World War, 1914-1918 -- Aerial operations -- Juvenile fiction
The two old people came into the passage, followed by the major, who
hustled them into the adjoining apartment, locked them in, and returned.
Burton, dreading lest he intended to proceed at once to extremes with
the wounded man, and resolved at any cost to prevent it, darted on
tip-toe along the passage to the room in which the marquis and his wife
were shut up, silently unlocked the door, and whispering, "Courage,
monsieur et madame: await my return," he left them, and went to the next
door. It was closed.
Through it he heard the German’s voice. It was no time to shirk risks.
Grasping the handle firmly, he turned it, and gently pushed the door,
little by little, until he could see into the room.
The German was seated on a chair by the bedside, his back to the door,
ostentatiously cutting a fresh cigar. Beside him was a small cabinet
with medicines. On it he had laid his revolver, out of the reach of the
young soldier on the bed. They presented a strange contrast, the blond,
bulky German, red-faced, brimming with physical energy, and the
Frenchman, whose eyes, feverishly bright, gleamed out of pale sunken
cheeks, and whose emaciated hands lay idle on the coverlet. His dark
head propped on the pillow, he lay perfectly still, corpse-like save for
his burning eyes.
"An excellent cigar!" said the German. "Who should know that better than
I? Once more I am indebted to your amiable parents for their
hospitality. I make my acknowledgments. Madame la marquise has been
most attentive; she looked charming, if a little faded, in cap and
apron; and you would have been delighted to see her handing the plates."
The invalid’s fingers twitched; a flush mantled his cheeks. He tried to
lift his head, but it sank back weakly upon the pillow. Burton felt
that the German was watching his victim with malicious satisfaction.
The shaft had struck home.
"Don’t rise, don’t rise, my dear sir. I realise how little our good
German shells suit the constitution of you Frenchmen. You have no
stamina, you know: a puff"--he blew out a cloud of smoke--"and you are
gone!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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