The violet was "atmosphere," but
it was as much a part of the forest as the leaves, or the delicate
trunks dim as ghosts in shadow, bright as organ-pipes where sun touched
them. Out from the depths came sweet, mysterious breaths, and whispers
like prophecies of peace. But to this region of romance there were sharp
contrasts. Not even dreams have sharper ones! German trenches, chopped
into blackened wastes that once were farmlands, and barbed wire
wriggling like snake-skeletons across dreary fields.
We got out of our cars, and went into the trenches, thinking thoughts
unspeakable. Long ago as the Germans had vanished, and every corner had
been searched, our officer warned us not to pick up "souvenirs." Some
infernal machine might have been missed in the search and nothing was to
be trusted--no, not even a bit of innocent-looking lead pencil.
They were trenches made to live in, these! They had been walled with
stones from ruined farmhouses. The "dug-outs" were super-dug-outs. We
saw concealed cupolas for machine-guns, and "_les officiers boches_" had
had a neat system of douches.
There was no need to worry that Brian might stumble or fall in the
slippery labyrinths we travelled, for he had Dierdre O'Farrell as guide.
I'm afraid I knew what it was to be jealous: and this new gnawing pain
is perhaps meant to be one of my punishments. Of course it's no more
than I deserve. But that Brian should be chosen as the instrument, all
unknowingly, and happily--that _hurts_!
It was just as we were close to Compiegne, not twenty minutes (in motor
talk) outside the town, that the "accident" happened.
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