nearly a year ago they had drunk Lucien’s health; and Bigourdin embraced him; and when the wine was poured out, there were cries of “Vive l’Angleterre!” “Vive la France!” “Vive Martin!” And the square-headed old Monsieur Viriot set the climax132 of this ovation133 by lifting his glass at arm’s length and proclaiming “Vive notre bon Périgordin!”
Said Fortinbras, who sat next to him, “I would give the rest of my life to be as young as you, just for the next few months. My God, you must feel proud!”
Martin’s steady English blood asserted itself: “I don’t,” said he, “I feel a damned premature134 hero.”
It is only in the Légion Etrangère, that fantastic, romantic regiment135 of dare-devil desperadoes capable of all iniquities136 and of all heroisms, that a foreigner can enlist137 straight away, no questions asked. To be incorporated in the regular army of France is another matter. Wires have to be pulled. They were pulled in Martin’s case. It was to his credit that he had served two years—gaining the stripes of a corporal—in the Rifle Corps138 of the University of Cambridge. At the psychological moment of pulling, England declared war on Germany. The resources of the British Empire, men and money and ships and blood were on the side of France. England and France were one. A second’s consideration of the request of the Préfet de la Dordogne and a hurriedly scrawled139 signature constituted Martin a potential member of the French Army.
It happened that, when the notice of authorisation came, the first person he ran across was Félise, by the door of the fabrique. He waved the paper.
“I am accepted.”
She turned pale and put her hand to her heart, but she met his eyes bravely.
“When do you go?”
“At once—straight to Périgueux to enlist.”
“And when will you come back?”
“God knows,” said he.
“Of course I hope to come back; some time or other, when the War’s over. Naturally—but——”
She said quaveringly—“You may be killed.”
“So may millions. I take my chance.”
She turned aside, clapped both hands to her face and broke into a passion of weeping. Instinctively141 he put an arm around her. She sobbed142 on his shoulder. He whispered:
“Do you care so much about what happens to me?”
She tore herself away and faced him with eyes flashing through her tears.
“Do you think I’m a stick or a stone? I am half English, half French. You are going to fight for England and France. Don’t you think women feel these things? You are a part of the Englishwoman and the Frenchwoman that is going out to fight, and I would hate you if you didn’t fight, but I don’t want you to be killed.”
She fled. And not till he left the H?tel des Grottes did he see her again alone. When with Bigourdin and Fortinbras he was about to enter the old omnibus to take him to the station, she pinned a tricolour ribbon on his coat, and then saying “Good-bye and God bless you,” looked him squarely in the eyes. It was in his heart to say, “You’re worth all the Lucillas in the universe.” But there were Bigourdin and Fortinbras and Euphémie and Baptiste and Grégoire and the chambermaid and a few straggling girls from the fabrique all standing by. He said:
“God bless you, Félise. I shall never part with your ribbon as long as I live.”
Grégoire climbed to his seat. Bigourdin closed the door. The omnibus jolted and swayed down the road. The elfin figure of Félise was suddenly cut off at the turn. And that was the last of the H?tel des Grottes.
A week or so later, Martin drilling in the hot barrack square realised that just a year had passed since he first set eyes on Brant?me. A year ago he had been a spineless, aimless drudge143 at Margett’s Universal College. Now, wearing a French uniform, he was about to fight for France and England in the greatest of all wars that the world had seen. And during those twelve months through what soul-shaking experiences had he not passed! Truly a wonderful year.
“Mais vous, num’ro sept! Sacré nom de Dieu! Qu’est-ce que vous faites-là!” screamed the drill sergeant144.
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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hew
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| v.砍；伐；削 | |
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11
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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12
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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13
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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15
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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16
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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17
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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18
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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19
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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20
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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21
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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22
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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23
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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24
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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25
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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26
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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27
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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28
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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29
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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30
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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31
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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32
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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33
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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34
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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35
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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36
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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37
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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38
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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39
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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40
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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41
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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42
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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43
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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44
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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45
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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47
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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48
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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49
garrisons
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| 守备部队，卫戍部队( garrison的名词复数 ) | |
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50
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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51
functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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52
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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53
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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54
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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55
foul
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|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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56
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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57
junctions
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| 联结点( junction的名词复数 )； 会合点； （公路或铁路的）交叉路口； （电缆等的）主结点 | |
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58
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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59
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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61
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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63
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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64
surmounted
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|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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65
salute
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|
| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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66
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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67
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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68
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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69
instinctive
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|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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70
colossal
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|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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71
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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72
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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73
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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74
bravura
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|
| n.华美的乐曲；勇敢大胆的表现；adj.壮勇华丽的 | |
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75
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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77
defiantly
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|
| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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78
distressful
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|
| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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79
troupes
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|
| n. （演出的）一团, 一班 vi. 巡回演出 | |
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80
territorials
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|
| n.（常大写）地方自卫队士兵( territorial的名词复数 ) | |
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81
thumped
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|
| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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83
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
immortal
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|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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85
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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86
demurely
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|
| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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87
admiration
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|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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88
prodigal
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|
| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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89
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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90
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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91
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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92
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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93
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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94
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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95
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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96
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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98
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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99
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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100
linen
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|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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101
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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102
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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103
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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104
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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105
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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106
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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107
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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108
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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109
sloughing
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| v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的现在分词 )；舍弃；除掉；摒弃 | |
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110
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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111
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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112
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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113
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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114
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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115
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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116
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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117
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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119
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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120
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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121
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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122
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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123
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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124
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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125
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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126
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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127
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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128
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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129
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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130
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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131
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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132
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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133
ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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134
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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135
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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136
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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137
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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138
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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139
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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141
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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142
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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143
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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144
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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145
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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