Man and Maid | Page 7

a woman of my age can't have everything. I adore Jim! We
are going to be married the first moment he can get leave again--and I
shall 'wangle' him into being a 'red tab'--he has fought enough."
"And if meanwhile he should get maimed like me--what then, Nina?"
She actually paled.
"Don't be so horrid Nicholas--Jim--Oh! I can't bear it!" and being a
strict Protestant, she crossed herself--to avert bad luck!
"We won't think of anything but joy and happiness, Nina, but it is quite
plain to me you had better have a fortnight at the sea!"
She had forgotten the allusion, and turned puzzled brown eyes upon
me.
"You know--to balance yourself when you feel you are falling in

love"--I reminded her.
"Oh! It is all stuff and nonsense! I know now I adore Jim--good-bye
Nicholas"--and she hugged me--as a sister--a mother--and a family
friend--and was off down the stairs again.
Burton had brought me in a mild gin and seltzer, and it was on the tray,
near, so I drank it, and said to myself, "Here is to the Senses--jolly
good things"--and then I telephoned to Suzette to come and dine.
* * *
There is a mole on the left cheek of Suzette, high up near her eye, there
are three black hairs in it--I had never seen them until this
morning--c'est fini--je ne puis plus!
* * *
Of course we have all got moles with three black hairs in them--and the
awful moment is when suddenly they are seen--That is the tragedy of
life--disillusion.
I cannot help being horribly introspective, Maurice would agree to
whatever I said, so there is no use in talking to him--I rush to this
journal, it cannot look at me with fond watery eyes of reproach and
disapproval--as Burton would if I let myself go to him.
May 16th--The times have been too anxious to write, it is over two
months since I opened this book. But it cannot be, it cannot be that we
shall be beaten--Oh! God--why am I not a man again to fight! The raids
are continuous--All the fluffies and nearly everyone left Paris in the
ticklish March and April times, but now their fears are lulled a little and
many have returned, and they rush to cinemas and theatres, to kill time,
and jump into the rare taxis to go and see the places where the raid
bombs burst, or Bertha shells, and watch the houses burning and the
crushed bodies of the victims being dragged out. They sicken me, this
rotten crew--But this is not all France--great, dear, brave France--It is
only one section of useless society. To-day the Duchesse de

Courville-Hautevine came to call upon me--mounted all the stairs
without even a wheeze--(the lift gave out again this morning!)--What a
personality!--How I respect her! She has worked magnificently since
the war began, her hospital is a wonder, her only son was killed
fighting gloriously at Verdun.
"You look as melancholy as a sick cat," she told me.
She likes to speak her English--"Of what good Jeune homme! We are
not done yet--I have cut some of my relatives who ran away from
Paris--Imbeciles! Bertha is our diversion now, and the raids at
night--jolly loud things!"--and she chuckled, detaching her scissors
which had got caught in the purple woolen jersey she wore over her
Red Cross uniform. She is quite indifferent to coquetry, this grande
dame of the ancien regime!
"My blesss rejoice in them--Que voulez vous?--War is war--and there is
no use in looking blue--Cheer up, young man!"
Then we talked of other things. She is witty and downright, and her
every thought and action is kindly. I love la Duchesse--My mother was
her dearest friend.
When she had stayed twenty minutes--she came over close to my chair.
"I knew you would be bitter at not being in the fight, my son," she said,
patting me with her once beautiful hand, now red and hardened with
work, "So I snatched the moments to come to see you. On your one leg
you'll defend if the moment should come,--but it won't! And you--you
wounded ones, spared--can keep the courage up. Tiens! you can at least
pray, you have the time--I have not--Mais le Bon Dieu understands--."
And with that she left me, stopping to arrange her tightly curled fringe
(she sticks to all old styles) at the lac mirror by the door. I felt better
after she had gone--yes, it is that--God--why can't I fight!

III

Is some nerve being touched by the new treatment? I seem alternately
to be numb and perfectly indifferent to how the war is going, and then
madly interested. But I am too sensitive to leave my flat for any
meals--I drive whenever one of the "fluffies" (this is what Maurice