there was one house with a roof on it in peronne. and there an officer came by moonlight on his way back from leave. he was looking for his battalion which had moved and was now somewhere in the desolation out in front of peronne, or else was marching there—no one quite knew. someone said he had seen it marching through tincourt; the r.t.o. said brie. those who did not know were always ready to help, they made suggestions and even pulled out maps. why should they not? they were giving away no secret, because they did not know, and so they followed a soldier's natural inclination to give all the help they could to another soldier. therefore they offered their suggestions like old friends. they had never met before, might never meet again; but la france introduces you, and five minute acquaintance in a place like peronne, where things may change so profoundly in one night, and where all is so tense by the strange background of ruin that little portions of time seem very valuable, five minutes there seem quite a long time. and so they are, for what may not happen in five minutes any day now in france. five minutes may be a page of history, a chapter even, perhaps a volume. little children with inky fingers years hence may sit for a whole hour trying to learn up and remember just what happened during five minutes in france some time about now. these are just reflections such as pass through the mind in the moonlight among vast ruins and are at once forgotten.
those that knew where the battalion was that the wandering officer looked for were not many; these were reserved and spoke like one that has a murder on his conscience, not freely and openly: for of one thing no one speaks in france, and that is the exact position of a unit. one may wave one's hand vaguely eastwards and say "over there,", but to name a village and the people that occupy it is to offend against the silence that in these days broods over france, the solemn hush befitting so vast a tragedy.
and in the end it seemed better to that officer to obey the r.t.o. and to go by his train to brie that left in the morning, and that question settled, there remained only food and sleep.
down in the basement of the big house with a roof there was a kitchen, in fact there was everything that a house should have; and the more that one saw of simple household things, tables, chairs, the fire in the kitchen, pieces of carpet, floors, ceilings, and even windows, the more one wondered; it did not seem natural in peronne.
picture to yourself a fine drawing-room with high ornamental walls and all the air about it of dignity, peace and ease, that were so recently gone; only just, as it might have been, stepped through the double doorway; skirts, as it were, of ladies only just trailed out of sight; and then turn in fancy to that great town streaming with moonlight, full of the mystery that moonlight always brings, but without the light of it; all black, dark as caverns of earth where no light ever came, blacker for the moonlight than if no moon were there; sombre, mourning and accursed, each house in the great streets sheltering darkness amongst its windowless walls; as though it nursed disaster, having no other children left, and would not let the moon peer in on its grief or see the monstrous orphan that it fondled.
in the old drawing-room with twenty others, the wandering officer lay down to sleep on the floor, and thought of old wars that came to the cities of france a long while ago. to just such houses as this, he thought, men must have come before and gone on next day to fight in other centuries; it seemed to him that it must have been more romantic then. who knows?
he had a bit of carpet to lie on. a few more officers came in in the early part of the night, and talked a little and lay down. a few candles were stuck on tables here and there. midnight would have struck from the towers had any clock been left to strike in peronne. still talk went on in low voices here and there. the candles burned low and were fewer. big shadows floated along those old high walls. then the talk ceased and everyone was still: nothing stirred but the shadows. an officer muttered in sleep of things far thence, and was silent. far away shells thumped faintly. the shadows, left to themselves, went round and round the room, searching in every corner for something that was lost. over walls and ceiling they went and could not find it. the last candle was failing. it flared and guttered. the shadows raced over the room from comer to corner. lost, and they could not find it. they hurried desperately in those last few moments. great shadows searching for some little thing. in the smallest nook they sought for it. then the last candle died. as the flame went up with the smoke from the fallen wick all the great shadows turned and mournfully trailed away.
