Chapter I: Ghosts

The bronzed, healthy-looking driver of the Bentley car put his foot harder on the accelerator pedal, and averted his head to hear the crackle of the exhaust as the sleek automobile sped along the undulating tree-lined Route Nationale. For the past three hours that white, arrow-like road had held his eyes, and he was “killing” it as fast as safety would permit, for main routes at the best were inclined to be monotonous.

While the speedometer needle wavered between the sixties and seventies his travelling companion was endeavouring to find their exact position on a large-scale French road map, a feat of considerable difficulty for which the execrable road surface was largely responsible.

“Steady, old man!” he said, as the wheels struck a deep cassis, causing a jarring of springs and a slight dither in the steering. “This isn’t Brooklands.”

“It’s about as unlovely. We’ll cut off at the next turning.”

Speed was reduced as bad _pavé_ was encountered on the outskirts of a straggling village. It was exactly like a dozen others passed through that morning--two rows of tall, bare houses, with lime-washed walls and green shutters, a café, a comestible, and a pump surrounded by ample troughs, at which a few women were engaged in washing clothes. At the far end were two garages, each provided with a red petrol-pump bearing the familiar word “_Essence_,” the price in the one case being ten francs, and in the other ten francs fifty centimes, for what was precisely the same brand of fuel.

“Wonderful folk!” said the driver.

The car almost leaped the last ten yards of appalling _pavé_, and seemed to purr with satisfaction as the tyres found a better surface. On either hand sunlit fields stretched away to a hazy horizon, and here and there blue-bloused peasants were making the first hay. But periodically war-scars came to view, for it was the summer of 1920, and but a bare two years since the Germans made their last retreat that was to end five years of unmitigated horror.

The elder man folded up his map and placed it beside him. He was of smaller build than his young companion, and, judging from his face, of a more complaisant temperament. But, like the driver, he bore all the signs of abundant health and vitality. The pair had brought the car across the Channel a few days before, with the object of making a month’s tour of north and mid-France. No route had been laid down, and more often than not they slept in towns they had had no intention of visiting.

“Ralph!”

The driver averted his head.

“Turn left beyond the bridge. There’s a road that appears to go right through the forest.”

The car slowed down, and the acute bend was taken. Soon it was evident that the change of direction was justified. The first blush of summer lay over everything, and the dust-laden trees of the Route Nationale gave place to the rich, rain-washed hues of early June. The serpentine road became a joy, for it held surprises at every bend and pleaded for less speed and more appreciation.

Ralph Wallace banished his tense expression, and displayed his strong, white teeth in a smile. Speed-hog as he was, he was not so abandoned as not to be able to appreciate the natural joys of the quiet and refulgent by-ways. Lately he had had a surfeit of speed--a luxury that the straight roads of France offer to young “bloods” who own a ninety-miles-an-hour car.

“Give me a cigarette, Connie,” he begged.

Julian Conrad, the passenger, handed over the required article and lighted it in Wallace’s mouth, for the Bentley was now ambling along at a cycle pace. As Conrad turned his head one might have noticed a thin, straight scar extending from the corner of the left eye to the edge of the firm mouth. But the surgeon had made a neat job of it, and the sun had browned his skin to such an extent that this memento of the war could only be seen at close range.

The delightful road began to ascend, and on the right of it the land slipped away gradually, forming a verdant valley in which were scattered a few farms. Here and there were cattle, but in small numbers. It was chickens that predominated. Every farm seemed to thrive on poultry, and what cattle there were appeared to be thin and out of condition. After half an hour’s pleasant amble the road reached the summit of the long incline. A gap in the immediate timber brought to view one of the pleasantest vistas yet encountered. A mile or so in the distance was a beautiful château--a dream of architectural beauty, gleaming white amid the many shades of green, built on the edge of a great chasm.

“Stop a moment,” said Conrad, laying his hand on that of his companion’s. “By Jove, I had no idea we were in this district.”

“What district?”

“The Marne. I know that place quite well--I ought to.”

“You mean the château?”

“Yes--the Château Grammont. I must have mentioned it to you at some time or other.”

“You may have, but I have the rottenest memory for names.”

The eyes of Conrad were filled with a new light. A short time ago he had been dreaming lazily--drinking in the natural beauties of the country in subconscious fashion. Now into his mind had come something stirring--vital. The lips became compressed for a few seconds. Then they opened again, and a little sigh escaped him, for the memories that were revived by the fair sight before him were very mixed. Wallace looked at him interrogatively.

“It’s just the same as it was when I saw it--four years ago. Dropping on it like this, in June sunlight, with the birds singing, stirs one a bit.”

“You know it?”

“Yes. I spent what I think was the happiest month of my life there.”

“Ah, the war?”

“Yes--the war. We had been knocked to pieces twenty miles farther north. Jove, that was a ruddy business. I was laid out at the end of it. No wound of any sort--just sheer fatigue. I was on the way to an absolute breakdown when they sent me down for a rest. I had no idea I was going to a place like that. There was a score or so of us in all--slight wounds and knock-outs. We each had a month in which to recuperate--and we did. It was quite a voluntary business. The owner of the château was a Monsieur Fallières. I think he had a title, but at any rate he never used it. He had been rendered unfit for further service in the earlier campaign, and gave up half his wonderful home to the cause. Everything was gratis and _ad lib_. We played tennis, bowls, badminton, rode fine horses in the Forêt de Grammont-- It was all done with such grace, too. We were just members of a house-party, and madame and her daughters were as charming as if we had known them for half a century.”

“They still lived there?”

“Yes. There were two little girls of seven and eight, and another, named Yolande, who I think was sixteen. She was at school somewhere on the coast, but was home on holiday at that period. We used to pet her a lot. I hope we didn’t spoil her.”

“I expect you did--if she was pretty.”

“She was pretty enough--not the conventional prettiness, either. I often thought I would like to paint her. Well, thank God their fine old home was saved to them.”

“Did the line never reach as far as that?”

“Later, I believe; but all the pressure was taken off this sector. I think I read that the Germans held the château for some months, and then the line was pushed back. You were lucky to have missed that bloody business, Ralph.”

“You are making me wonder whether I was lucky,” said Wallace, with a laugh. “Another six months and I should have had a taste of it. I remember I nearly wept with regret when the Armistice found me doing foot-drill and ‘physical jerks’ on Salisbury Plain.”

“No book that will ever be written can convey to you half the misery, horror, and suffering. These little diversions gain all their beauty by comparison with the background against which they stand. Well, here we are again in God’s peace and sunshine. Men must be mad ever to give them up.”

“I’ve often told you you have missed your vocation in life, Conrad,” said Wallace. “You ought to have entered the Church. Of course, I quite agree with you, but the fact is that most young men feel they ought to be allowed to act like savages before they adopt the only possible point of view towards legalised murder. I’m getting a bit hungry, aren’t you?”

“I’m past that stage. I remember there is a fair-sized town about twenty kilometres farther on. I’ll consult the map. This road ought to lead somewhere.”

Wallace got the car moving again. They were presumably still in the Forêt de Grammont, and the road narrowed until there was not room for another vehicle to pass; but, since they had met nothing for the past hour, Wallace did not worry greatly about this. His mind was divided equally between the beautiful woodland scenery and the behaviour of the car. It was a recent acquisition, and pleased him immensely, for he had an engineering mind. He loved to feel the smooth output of power, the easy and complete control. A squeak or the slightest foreign mechanical noise would have brought him flat on his back, or executing a half somersault to solve the mystery.

“Can’t find the road at all,” muttered Conrad. “That’s the worst of French maps--always unreliable.”

At that moment two riders came to view. One was a man of about fifty and the other a pretty woman who bore so striking a resemblance to the man that Wallace concluded immediately she was his daughter. They were coming in the direction of the car, and it was obvious that there was not sufficient room for them to pass with safety. Wallace promptly put his near-side wheels into the ditch and waited, which act of roadside courtesy was acknowledged when the riders got level with the car. Wallace was admiring the well-groomed mounts, and the poise of the riders, when he realised that the man had stopped and was gazing intently at Conrad.

“And how does Major Conrad find France after this long absence?” he asked with a smile.

Conrad dropped the map in his surprise, and then slowly his eyes brightened with recognition.

“Monsieur Fallières!” he exclaimed. “I should not have recognised you had you not spoken. This is a most pleasant surprise. Until a few minutes ago I had no idea we were within twenty miles of the Château Grammont. How do you do, sir?”

He stood up and grasped the extended hand with obvious pleasure.

“You remember Yolande?” asked Fallières.

“Yolande!” Conrad blushed a little as he removed his hat and bowed towards the beautiful girl. “Surely this cannot be the young lady who used to----”

“--who used to tease you so much,” she added with a smile. “Yes, I remember you now quite well, but all the credit is due to my father, who never forgets a face.”

“Well, well, it is a very happy meeting. I have so often recalled the enjoyable time I spent at the château when things were so different. But allow me to introduce my friend--Mr. Ralph Wallace. A few minutes ago I was speaking of you.”

Wallace shook hands from the driver’s seat. He could now understand what Conrad had meant about Yolande’s beauty not being conventional. She was dark, like her father, and a trifle pallid, but her features were perfectly moulded and well balanced. She sat her horse as a woman does who spends most of her days in the saddle, and smiled at him with her eyes rather than with her mouth.

“Are you aware that your car is headed for an almost impassable marsh?” she asked.

“I wasn’t. As a matter of fact, we are exploring. Mr. Conrad is supposed to be the pilot, but I am afraid he is not thoroughly qualified. I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that we are trespassing.”

“You are on private property. The public road through the Forêt is three miles back. But, if you like to risk the marsh, you can join the other road farther on.”

“Don’t let my daughter tempt you to such a disastrous act, monsieur,” put in Fallières. “No car can cross the marsh. Besides, I am going to insist that you and my old friend join us at _déjeuner_.”

“Really!”

“Yes, yes,” put in Yolande. “We are only ten minutes from the château, and you must lunch somewhere, mustn’t you?”

“I think we may consider the matter settled,” said Fallières. “If you will drive the car another hundred yards you will find a place where you can turn it. We will lead the way.”

The horses were walked past, and a few minutes later the car was following them through the leafy glade. Conrad was still chuckling at the coincidence.

“He has changed a lot,” he said. “Looks more than ten years older. He did not mention madame. I wonder----”

“So that is Yolande!” mused Wallace.

“Yes. I shouldn’t have known her. By Jove, her beauty hasn’t deserted her; but she looks rather pensive. In the old days she was like quicksilver--so animated. I flatter myself I taught her how to pronounce an English ‘r.’”

The château came to view through a long avenue. It was of Norman architecture, and situated on the crest of a sharp rise, from where it commanded a fine view of the country round about. Its four white turrets gleamed in the sunlight, and as they approached it the massive surrounding walls commanded their attention. Its size was deceptive seen from a distance, for there was plenty of space about it, which had the effect of dwarfing its enormous dimensions.

“Quite a feudal affair,” said Wallace.

“Yes, one of the finest in France. Fallières is enormously rich.”

“What is the quaint building at the end?”

“The chapel. Jove, how familiar it all seems! Yes, the old place has suffered a bit. I can see signs of renovation. The chapel appears to have had a new roof.”

Arrived outside the main entrance, the horses were taken by a groom.

“Welcome to the Château Grammont,” said Fallières to Wallace. “There is a garage near the stables, but perhaps you would like to leave the car here. It is quite shady.”

Wallace agreed, and he and Conrad went to remove some of the dust they had gathered. The place had been brought up to date in every respect. A power plant supplied electricity, and there were modern fittings everywhere, and a plentiful supply of hot water. Notwithstanding, there was nothing incongruous. All that was necessarily modern was well concealed. It was evident that Fallières took a pride in this magnificent place--a veritable storehouse for the antiquarian, and a realm sacred to the soul of an architect. Young Wallace, brought up in an atmosphere far different, felt just a trifle overawed.

“The place must have a hundred rooms,” he ejaculated. “Hold me, Conrad, or I’ll lose myself.”

“It is enormous, but Fallières is doing good work in using his wealth to preserve this for the nation. Look, we used to play tennis out there. That’s a fine court--the fastest I’ve ever played on.”

Wallace moistened his lips. At sports he excelled, having got his blue at Oxford some years before. He was reckoned to be one of the best middle-weight amateur boxers in the kingdom, and had to his credit the hundred yards and the high-jump records of his college.

Lunch proved to be a most pleasant affair. It was inevitable that Fallières should revive the past, and, although Wallace had thought he had heard quite enough about the war, he found himself listening to the conversation with considerable interest, for, in this very room where they now sat, German officers had eaten their fill, and there was little doubt that many a dreadful deed had been perpetrated within those surrounding walls.

“Well, it is all past, father,” said Yolande. “And we have suffered less than some.”

“Yes--less than some. One life in a family of five,” he said sadly. “We did not expect it, for we had so long been immune. There were rumours, but I disregarded them. Then, in the middle of the night, there was terrible gunfire, and shells fell quite near. Retreating troops passed, and we were told to flee at once. The line was broken and the Germans were sweeping forward.… Yolande was away at school, but I and my other two children and their dear mother left by car; the servants as best they could. The roads were under fire and the car broke down. In that terrible ordeal we lost the dearest woman in the world----”

“Madame!” murmured Conrad.

He nodded and bent his head, but in an instant he raised it again, with the light of pride in his fine eyes.

“There are things we must accept, messieurs. Shall we take coffee on the terrace? It affords a splendid view of the valley.”

They adjourned to the wide terrace at the back of the château. From there the land fell away abruptly, and the château was heavily buttressed against a possible landslide. Across the verdant valley wound a small river, entering the dark forest half a mile farther on. It was a sight most pleasing to the eye, and it was almost impossible to imagine that the ghastly game of war had ever been played there.

“May I see your car?” enquired Yolande of Wallace. “I am very interested in cars, and we see few English ones here.”

Wallace was on his feet in an instant. Though modest of his own achievements, he was enormously proud of the car. They left Conrad and Fallières taking a second liqueur.