Роберт Чамберс: Who Goes There!

"No."

"What?"

Guild remained silent.

The general, stroking his mustache, said pleasantly: "The Belgian nobility always interested me; it is so exclusive and there are so few families of the classe noble . Except for those ten families who are independent of Court favour—like the Croys and De Lignes—there seem to be only about thirty families who possess the privileges of the Golden Book. Is this not so?"

"General von Reiter appears to know."

The general seemed gratified at this corroboration of his own memory. "And," he went on amiably, "this Belgian nobility is a real nobility. Once of it, always a part of it. And, too, its code is so rigid, so inexorably precise that it seems almost Prussian. For example, the code of the Belgian aristocracy permits none of its members to go into any commercial business, any trade—even forbids an entry into high finance. Only the Church and Army are open to it; and in the Army only the two Guides regiments and the Lancers are permitted to young men of the aristocracy." He gazed almost mildly at the young man: "You are in business, you tell me?"

"Yes."

"Oh! Then of course you have never been a soldier."

Guild was silent.

" Have you ever served in the army?"

"Yes."

"Really! In what American regiment have you served?"

"In a militia regiment of cavalry—the 1st New York."

"How interesting. And—you have never served in the regular army?"

"N—" but Guild hesitated.

General von Reiter watched him intently.

"Did you reply in the negative, Mr. Guild?"

"No, I did not reply at all."

"Oh! Then would you be good enough to reply?"

"If—you insist."

"I insist."

"Very well," said Guild, reddening, "then I have served in the—Belgian army."

The general nodded without surprise: "In what regiment?"

"In the first regiment of Guides."

"You came from America to do this?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When I became of military age."

"Noblesse oblige?"

No reply.

"In other words, you are an American with all the Belgian aristocracy's sense of responsibility to race and tradition. You are a good American, but there are inherited instincts which sent you back to serve two years with the colours—to serve a country which for ten hundred years your race has defended. And—the Guides alone was open to a Gueldres—where, in America, a Guild was free to choose. Monsieur, you are Belgian; and, as a Belgian, you were properly seized as a hostage and properly sentenced to pay the penalty for the murderous misbehaviour of your own people! I approve the sentence. Have you anything to say?"

"No."

The general regarded him closely, then rose, came around the end of the desk, walked across the room and halted directly in front of Guild.

"So you see there is no chance for you," he said, staring hard at him.

Guild managed to control his voice and speak clearly: "I see," he said.

"Suppose," said von Reiter, still staring at him, "I ask you to do me a favour?"

Guild's face was marble, but he managed to force a smile: "You ask a favour of a prisoner a few moments before his execution?"

"I do. Will you grant it?"

"What is it?"

"Nothing dishonourable to a good—American."

"That is not enough; and you know it."

"Very well. I shall tell you then. I have a daughter in England. I can't get her away from England—I can't get word to her. I—" suddenly his dry, blond features twitched, but instantly the man had them under iron control again, and he cleared his throat: "She is in England near London. We are at war with England. I want my daughter out of the country. I can't get her out. Go and get her for me!"

For a full minute the two men gazed at each other in silence. Then von Reiter said: "I know enough of you. If you say you'll do it I'll free the Burgomaster and the others in there—" he jerked his bony thumb toward the hallway outside—"If you say you'll do it—if you say you'll go to England, now, and find my daughter, and bring her here to me—or conduct her to whatever point I designate, I'll not have those men shot; I'll not burn the rest of Yslemont; I'll see that you are conducted to the Dutch frontier unmolested after you carry out your engagements with me. Will you do it?"

"'If you say you'll do it, … I'll not have those men shot'"

Guild met his intent gaze with a gaze as searching:

"What is your daughter's name?"

"Her name is Karen."

"Where am I to find her?"

"Thirty miles out of London at Westheath. She is known there as Karen Girard."

"What!" said Guild sharply.

"She chose to be so known in her profession."

"Her profession?"

"She has been on the stage—against my wishes. She is preparing herself further—contrary to my wishes. Until she disassociates herself from that profession she will not use the name of von Reiter."

Guild nodded slowly: " That is why your daughter is known as Karen Girard?"

"That is why. She is a young girl—nineteen. She went to school in her mother's country, Denmark. She imbibed notions there—and, later, in England among art students and others. It is the well–born who succumb most easily to nonsense once the discipline is relaxed. She has had her way in spite of my authority. Now it is time for such insubordination to cease. I wish to have my daughter back. I cannot get her. You are—American—to all intents and purposes, and you would be under no suspicion in England. Your appearance, your speech, your manners all are above suspicion. You can do this. I have made up my mind concerning you, and I trust you. Will you go to England, find my daughter and bring her back to me here; or, if I am ordered elsewhere, will you escort her to my country place in Silesia which is called Rehthal?"

"Suppose I do not find her? Suppose I fail?"

"You will return here and report to me."

"If I fail and I return here and report my failure, does that mean the execution of the gentlemen in the drawing–room yonder?"

"It does."

"And the destruction of Yslemont?"

"Absolutely."

"And—" the young man smiled—"incidentally it means my own execution, does it not?"

"It does."

They gazed at each other with intense interest.

"Under such circumstances do you think I'll come back if I am not successful?" inquired the younger man.

"I am satisfied that you will return if you say you will."

"Return to face my own execution?" repeated Guild, curiously. "You believe that of me?—of a man about whom you know nothing—a man who"—his animated features suddenly darkened and he caught his breath a moment, then—"a man who considers your nation a barbarous one, your rulers barbarians, your war inexcusable, your invasion of this land the vilest example of treachery and dishonour that the world has ever witnessed—you still believe that such a man might consider himself bound to return here if unsuccessful and face one of your murdering platoons? Do you?" he repeated, the slightest intonation of violence beginning to ring in the undertones of his voice.

Von Reiter's dry, blond features had become greyer and more set. His light blue eyes never left the other; behind their pale, steady scrutiny he seemed to be considering every word.

He drew in his breath, slowly; his very thin lips receded for a moment, then the fixed tranquillity returned.

"We Germans," he said drily, "care nothing for what Europe may think of us or say about us. Perhaps we are vandals, Goths, Huns—whatever you call them. Perhaps we are barbarians. I think we are ! For we mean to scour the old world clean of its rottenness—cauterize it, cut out the old sores of a worn–out civilization, scrape its surface clean of the parasite nations…. And, if fire be necessary to burn out the last traces—" His light blue eyes glimmered a very reflection of the word—"then let fire pass. It has passed, before—God's Angel of the Flaming Sword has returned again to lead us! What is a cathedral or two—or pictures or foolish statues—or a million lives? Yes, if you choose, we are barbarians. And we intend to plow under the accumulated decay of the whole world, and burn up its rubbish and found our new world on virgin earth. Yes, we are barbarians. And our Emperor is a barbarian. And God, who creates with one hand and destroys with the other—God—autocrat of material creation, inexorable Over–Lord of ultimate material annihilation, is the greatest barbarian of all! Under His orders we are moving. In His name we annihilate! Amen!"