The Storyteller WHITE SOUL

New Zealand Tablet, Volume 31, Issue 44, 31 October 1907, Page 3

The Storyteller

WHITE SOUL

We asked the Colonel how it was that he had left the army so young, considering that he himself had chosen a military career and had won promotion so quickly and brilliantly. 'Promotion, indeed! . . . Yes, a fine _ thing it ,is, certainly, to be in authority, he replied bitterly. How many times I used to wish that it was my happy lot . to obey someone else instead of giving orders myself — the responsibility was so terrible in sorre instances. If you want to know what caused me to leave the army I will tell you, for there is no reason for me to hide it. It was during the Commune, and on the 25th of May, 1871 ; I had just entered Paris with the Versailles army. There is no need to describe to you -|he frightful state of "things with which our soldiers had to contend, and against what, awful odds they had won the victory. We had had to walk 'over ground which was said to be undermined and .we had been fired on from every window, whilst the, horizon which loomed ■before us was the flaming fire of the public buildings of our beloved city. We had nevertheless advanced, step by step, in the midst of horrible carnage, fire, and treachery. Our soldiers were wildly excited at the massacre of our hostages and beside themselves with exasperation against the insurgents. They were perfectly ferocious,, 'not only in their fighting, but in their anxiety for the cxc- „ cution of all, individuals taken with weapons. It is a dreadful thing to own, but it is nevertheless ' quite true that after certain con' bats, even if a man be lighting against his own brother, he arrives at that state when he can carry through the most ghastly tasks without a vestige of remorse. Unfortunately for me 1 never could get intoxicated" with wiia excitement, the smoke of battle, • and the sight of blood. I have always done my .duty, and, as£_ my past" will '.prove, I have fought no matter what enemy without any scruples whatever, holding that in the gigantic duel which we call war each man must defend hiirself, and his one duty is to see his coain^ try's flag is honored. When once the fight is over, though, "and I see conquerors and conquered lying side* by side in th*e^- tortures of the death" "struggle or already lifeless corpses, my heart sinks within me and there is nothing of thesoldier left. You can imagine, then, how horrible it was during those fearful days of May to preside at the * courtmartials and pass before me one at a time bands ,of criminals, monsters, or whatever you like to call" them, but, all the same, human beings whom I had to condemn to death in cold blood. Good Heavens ! .It seems to me that such a task as tins ougnt to be performed by limbs of the ;iaw with whole rows of jurymen to ease their consciences for them. A military man does not" like to condemn his fellow-iCrentures to death unless he is risking his own life to do it. Well,' on this famous 25th of May I -had just come away froiri a military council we had improvised, and over which I had presided. My colleagues had soon dispersed, and 'I was leaving the chatelet which we had used as our military court. I felt as though I were in a nightmare, and all the faces ■ I had^ just seen haunted me. , Some of them were handsome and some hideous ; men in the prime of life ; young men who should have been thinking of , their love affairs rather than of mur- * der and of setting houses on 'fire with petroleum ; women with disordered hair and blasphemous language, and' all of them wild with excitement and hatred; in deadly earnest, 'hut also, it must be said to their credit, brave ana sincere. , Suddenly I found myself face to face with a sergeant and his men bringing to- the court a Communist they had just captured, and I knew that I must decide the wretched man's fate. -They pushed him on in front of me, and as I glanced at him I thought I recognised try son— Jean. He walk"l lidiilv on wnli« ut^-atto'ajiUng any resistance. Mrs uniform was torn, and he evidently struggled hard for his liberty, but now that he was captured he appeared to be absolutely indifferent to all things. - My wife had died some years previously, and my son was all in all to me. - ' We've had a tough job to take him, Colonel,' said the sergeant. 'He was just clearing out of ' the Jhouse we were searching, and 1 recognised him, for he'd been shooting at us all the morning from the window.

*His hands are black with the powder, and he's certainly earned the reward he'll get— this one has.' Making a desperate effort to control my feelings, I glanced once more at i;he prisoner, and to my intense joy I discovered that 'I had been mistaken. The resemßlance was startling, ,but — tthis was not my spn ! I felt' as -though I" had just awakened from some horrible dream, and as I gazed at the. young nan before me my heart was filled with an immense compassion. He was younger than Jean, and reminded me of my boy before his promotion as lieutenant. What is your name and age ? ' 1 asked, speaking) as sternly as I could. ~ 7 . ' Leopold Fourneur. I am nineteen, and I engaged as a volunteer when the war broke out.' ' Poor fellow,' was my inward comment ; a young, enthusiastic lad carried away by- any wild doctrine, provided it were high-sounding - and generous. c Were you this morning in the house in which you' had just been arrested, and did you, as they tell ire, fire on the army ? '' I asked. 1 I was in the house this morning, Colonel, and I , fired on the army. ' I was hoping that, he would have denied the charge brought against him, but his confession was clear and frank enough for anything, and he did not speak in a boasting way, either. I could not help thinking that my boy, in a similar danger, would have acted in just the same way. Fortunately for me the prisoner's voice did not sound like Jean's, but it was clear and sympathetic. I did my utmost to find some extenuating circumstances. • Why have you revolted against the Government of your country ? '. I asked. " He did not make any answer at all to this question. . 4Do you regret your mistake ? ' I continued with a sympathetic glance, which I hoped might influence him. Were you threatened by your comrades, and did you join them in self-defence ? ' HS threw back his head proudly at this question. 'lam never afraid of anything,' he answered, and then, laying great stress on his words, he continued : 4 If the Commune has been a mistake it has been a very fine mistake, and I am not ashamed to have had a hand in it.' . What was I to do ? The boy before me was act- ' ing up Eo his convictions— he was absolutely sincere and heroic. My men were listening to every word, thirsuiig for retrißufiion. As for me, the longer I looked at'the young prisoner, whose life was at stake, the more I saw in him the brother, the comrade of my own son. The situation horrified me. I could not fail in my duty as colonel in the army for the sake of this boy's life. By handing him over -to another judge I simply gave him up to certain death. In" order to gain time I went on questioning the handsome lad before me. He looked so brave and nohle, it seemed terrible that he had thus been led astray by vile, hateful politics. I learned that he was the only son of a widow, and she, poor woman, simply lived for him. I encouraged him to state his opinions, and tried to prove to him that he had been led v away by his ideals and that he "could not excuse the excesses of his party. He owned that much had been wrong, hut that sheer desperation had been the cause of- the evil: 'Do you know,' I said, coming very near to betraying my mortal anguish, ' that I shall have to condemn you to death ? ' 4 Yes, I know that,' he answered simply. ~ I was in utter^ despair, and went on talking, incoherently, as it seemed to me, 'for my lips refused to frame the death sentence. My one anxiety was to put off the fatal moment. 1 And' so,' -I said, ' you do not regret this life ; you do not care for anyone or anything ? What about your poor rrother who is waiting anxiously for your return, and who will discover to-morrow that her son is dead ? She will hear that you have liter- • ally committed suicide, that you had no pity for- her — because you know it is suicide, this death you had sought—' T>his tijme my arrow had sttuck home, and the young rebel could not, and did not even attempt to hide his emotion. 4 Poor mother ! ' he said, his voice faltering * in spite of himself. ' If- only I could keep the news of my death from her. If only she could go on expecting to see me back home she would at least have that hope in her life, instead of despair.' A sudden inspiration came to me. 1 Well,' I said, ' supposing I were to allow you to go to her and to make her 'think that you are'obliged to leave France — ' (

4 Oh— will you— will you really ? ' he asked eagerly: 1 Yes, if you will give me your word of honor that you will ibe bjack here to-night.' 1 I give you my word' of honor, Colonel,' he said. I immediately scribbled a few words which should , serve as a -passport for him, and I took no notice of the murmur of disapproval 1 heard around me. 4 He'll never come back,' whispered the sergeant to one of the other men. Ah, I only hoped that he would not. I hoped that in face of his mother's grief he might sink the proud heroism that he tiad maintained in my presence. He did come back, though— at night he arrived tired and breathless, for he had 'been running in order, to keep his word. 4 I am late,' he said, ' but it was so hard to get a r way. My poor mother kept begging me. to stay. It was as though she guessed the truth—'They led him. away, and the sentence was pronounced by another judge. My incomprehensible weakness and indulgence had been blamed in high quarters. He was, of coufse, condemned to death. I begged for mercy, but "It was all in vain. An hour after the firing which had sent the brave boy into eternity I had sent in my resignation. I had enough .