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Updated: September 25, 2025
Maryette shuddered again in spite of herself. The thought of this creature marked with the emblems of death and possessed of ardour, too, was distasteful. "Amour macabre what an unpleasant thought, Karl. I do not care for your Death’s Head and for the history of their amours." She turned and gently laid her head on her father’s knees. The young man regarded her with a pallid sneer.
There came a day when he did not see Maryette as he left for the corral in the morning. Her father, very stiff with rheumatism, sat in the sun outside the arched entrance to the inn. "No," he said, "she is going to be gone all day today. She has set and wound the drum in the belfry so that the carillon shall play every hour while she is absent." "Where has she gone?" inquired Burley.
Glenn drained his glass and smacked his lips: "No, ma’am," he said. "No balloonists, either?" "I don’t guess so, Maryette. We’ve got the Boche flyers scared stiff. They don’t come over our first lines anymore, and our own people are out yonder." "Keed," she said, winningly sweet, "do you, in fact, love me a little for Djack’s sake?" "Yes’m." "I borrow of you that automatic pistol. Yes?"
The mule lost no time but headed for the distant corral at a canter; and Burley, grinning like a great, splendid, intelligent dog who has just done something to be proud of, stepped into the market cart and seated himself beside Maryette. "Who told you where I am going?" she asked, scarcely knowing whether to laugh or let loose her indignation. "Your father, Carillonnette."
At last the sound died away under the far stars. By the smoky candle flame Kid Glenn unfolded and once more read the letter that kept them there: I ought to get to Sainte Lesse somewhere around midnight. Don’t say a word to Maryette. Jack. Sticky Smith, reading over his shoulder, slowly rolled another cigarette. "When Jack comes," he drawled, "it’s a-goin’ to he’p a lot.
"Can I do anything for you, Karl?" asked Maryette, coming in for a moment as usual in the intervals of her many duties. "The ink, if you would be so condescending and a pen," he said, watching her out of hollow, sallow eyes of watery blue. She fetched both from the café. She came again in another hour, knocking at his door, but he said rather sharply that he wished to sleep.
They jogged on through the disused byway, the filbert bushes brushing axle and traces; but presently the little donkey relapsed into a walk again, and the girl, who had counted on that procedure when she started from Sainte Lesse, did not urge him. "Also," she said in a low voice, "I have been wondering who permits you to address me as Carillonnette. Also as Maryette.
But Maryette shook her head. "No," she said in a dull, even voice, "let the gendarmerie take him in charge. Spy or suspect, he must have his chance. That is the law in France." "You don’t give rats a chance, do you?" "I give everything its chance," she said simply. "And so does my country."
Drive him there now, in God’s name, before the Uhlans come clattering on your heels!" He turned, strode away to the ambulance once more, climbed in, and placed one big arm around the sick driver’s shoulder, drawing the man’s head down against his breast. "Bonne chance!" he called back to the airman, who had now seated himself beside Maryette.
There were a few wagons, a battery of seventy-fives, a soup kitchen or two and a long column of mules from Fontanes. Two American muleteers knocked at the inn door and came stamping into the hallway, asking for a loaf and a bottle of red wine. Maryette rose from the table to find provisions; the airman got up also, saying in English: "Where do you come from, boys?"
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