But
now, her ancestral home was a heap of debris, a tomb for men of many
nations, which she did not like to visit. She took me there once, and we
walked through the old tennis court where a little summer house remained
untouched, its jaunty frailty seeming to mock at the desolation of all
that is solid.
"Ah, I have had good times here," she said in the expressionless voice
of one who has endured too much.
For now she was alone. Tennis tournaments for her were separated from
the present by a curtain of deaths, by the incomparable space of those
four years.
Mademoiselle Gaston had played her part in it all. When the Germans were
advancing upon Noyon, she had stuck to her post and remained in the
hospital where she nursed her compatriots under enemy rule during the
first occupation of the city. Something about her had made them treat
her with respect, although I have been told that the Prussian officers
were always vaguely uncomfortable in her presence. There was, perhaps,
not enough humility in her clear eyes, and they worked her to the
breaking point. Yet so impeccable and businesslike was her conduct that
they could never convict her of any infringement of rules. Little did
these pompous invaders suspect how this slender capable girl with the
hazel eyes was spicing the hours behind their backs, and drawing with
nimble and irreverent pencil portraits of her captors, daring
caricatures which she exhibited in secret to the terrified delight of
her patients.
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