All Sorts/A Gift for St. Nicholas

the little Nicholas the Big Nicholas was above all things a person who loved candles. It was in vain that one expounded doctrine on the subject. Little Nicholas, who had a way of listening with a misleading politeness, knew better than all the wise people in the world. Even the curé, for whom he had otherwise the greatest respect, could not shake his belief in his own opinion.

Little Nicholas knew because he sympathised. He liked candles himself. They were the tall straight little people who chased away nightmare bogies and uncanny shadows. They helped one up the dark wooden stairs to bed, and when one lay watching drowsy-eyed, their golden flames danced with the night wind that came in, mysterious and laughing, through the open window.

But they were most wonderful of all when one gave them to St. Nicholas. Then they behaved themselves. They stood round the feet of the sweet-faced saint like a bevy of white-robed, golden-haired choristers at High Mass. Their flames burnt up very straight and solemn. They held the shadows sternly at bay, cutting a big hole in the darkness of the side altar, and they filled the saint's face with kindly warmth. St Nicholas stood in the midst of them and prayed for all those who were in sorrow, and more especially for little Nicholas, who was his name child. When the candles burnt themselves out the Saint's face grew grey and still and dead. Then Little Nicholas knew that he hadn't the heart to pray for anybody any more. So every day before school Little Nicholas brought two candles and set them up in their place and watched till their light had gathered to their full strength. And then he (knew that all day long his patron saint was praying that Little Nicholas should get through his Arithmetic without disaster and, incidentally, that he should be good.

From the results one can only suppose that there are a great many other Nicholases in like trouble, and that the saint was sometimes too overworked to give little Nicholas his best attention.

Little Nicholas lived with his father and mother in the most important house in the town, For the Latours were important people though they were not rich, even as riches went in that part of the world. But they were "old" people—not upstarts like the Dandens who had speculated and grown important in a day. They had always been important; they had always owned the best part of the land and held official posts and worn ribbons in their button-holes.

Besides all this, Charles Latour was handsome and tall, with black hair and a pointed black beard that gave him a look of splendid daring. Though he could be gay and light- hearted and make his joke with the best, yet when the moment came for action he was stern and relentless. He never shut his eyes to a weakness, he ripped disguise from dishonesty and inefficiency with a just hand. And in spite of this he won love as easily as he breathed. People said there was no malice in his justice. "He would do the same to himself" they declared, "if ever he fell below his own standards."

But he never did. His own life was immaculate.

Little Nicholas worshipped his father as older and wiser people worship God. He liked to say to strangers; "My father is Monsieur Latour". He liked to see them pull an earnest face and hear them say, " Ah, yes, Monsieur Latour? We know his name well." He liked to see his school- fellows pull off their caps in shy awe when his father came to fetch him. He liked to walk out of the school gates, his small hand clasped in the strong big one, and to feel envious eyes follow him down the street.

Those were the happiest moments in his life.

Then there was his mother. The people said she was the loveliest woman in all the sous-préfecture, and Little Nicholas was sure it was true. On Sundays when they went to High Mass in the shining white parish church everyone smiled at the three Latours, not just in greeting, but in the sheer pleasure of seeing them because they were so good to look on.

"Comme ils sont bien, ces trois!" the men would say.

"Comme ils sont heureux!" murmured the women.

Marianne Latour was fair and slight, with blue eyes that were full of shyness and reserve. But when she looked at her husband their colour deepened, and they became tender and very proud and a little wistful. It was as though she could not see him without wondering at her own happiness.

Little Nicholas loved his mother. She was very near to him—he never had to explain things to her. She would always understand, and her quiet reassuring smile was like the candle-light when the darkness frightened him. They were one with one another. But she was not like his father. She was not an ideal. He did not think to himself, "When I am grown up I will be like her—tender and good and beautiful". He thought, "I will be brave and strong and respected like my father".

There was some one else whom Little Nicholas loved. This was Louis Latour, his father's elder brother. And here, again, was a different kind of love, afraid, pitying, and mingled -with childish condescension. For Louis was hunchbacked and ugly, with long arms like an ape and with an ape's strength. Little Nicholas loved him because he could make wonderful toys with his ungainly hands, and despised him because he was hunchbacked, and feared him—he didn't know why.

Louis Latour was manager of the branch bank at the bottom of the street. He was a shrewd business man and, unlike the rest of his race, had amassed money. And yet every one knew that he had failed in all his ambitions.

He had loved Marianne, and she had chosen his brother. He had sought office, and it was Charles who was made Maire. He was almost servile in his desire for the love of Marianne's child, and yet one day—when St. Nicholas was not paying particular attention—the boy had joined his comrades in cruel mockery of the misshapen figure.

Afterwards Little Nicholas was ashamed and wept bitterly and asked pardon. But Louis Latour had never forgotten.

On the day that Charles received the insignia of office he gave a feast to all his friends. He could not very well afford it, for the lands had been doing badly, but in his gay, splendid mood he wanted to share his triumph, with all mankind. It was just for such human qualities that men loved him.

The old clerk glanced at the clock and closed his ledger with a sigh.

"It is time, monsieur," he said.

The habitual answer came from the inner office where the manager sat in state.

"It is well, Simon.

Louis Latour stood up. He was in evening dress, for he knew that he would not have time to go home and change. All the afternoon he had wom his overcoat so that his customers should not see his unusual grandeur. Now he glanced at himself shyly in the full-length glass. Standing like that in the half-light, comparing himself with no one, he looked well enough. His hand rested magisterially on the desk, and its abnormal length was hidden. One did not see the deformed back at all. It was just as though he were bending forward a little, his dark sombre face almost handsome. Yes, almost handsome. Then he saw Charles standing beside him—a tall upright shadow, and he dwindled and grew hideous. He turned a little on one side, and the illusion of his straightness was wholly gone. Also the evening clothes were ridiculous. They did not fit him—it was not possible that they should—and they had a faded rusty look. In truth one did not wear evening clothes often " in that part of the world. For months they had lain in tissue paper in the bottom drawer. The last time he had worn them was at the christening of the Little Nicholas.

Louis Latour drew his breath sharply between his teeth. "I shan't cut much of a figure," he thought with bitter amusement "I'm lucky when no one notices me."

Standing there in the twilight, the white shift front gleam ing at him from out of the shadowy glass, he imagined how it would be if for once people would look at him gravely, respectfully, without that lurking tolerance and pity. He imagined himself towering up among them—not in body perhaps, but in sheer strength of mind and soul. They saw for the first time how big and strong he was, and he looked over their heads and met Marianne's eyes. They were grave and full of appeal and sorrow. It was as though she said, "Forgive me, Louis, I did not know." And she held Little Nicholas in her arms, and he, too, was awestruck—the Little Nicholas who had made fun

"I have put up the shutters, monsieur," said the old clerk in his tired voice.

"Very well, Simon," the manager answered

He took up his old-fashioned top-hat, fastened up his coat, and came out of his private room. The public doors of the bank were already closed, and the night-watchman hung up his lantern on the wall. Latour nodded to him. He was still thinking of himself, standing in the midst of a hushed, reverent crowd.

"You will be very proud to-night, monsieur," the old clerk said, as he moved to and fro, locking up the desks. "It is a happy occasion for all of us"

Latour lifted his brows absently. "Yes."

"Monsieur Charles is the most popular Maire the town has ever had," the clerk added.

His key jangled a soft applause.

"Yes," Latour repeated in a different tone.

"These are dangerous times, monsieur. We need strong, brave men. Monsieur Charles is the right man in the right place. And his lovely wife! Ah, yes, we shall be very proud"

Latour opened the side-door with his private key. The dusk met him with hot dusty breath. The street was almost empty. Only here and there a figure slipped past under the lamp-light like a fish in a deep sunlit pool.

The watchman yawned and then stretched himself.

"Good-night, monsieur."

"Good-night."

Just then the telephone buzzed angrily. Latour lingered for a moment. He heard Simon take down the receiver, but he was not really interested He simply did not want to go on. He did not want to see Charles standing there in the midst of his friends—radiant and successful and happy. He did not want to know when he passed that people nudged each other and whispered.

"Fancy—his brother! Queer how things go! Poor devil!"

He wanted to go on with his own dreams. He had dreamed so much of tote that his dreams had an intoxicating reality

"Monsieur—it is from Paris—the president of the bank—he asks for you"

Latour came back. He took the receiver from the clerk's shaking hands. It was grotesquely like the beginnings of those dreams of his. It made him dizzy and confused, so that for a moment he did not understand what the thin distant voice was saying. The watchman's lantern threw its pale light upon him from the wall. It made him the central figure. The two other men were just shadows— motionless and watchful. They had forgotten Charles. When the president of the Paris bank rang up a little provincial branch it meant that something had happened.

Latour hung up the receiver. His answers had been monosyllabic, conveying nothing. His lips were pressed into a tight line. But they saw that his hand shook.

"Yes—it is serious," he said, as though they had spoken. "I must go straight to the Maire—you had better come too, Simon. You will be welcome"

He went out quickly without waiting for an answer. At first he almost ran. He left old Simon far behind him. The stragglers outside the estaminet doors glanced round curiously as he passed. He felt their eyes. But they did not hurt. He had something new with which he could, if he chose, strike their good-humoured, pitying stare dead. He held them all in the hollow of his hand. They would listen to him gravely enough if he chose to speak. For he carried their death-sentence.

As he came in sight of the lights of the big house he steadied his pace. He must not arrive breathless and confused. He must not show the elation which shook him. He must bear himself as became the magnitude of his errand. He saw himself standing on the threshold of Charles's big room, hat in hand, his coat falling open showing the white shirt front. He saw the dancers stand still—arrested as by the suddenly fallen hand of fate into grotesque attitudes—staring at him.

"Mesdames et messieurs," he would begin sonorously.

The door of the big house stood open. No one hindered him. But the music was not playing. The passages were empty. There was a curious tense stillness broken by Charles's voice.

Latour nodded to himself. He saw the whole thing. Charles would be returning thanks. Then he would enter and they would face each other, and in a moment the big, bearded, jolly fellow, would cease to matter—the little honour that he had won would be like a child's bauble.

He pushed open the door. Yes—there it all was as he had seen it. The plush furniture had been pushed to one side for the dancers. The musicians stood huddled in a corner. The guests themselves, in their unaccustomed finery, were grouped about that tall central figure, motionless, with blank, white faces.

"Mesdames and messieurs"

His voice was not sonorous at all. It was thin and weak. Strange that he had forgotten. No one turned. No one noticed that he had even come in. Charles's voice rang out strong and vibrant.

"we were prepared to live and let live—to forget, to strive only with one another in ways of peace. Well, they have chosen otherwise, and what they have chosen they shall receive. It is to the death. So be it. We stand firm. We shall die, but we shall conquer. Vive la France!"

There was an instant's silence. The answering cry was too big. It stuck fast in the throat. At last it burst through with the roar of a released torrent. The musicians scraped their violins with shaking bows.

''"Marchons, enfants de la Patrie!" ''

The lips of men and women quivered like children's. They cried and did not know that they were crying. Some one who stood near to Latour turned to him with unseeing eyes.

"We have just heard," he stammered, "they have invaded Belgium. We shall fight"

"I know," said Latour, " I knew some time ago. The president of the bank telephoned to me. I have had instructions."

But the man was not listening. Latour's glance wandered across the room to Marianne's face. She was pale and still, and her eyes were on her husband, and though he stood so far off Latour saw how proud they were. In that quiet, restrained woman pride was like a steady consuming fire.

He turned and went into the ante-room. A long table almost hidden with food, had been pushed up against the wall, and a hired waiter and the old family servant moved anxiously up and down before it like generals on an inspection. As she caught sight of Latour the old woman clapped her hands.

"Ah, Monsieur Louis, what a night. What news? At first when Monsieur Charles read out the telegram I thought I should faint. But he was so strong, so brave. He made one burn with courage. One wanted to go out and fight with one's old hands. Ah, yes, it is good for us that we have Monsieur Charles to help us in these days."

Latour shrugged his misshapen shoulders. He held out his glass and drank greedily of the wine which she poured out for him. It was a hot night, and he refilled his glass time after time, nodding his head to her anxious chatter, his eyes fixed on the floor. Presently the singing ceased. Excited groups of men and women drifted in through the curtained doorway, and some of them spoke to Latour, but hurriedly and carelessly as though they hardly knew who he was.

"You heard? It was magnificent. It was a bad moment, but he carried every one with him. The right word, the right note, the born rhetorician, a born leader"

"We shall need leaders."

"One of these days we shall hear him in the Chamber."

Latour nodded to all this just as he had nodded to the old woman's talk. They did not notice him when he slipped out of the room. He met no one on the narrow, dimly-lit stairs. But on the first landing a door stood open.

"Nicholas," Latour said gently. "Little Nicholas."

His whole face had changed. He was smiling with a propitiatory eagerness—with a grotesque wistfulness. Little Nicholas, on hand and knees, his fair round head jammed between the banisters in a despairing effort to see below into the lighted hall, paid no heed to him. The night-shirt and the night-light which twinkled like a star through the open doorway, proved that the patron saint had closed a lenient and understanding eye. Latour bent down and put his arm round the small shaking body.

"Nicholas, I've got something for you—I stole them when Jeanette wasn't looking-—chocolates."

"I don't want chocolates."

Latour held the largest, finest offering in the palm of his hand But little Nicholas had not so much as looked at it, and the man's face flushed a dull red.

"It's so stupid downstairs—all those big-wigs talking their heads off. Supposing I carry you back to bed and tell you a story?"

"I don't want stories. I want to listen. I want to see my father."

"Pooh! You can see him any time."

"I want to see him now. He's going to fight the bad people. Every one cheered him.  'Vive notre Maire! Vive Latour!'  He's my father. He's the bravest man in the world."

"Words aren't deeds," the man said huskily.

Little Nicholas did not understand. But he freed himself impatiently, scornfully, from the compelling arm.

"There, they are cheering again:  'Vive Latour!—Vive mon père'!"

The shrill voice rang out like a silver bell over the dull clamour. Latour bent down and caught Little Nicholas in his arms. His face was livid now, ugly with passion.

"You silly little fool! You ought to be in bed. I shall tell your mother and she will punish you. I shall carry you back now."

"Let me go! Let me go!"

Latour did not answer. He was beside himself with a grotesque rage that had been gathering in his blood all that day, and now came to a head like a poisonous abscess. He held the small body in his long, powerful arms. He laughed at the tiny fists which struck him in the face. He was smashing the one thing that he cared for—as men, maddened by pain, tear at their own wounds.

"I hate you! I hate you!"

Latour laid his burden on the tumbled bed and drew the clothes into place. In silence they fought each other, not less frantically and desperately, because the man was using the hundredth part of his strength. At last Little Nicholas lay still. He was crying now with long-drawn shuddering sobs of defeat. And then Latour knelt down beside him. He drew the unresisting child into his arms and soothed him with an incoherent, desperate tenderness.

"Little Nicholas, I am sorry. I didn't mean it. You mustn't hate me. You mustn't. I was unkind, but I have had a hard day, you see, I have been terribly tried. I lost my temper. Voyons, I am crying too."

Little Nicholas lay passive, his arms limp at his side, his face averted. "You must forgive your poor old uncle," pleaded Latour with an agonised lightness. "See I will do any- thing to make up, little one. What do you want? Shall I fetch your father? Shall I tell you a story I have never told you before? It is about your father—when he and I were boys."

Suddenly Little Nicholas ceased to cry. He sat up thrusting the hunchback from him with the strength of contemptuous indifference, and held out his arms. The door had opened, and Marianne Latour stood on the threshold. She shaded a candle with a hand as delicate and transparent as alabaster, and the light threw up a quiet radiance on the fair oval of her face.

"I thought I heard something," she began. "I thought I heard Nicholas crying. I did not know you were here, Louis."

He scrambled up from his knees on to the edge of the bed. It was an uncouth, clumsy movement, and his laugh was ugly with the knowledge of it.

"I came up to say good-night," he stammered thickly, "and found Nicky on the landing shouting and cheering. I carried him back to bed. He was angry with me. But I was afraid he would take cold."

It was not true and somehow, though she could not have seen into the black turbulence of his motive, she knew it was not true. She laid a gentle hand on her son's head.

"It was natural that he should want to hear and see," she said. "It was a great moment for him to remember."

"It was a great moment for every Frenchman," he answered significantly.

Little Nicholas pressed himself against his mother's side. He looked at Latour with a childish triumph.

"My father is going to beat the bad people," he said; "and one day I shall beat them. To-morrow I shall ask Saint Nicholas to help me grow up quick so that I can fight too."

Marianne Latour shook her head.

"Pray God that there may be no need in your day, my little son," she said.

There was a silence. She stood quite close to Latour. She wore roses in the belt of her simple dress, and their sweetness drifted against his face. He had drunk heavily, but the intoxication which rose suddenly in his blood sprang from a deeper source.

"Marianne," he said scarcely audibly, "there are tears on your cheeks."

"I am crying for all those who are about to die," she answered, "and because I am so proud. I thank God that I married a man."

"I also am a man," Latour whispered.

They looked at him over the pointed flame of the candle. The boy's eyes were fall of an instinctive horror. But his mother's face was grave and serene and gentle. Latour bent forward. He had said nothing—and he had said everything. With one look—with one word it had been done. It had leapt out from him like some wild beast that has lain patient and quiet waiting for the moment when the keeper's back is turned.

"Marianne!" he muttered, "Marianne!"

He caught her hand. He kissed it. She withdrew it from his mad grasp with a quiet irresistible strength.

"You are shaken, Louis," she said simply. "The excitement has been too much. Let us say good-night"

He stared at her, and they watched him—waiting; and he got up at last and stumbled blindly from the room.

After that Louis Latour came less often to the big house, and he did not play with Little Nicholas any more. They had all been such good friends that this change might have seemed strange enough, but Charles was too busy in his new office to notice, and Marianne gave no sign. She was as she had always been—gentle and kind and gracious, the deeper reserve which enclosed her softened by some indefinable emotion, perhaps of pity.

Latour told no more stories.

When they met. Little Nicholas felt the sombre eyes rest on him with a look that he could not understand. He was too young to understand, and so too young to forgive. Indeed, he did not know what there was that needed forgiveness. Something had happened—he could hardly re- member what—and then suddenly the vague fear and repulsion which had haunted his love for the hunchback uncle had grown big and definite. It was as though the earth had opened and the physical deformity was not a surface thing any more, but went deep, deep down into depths which made little Nicholas sick and frightened when he thought of them.

But in truth he did not think of them very often. For, like every one else the whirlwind had seized upon him and swept him off his small legs and tossed him from one feverish excitement to another. Every morning he carried his candle into the shadowy church and set it at the feet of the friendly saint, and prayed for nos braves soldats and the speedy destruction of the bad people. And it seemed to him that the saint smiled and nodded to him, and once even that the composed lips moved.

"Have patience, Little Nicholas!"

When he went out of the church, there were the soldiers themselves plodding through the muddy streets, bumping over the cobbles on the sombre-hued gun-carriages, clattering past at a merry trot on their well-groomed horses. And the beating of drums and the blood-stirring bugle call became a daily music.

The men were grave-faced and serene. But they smiled at Little Nicholas when he waved to them and shouted in his childish treble. He was too young to understand all that their smiles hid, and he prayed more earnestly than ever that he might grow up at once and take his share in their glorious adventure. There were times, indeed, when the saint, had he been an ordinary person, might have become restive under Little Nicholas's insistence. He might have felt that he was being bullied and resented it. But the great thing about saints is that they are never impatient. Though they stand on pedestals, with candles burning at their feet and wear golden haloes round their heads, they have not forgotten what it was to walk among the multitude and to desire and suffer.

So that St. Nicholas smiled patiently upon his name-child and listened in unrebuking silence.

One winter's day, when Little Nicholas ran out of the church the soldiers were coming back from the unknown place whither they had marched so gaily. There were not many of them, and, though they were the same men, they were changed. On their faces, on their uniforms, on their battered gun-carriages, on their limping horses they wore marks of horror. They went on unceasingly and there was no sound of drum or call of trumpet, only hoarse words of command and the dull heavy thud of feet. They did not look at Little Nicholas as he stood on the pavement and watched them pass, and he did not call to them.

And suddenly he forgot school and ran home with panic clutching at his heels.

But even the big familiar house frightened him. It seemed to be full of strange people. In reality he knew them all save one, but they had changed like the soldiers and like the big house itself. Their faces were grey and stiff, and they did not smile at Little Nicholas when he broke into the room. On the contrary, they looked away, frowning as though they did not want to remember him.

His father and his mother were there, too; and Uncle Louis and a stranger in uniform with white hair and a gaunt, weather-beaten face. And there was little Monsieur Destard, who had the biggest wine-cellars in all the province. They all listened to the strange officer.

Little Nicholas crept to his mother's side and she put her arm about him and drew him close. She said nothing about school. He felt that her arm trembled, and her eyes were fixed on her husband, who stood by the window staring out on to the street. Suddenly he raised his clenched fists above his head and shook them.

"Oh, God, if only I could take my rifle to go with them!" he groaned aloud. "It is my right to go! Why am I tied like a lame old dog to my post. General!—have pity!"

The officer shook his head.

"Your place is here, Monsieur le Maire," he said. "The townspeople chose you in fair weather to guide them. Now that the storm has broken you cannot fail them. They will need all your wisdom and courage. We leave you at your post. It is one of grave danger. Be satisfied."

Charles did not answer. His face showed the colour of wax against his black beard, and his hands shook. The officer turned to his wife with a grave bow. "And you, madame—I regret deeply we can do nothing. We cannot differentiate. The inhabitants must remain and take their chance. I know that you will be brave."

"I will try," she answered simply.

"And I?" said Latour suddenly.

He took a shambling step forward out of the shadow.

"And I—have you nothing for me, mon Général?"

The white-haired officer looked at him.

"No doubt you have had your orders from the bank at Paris, monsieur," he said courteously.

"Yes, I have done all that I can do. The bullion is safe. I am free. I am strong. Look at these arms. I have never been a soldier, but I could fight—I could kill—if I had a chance."

"Your spirit does you credit, monsieur," was the answer.

"That means—nothing. Because I am deformed—because I've got a hump on my back, because I am hideous to look at—I'm not fit to fight." His falsetto voice rose almost to a scream. They looked away from him as though he had made them ashamed. The officer's face was immovable.

"No doubt France will know how to use all her sons," he said.

He went towards the door, Monsieur Destard pattering at his spurred heels.

"You will return, mon Général?"

"Assuredly—we shall return."

"When the time comes—do not forget what I have told you. The cellar runs for a mile under the river. It is a secret. No one knows of it but me. It may be useful."

"That is certain, I shall not forget."

They went out. Charles followed, and his elder brother came last of all. He turned suddenly, shutting the door sharply behind him.

"Marianne," he said. "Listen to me."

She stood half-way across the room with Little Nicholas's hand in hers, looking at him. He was shaking from head to foot and the sweat ran down the sides of his dark face. Little Nicholas shrank behind his mother's skirts. The thought that he had once played and laughed with this terrible, hideous man was like the memory of an impossible dream.

"Louis, I must go to my husband.

"Wait—listen. You must. You can't stay here, Marianne. It is death—it may be worse than death. You know what happened at S. Well—I am not so useless after all. They won't have me to fight, so be it. But there is one thing I can and will do. I can save you."

She drew herself up a little. It was so slight a movement—and yet suddenly she had grown tall and strong.

"You heard what the General said, Louis. We cannot differentiate. We must take our share."

"Our share? And is our share the same? Look at me—look at me—is my share the same as Charles's? Is my life the same? Yes—I have the same heart, the same desires, the same passions, and God made me a monster—a laughing-stock, a butt for men's jests. Yes—yes—Monsieur le Général may talk, but God differentiates—God differentiates!"

"Hush!" she whispered with white lips. "You are raving, Louis; I have never laughed."

"No—you have been good—merciful, pitiful. But you don't understand—if you could see into my heart, Marianne" He had been pacing restlessly backwards and forwards across the room. He stood still now—-close to her, his long, ungainly arms pressed to his sides—" if I had been as other men you would have understood, Marianne. If I had been built straight I should have had a chance to show you. But now, at last, a chance has come. I can save you—you and Nicholas. I am going to—I must."

"The choice is not yours, Louis," she answered quietly.

In the far distance something happened. A hush seemed to hold the whole towa It was as though every one had stood still—listening, looking at each other. It happened again just the same—perhaps a little nearer—like the muffled thud of a giant's footstep.

Louis Latour picked up Little Nicholas in his arms.

"I have horses and a carriage waiting in the street behind the bank. I have passports for all three of us. You will travel as my wife. We shall be in Paris to-morrow morning."

"No," she answered.

He did not seem to hear her. He held the struggling boy against him with a ruthless strength.

"There is no chance for anyone who stays here. Sooner or later something will happen. There will be a massacre."

"Are you a coward, Louis?"

With his free hand he caught hold of her. His face was so close to hers that she saw nothing but his frowning frenzied eyes.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do—nothing—good or evil I have money. I have saved and saved. It's as though I had always known this would come. I've wanted to shower things upon you, load you with everything that is beautiful, that your heart desired. I love you, Marianne—you and Nicholas, because, he is yours. I have loved you ever since I was a boy. I have dreamed of you and prayed for you; everything that I have done has been for you, and now"

He was like a maniac. Things that he meant to say were stifled. But from out of black primitive depths, hidden from his own knowledge, came this torrential passion. He saw the horror on her face come and go. He saw that she was not looking at him, that even his madness could hot hold her. Her eyes passed him, and he turned gasping and saw his brother standing in the open doorway.

Charles Latour had been very pale. He was flushed now. The anxieties and terrors of the last days had seemed to wither him like an icy wind. Now he was himself—vigorous and dangerous.

The two men looked at each other. The masked envy and contempt that had been between them all their lives stood out naked and shameless,

"You cur! You misshapen, treacherous cur!"

Latour set Little Nicholas to the ground

"Take care! If I am misshapen I am strong enough. I could kill you with my hands. "

Again in the far distance the blow fell, silencing them. They looked at one another. Suddenly that which had happened between them slipped into its place. They were aghast that they had forgotten.

Charles Latour turned his back upon his brother.

"I suppose he offered you safety as well as love, Marianne?" he said bitterly. "Perhaps even now he will have the decency to offer you the one without the other. And, God knows, I shall be glad to think you safe. It is for you to choose."

She came up to him, and put her hands on his shoulders. She was smiling, and she had never seemed to him so radiant—so serenely beautiful.

"My husband, there is no choice."

"You know what it may mean?"

"I have been proud to live with you," she answered. "I shall be proud to die with you."

Little Nicholas felt a great throb in his heart

"And me!" he said loudly and clearly. "And me too!"

They looked at him. They laughed to see him so defiant and brave; they laughed as though death were not pounding its way over the hills, closer with every minute. Charles held out his arms, and Little Nicholas ran into them with a cry of joy. And so they stood there, holding one another against the coming enemy.

And Latour crept out like a distorted shadow. Nor did they notice his going. Even though he had shown himself in all his hideousness, they had forgotten him.

The snow fell faster and faster. It had fallen all night, and now it lay so thick on the street that even the ceaseless trampling of those unfamiliar, grey-clad men could not beat it into mud It muffled the thud of their feet so that they passed like ghosts—grey and silent and inevitable. The whole town lay silent under its dead white pall.

Little Nicholas hid himself behind the curtains in the dining-room. There was no more school, no more riotous fun on the way home, no more forbidden games in the market place. The street had become a place of mysterious evil. One went out—and one vanished. It was like the tales of wicked enchantment in the fairy stories. And from early morning Little Nicholas had stood by the window peering through the wet panes and waiting for some wonderful thing to happen. But now it was dusk, and still that grey stream poured on and on—and nothing happened.

Little Nicholas grew tired. The twilight frightened him. The dim figures passing through the veil of snow became more terrifying in their unreality. All day no one had spoken above a whisper. People went about the house on tiptoe and wore a hushed uneasy look, as though there were some one sleeping whose waking they feared. And now the silence and the chill suspense broke upon Little Nicholas like a wave. He wanted to cry out, but the invisible terror choked him. He slipped down behind the curtain burying his face in his arms, crying silently.

The door opened. The old serving woman came first carrying candles, whose star-light fought weakly with the dank gloom. Then came a tall, strongly-built man in a grey cloak on which the wet snow still sparkled. He carried his cloth-covered helmet in his hand, and his face was like a face carved out of weather-stained wood. And a thrilling, frightened murmur of steel accompanied him as he moved.

Little Nicholas's father followed. He wore his badge of office, and the two men stood opposite each other with the light between them. The old woman crept out, but Little Nicholas lay motionless, holding his breath, the tears drying on his cheeks.

''"Monsieur le Maire?" ''

Little Nicholas's father inclined his head.

"I have that honour, General."

"Good. I come from the Commander-in-Chief. He will expect you to wait upon him at the town hall within the next two hours. In the meanwhile I require from you a list of the chief men in the place."

"I shall have a list drawn up, General."

"Further, I am under the necessity of imposing the following regulations and orders upon the inhabitants." He read aloud from a printed sheet. His big voice filled the room. It was more than a voice. It was an actual presence, implacable, passionless, horrible in its conviction of power. "The infringement of these regulations will be followed by instant punishment. The penalty is death."

Little Nicholas looked at his father from behind the curtains. There was something strange about him which he could not understand. He was not like his father any more. He was different. He was smaller. There was a look in his eyes which Little Nicholas had never seen before. It was more terrifying than anything that had happened.

"The proclamation shall be given out, as you wish, General."

"You will be held responsible for whatever happens, Monsieur le Maire."

They bowed to each other with their terrible, formal politeness.

"I understand, General."

They went out as they had come. Once again there was silence. The candles shivered as though they had been released from a spell. Little Nicholas crept out from his hiding-place. He, too, was shivering with rage, and fear, and loneliness. He wanted to rush to some one—some one bigger and stronger than that great man in the grey cloak—and demand help and comfort. But there was no one. An icy quiet held the house. And outside the river of dim figures flowed on unceasingly.

In the draught from the half-open door a candle wavered and went out. And then it was that Little Nicholas re- membered. He thought of the saint standing alone and sorrowful in the darkness of his niche, waiting for the light that never came. He remembered all the curi had said of the wonderful things the saint had done for those who loved and trusted him. And now that the time had come to prove his love and trust he had forgotten.

Little Nicholas took down the dead candle from its socket It was all so clear to him now that he did not hesitate. Even when he had crept down the dark stairs and the outer door had closed heavily and menacingly behind him he was not frightened. The river had run dry at last The streets were empty, and the snow hurried down to cover the traces of those myriad feet. Little Nicholas ran, hatless, coatless, the candle hidden safely beneath his blouse.

When he had lit his candle he would look up into the benign, half-smiling face and pray aloud:

"Please, Saint Nicholas, drive the bad people away and grant that my father may never look like that any more."

So he came to the church. It stood out like a white ghost in the snow-drenched darkness. The doors were wide open, and within was a blaze of light and the sound of voices. Little Nicholas crept up the steps. He stood trembling on the threshold, his candle clasped in his frozen fingers. At first he was dazzled, and then it was like a nightmare. There were men lying on the dim altar steps, men sleeping, men drinking. Under the altar lamp a group of shadows rattled a dice box, and a hoarse baritone sang drowsily:—

Arms were piled up neatly the length of the solemn aisle and a cloth-covered helmet sat jauntily on the saint's halo.

A figure came up to Nicholas out of the darkness and dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder, and shook him with a rough playfulness. A voice spoke to him in a language that he did not understand.

''"Na-Junge, was willst du?" ''

Little Nicholas could not speak. The sobs choked him, the candle slipped from his fingers and dropped into the thick snow. The soldier prodded him teasingly with the butt end of his rifle. "Mach' dass d' fort kommst, Dummechen. Hier hast d' nix zu mache'."

Then Little Nicholas did a strange, terrible thing. It was as though the outrage to his saint had pricked an abscess which all day had long been gathering and aching. He charged headlong at the towering figure. He struck out wildly with his fists. The man, taken by surprise, stepped back and slipped on the wet snow and fell. Little Nicholas did not wait. He turned and went down the steps. Behind him he heard voices and hurrying steps, and he ran Caster with sobs of fear and anger tearing at his throat. And at the corner of the street, just when he knew it was all over, and that they would kill him, a strong arm caught hold of him, and he was carried into a doorway and held tightly whilst a dozen figures went sprawling past into the darkness. They waited until the last sound of the pursuit had died away, and then Latour set the boy on his feet. He did it gently, almost as though he apologised for touching him.

"What was it, Nicholas? What happened? What had you done? "

He did not wait for an answer.

They turned out of the doorway, and, keeping to the shadow, hurried homewards. Nicholas clung to his uncle's hand. He had forgotten that he was so ugly, and so wicked, and even that he had been an old friend and playfellow. But he was a comrade. He was an enemy of those others; he would feel the hurt they had done to all that Nicholas loved.

"I wanted—I wanted to take a candle" he panted. "I wanted to ask Saint Nicholas—and they were there and they had put a helmet on his head. He looked so sad. Shan't I ever take him a candle again?"

"Yes, I promise you, soon."

"And they were laughing. And I hit one of them. I wasn't frightened. You see I'm to be like father, and he's not frightened. He never could be, could he?"

"No, never."

Little Nicholas drew a sigh of content.

"I knew. So I hit him. I hate them. Every night I ask God to send them away and punish them. I don't understand. Doesn't God hear?"

"Oh, yes, He hears. But you see, He has made a law. Everything that is good and true has to suffer and die and go down into the grave before it can really live. Until we understand that we understand nothing. But it is hard."

He lifted Nicholas in his arms again so that they could go faster. And Little Nicholas clung to him and felt more comforted, because although he did not understand, he knew that at least there was an answer. But he did not know how the man who carried him trembled at his touch.

They had reached the bottom of a flight of stone steps, and Monsieur Destard stopped and lifted the lantern above his head, throwing his light on to the faces of the little group of uniformed men behind him. The light could penetrate no further. It beat feebly against a wall of blackness beyond which Monsieur Destard's whisper echoed mysteriously, travelling into the distance like a hurrying, frightened ghost.

"You know your way now, Messieurs. And you see I have not exaggerated. There is room for a regiment in this vault alone, and at night we could hide several companies overhead in the warehouse until all your men are assembled. At eleven o'clock on the twenty-fourth we shall expect you."

"There will be a joint attack, " he said calmly. "We shall take them on all sides, and a blow in the heart of the town like this will finish them. At the same time,"—he looked at the old wine-cellar fixedly for a moment, and then his eyes passed on to Charles Latour standing on the edge of the shadow—"they are certain to do their worst first. The civilian population will suffer and your household most of all, Monsieur Destard."

"I am a lonely old man," Destard answered, smiling. "They are welcome."

"And you, Monsieur le Maire?"

Charles started a little.

"I—I answer for the population, naturally, Colonel."

"Then all is settled. They suspect nothing? Your meeting here might seem strange."

Destard laughed.

"It is my birthday. Every one knows I have asked a few friends to celebrate. They despise us so they think it quite natural that Frenchmen feast whilst their country suffers. Their knowledge of us is useful—the madness which the gods send before they destroy."

"Then good-night To the twenty-fourth!"

"We shall celebrate victory with Christmas, Messieurs!"

The officers saluted and turned back. Destard waited till the eye of their electric torch had winked itself out, then he nodded to Charles and led the way up the steps. The trap-door opened in response to a knock, and the two men climbed out on to the hearth of Destard's dining-room. The long table was spread and laden with what good things the town could provide in these days. There was even semblance of gaiety, for the children, who had been brought too, for safety, prattled gaily and ate joyfully. But the men and women sat silent, with white, stiff faces, not touching the food before them.

Charles Latour closed down the trap-door and then slipped the concealing boards into their place.

"It's all settled," he said. " On the night of the twenty-fourth there will be a double attack and" He stopped

grown suddenly aware that his brother was standing opposite him. "You here! " he said almost inaudibly.

Latour nodded. The eyes of the two men met in an en- counter so deadly that for a moment all else was forgotten. In the silence Little Nicholas's voice rang out clearly.

"And on Christmas Day I shall take all the candles I can carry—to make up. My Uncle Louis promised—you did, didn't you, Uncle Louis?"

Marianne Latour half rose, her hand held out.

"Charles," she pleaded "Wait—not now."

He interrupted her. The lips under the black moustache were white and twisted with scorn.

"If you were not a blackguard born you would have had the decency to keep away, Louis."

"I came to warn you." The hunchback's thin voice steadied desperately. He had winced and now he seemed to be fighting to control himself. "I have heard—they suspect."

"It is impossible. You imagine things—or invent them. If you are afraid, keep out of it—keep away from here."

"I did not come because I love you, my brother."

"I know that. I know whom you think you love. I know whom you would be glad to see dead. And if you were not what you are, you would not dare to face me now "

"I tell you—they are on their way."

"And I tell you, you are a treacherous coward. You would have betrayed my honour—you would betray others."

"Take care—mind yourself."

They held him back. He was like a madman—like an ugly animal that has been goaded into fury. There was froth on his lips. "Mind yourself! Mind yourself!" he repeated screaming.

The old wine-seller stood between them.

"Hush, for God's sake, messieurs. This is no time—listen."

On that instant they were struck motionless, and the children's frightened voices died away like a breath of wind. For outside in the street they had heard footsteps—a word of command, the sharp grounding of arms. And now a bell pealed.

Monsieur Destard sprang nimbly on to the hearth, and stood there, smoking, with his thumbs in his arm-holes.

"Come now—enjoy yourselves! Quick!"

They awoke as from a stupor. They began to laugh and talk and eat. Charles took out a cigarette and Latour tried to hold a match for him. But his hand shook, and Charles took the light from him with a little, meaning smile. The flame burnt up straight and steady. Even then people noticed. It marked the difference between the two men. Afterwards they remembered and spoke about it.

The footsteps came across the hall.

The door opened, and on either side of the big grey-cloaked man who entered, two soldiers posted themselves. Their fixed bayonets shone faintly, and their faces were empty shadows under their spiked helmets.

"To what do we owe this honour?" Monsieur Destard asked sarcastically. "Is it not possible to celebrate even one's birthday undisturbed?"

"We have received certain information," the officer answered, "by which we are led to fear that the population has not benefited by the experience of others. It is, therefore, necessary that we should demand hostages—important hostages. Monsieur Charles Latour, Maire."

Charles flicked the ash of his cigarette with a steady finger.

"At your service."

"Monsieur Louis Latour, banquier"

The two brothers ranged themselves side by side. The soldiers moved forward in obedience to a gesture.

"Escort these two men to the town hall. If there is any attempt to rescue, you have your orders. Messieurs, if your townspeople behave themselves you have nothing to fear. But I warn you—and I suggest that your friends here make the warning public—that at the first sound of disorder you will be shot instantly. I give you a moment to say anything you wish to say."

It was very still. They could not pretend now. The little company looked at the two men. They were so different that it was difficult to believe that the same death was coming to them both. Charles Latour shook hands with them all. He was smiling and his hand was quite steady. They had never seen him so handsome, so brave, so calm.

"Many happy returns of the day, Monsieur Destard!"

They all knew what he meant.

Marianne Latour came last of all.

She lifted Little Nicholas to his father's shoulder and they kissed each other, gravely, as though each kiss had been a sacrament.

"We shall be proud—Nicholas and I—all our lives," she whispered.

Latour heard the whisper. He stood quite alone and forgotten. They had shaken hands with him, but perfunctorily, as one pays respect to the passing funeral of some one unloved and unknown. Now Marianne turned to him. The shadow of dislike and distrust faded from her dimmed eyes.

"Good-bye, Louis."

"Good-bye, Marianne."

"Let us hope that it is only au revoir," said the officer, laughing significantly.

Latour looked at Little Nicholas standing grave-faced by his mother's side. He wanted to say something—to them both—but he was tongue-tied, and the words dropped back unspoken into his heart. He nodded stupidly and went out at his brother's heels—shambling with bent head, his long arms hanging limp at his side.

Even then they noticed his shadow—distorted, ape-like—gliding along the wall.

He thought:

"To-morrow, perhaps Saint Nicholas will have his candles."

He smiled to himself. He was tired but content as is a man who has come to the end of a long arduous journey. Nobody had known how much he had suffered on the way, and no one would ever know how glad he was to rest. There had been so much storm and passion and ugliness, so many bitter and sullen days, so many torturing desires. And now all was still and quiet. It was as though the darkness in his heart had poured out like a released flood. It engulfed his body—soon it would engulf him for ever—but his heart was full of a light in which all things were clear and beautiful.

He thought how strange it was that his love for Marianne had shown itself to her as something base and loathsome. For when he had carried it secretly in his own breast it had been like a precious stone that he could take out of its hiding-place and wonder at without shame. It seemed to him now that when he had tried to show it to her his poor body had stood in the way like a distorting mirror, twisting his treasure into grotesque hatefulness.

But in a few hours his body would not stand in the way any more. It would have ceased to matter. Nothing would remain but the reality—freed of its piteous disguise. Even now the darkness hid his ugliness so that it could not hurt him. He was free of it at last.

"If only I could have told her," he thought "If only I could have done something to make her understand, to atone."

The clock in the town hall belfry overhead clanged out ten strokes. He counted them anxiously, for in the pitch darkness of their prison they were the only warning. A night and day had passed, and only once had the door swung open and then the same heavy-built officer had stood on the threshold whilst a soldier flashed a lantern in their faces. He had spoken courteously.

"After all, messieurs, one must be reasonable. Any attempt on the part of the inhabitants to aid their friends outside the town can only end in disaster. You, Monsieur It Moire, bear a great responsibility. Come, could we not unite in this matter? If you would give us some idea, an opportunity to prevent such a tragedy occurring—not only would you be absolved, but we give you our word that no one will suffer—no one. We shall take preventive measures only."

Latour had laughed openly, and Charles had sat with his face buried in his hands as though he had not heard. The officer had shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well Think it over. If you change your minds you need only rap at the door—I shall be informed."

Then the door closed again.

Somehow that incident had now changed everything. The last shred of envy and hatred which had suffocated his brother's love had heen torn away. He saw Charles as Marianne saw him. He had a right to all that success and honour. God had given him a straight body and a straight fine soul. It was so easy and natural to love him. Love and honour were his heritage.

He stretched out a hand into the darkness.

"Charles!" he faintly whispered.

It was the first word that had passed between them.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Did you hear the clock? It struck ten. In an hour's time it will all be over."

"No doubt; yes—all over."

"It will be our Christmas gift to France. To-morrow Little Nicholas will take his candles to the church."

"Perhaps."

Latour's groping hand touched his brother's arm.

"You are afraid for them. There is no need. Destard will take his precautions. The blow will fall so suddenly—they will have no time."

"Time to shoot us!"

"Yes. What does that matter? It is hard, but sooner or later we must die."

Charles Latour freed himself with a violent movement

"Curse you! Who are you to talk? What do you leave behind P nothing—no one. It is easy for you. But for me—it was only beginning. I should have gone far—they said so—my life was valuable, and now"

"Didn't you know what she said? 'We shall be proud, Nicholas and I, all our lives.' Could you earn anything greater than that? So long as the town stands, men and women will speak reverently of you."

"Shall I be there to hear them? What is praise or blame to the dead? Good God! in another hour"

The voice, unfamiliar and terrible, broke off. Latour crept closer. He was afraid now with a fear that he could not name. It was as though the earth was cracking under him.

"Charles! we have only a few minutes. I want to say something—to ask your forgiveness. I loved Marianne, I loved Nicholas. I hated and envied you. I felt as though you had wronged me—cheated me of my birthright. I was blind—unjust. You had earned all that came to you. You deserved their love. Men turn naturally to what is fine and brave and true. I, too, am proud, my brother. I could have killed, now I would give my life."

Charles Latour stumbled violently to his feet. It was as though he had not heard.

"It's mad," he whispered; "mad. It's as that man said—there will be a massacre—horrible, useless. We shall have given our lives for nothing. I am responsible. They will keep their word—it's my duty."

"Where are you going?"

"I—I won't die like this" the voice was shrill and broken like a panic-stricken child's. "I won't. In the field I could have faced it, not here, like a rat in a trap—in cold blood. Damn this darkness. I can't bear it."

"Charles, you're ill, you're beside yourself. Death is nothing—a pin-prick. And they're so proud."

"What do I care? Out of my way. I tell you it is my duty to prevent bloodshed—useless bloodshed I won't die."

They faced each other in the darkness. But the darkness did not hide them. It stripped them naked.

"Are you afraid?"

"And if I am? Did I say I was a hero? How can I help what they thought—what I thought? No one can tell till he's tried. Besides it's common sense."

"Where are you going?"

There was no answer. Latour felt his way along the wall. They came against each other suddenly. One smothered exclamation of dismay and they closed. Latour's ape-like hands had gone straight to his brother's throat, choking the cry for help, and they went down together, rolling over and over, with no sound but the gasp of their tortured lungs and the shuffle of their struggling bodies.

The first stroke of the Mairie bell broke like a heavy sea on the walls of their prison. Wave succeeded wave, and with the gathering storm there mingled the boom of distant guns, the staccato rattle of infantry fire playing like lightning on a black sky, men's voices, running footsteps that came nearer, hesitated, and passed on.

Cheering!

Latour's hands slipped from his brother's throat.

"I had to," he whispered sobbingly. "I had to—they were too proud."

He began to stretch out his brother's fine limbs and to compose his hands over the quiet breast. Then he stood up, waiting for the door to open—for the end.

And so they found the two brothers when they came to set them free. The face of Charles Latour was full of a noble peace. They led Louis away from him out into the dimly-lit hall of the Maine. There was blood on his hands, and he seemed more bent and twisted than ever.

Marianne stood on the edge of the silent crowd. She looked at him, without hatred, wondering, as though it puzzled her that God should have made anything so evil. And he looked back at her for a last time. He did not try to speak; he did not want her to understand. For some- thing greater than words had been given him.

"Yes, I killed him," he said. "You see, I lost my nerve. I wanted to betray the plans. We fought and I was the stronger. But I was not in time."

They covered Charles with the tricolour, and his brother they led out into the cold, grey Christmas morning. They set his misshapen back to the wall, for justice moves swiftly for a traitor.

"An ugly devil!" they said, as they shovelled the earth into the nameless grave. "Strange that they should have been brothers."

And in the same hour, Marianne and Nicholas carried their candles into the ransomed church. Their hearts were strong with pride and victory. They prayed together for the souls of all brave men.

"And grant that I may grow up to-morrow," little Nicholas prayed secretly, "and be like my father!"

And from amidst the golden light of his candles the saint smiled down upon him in patient tenderness.