Picturegoer (Jul-Dec 1937)

The Story of the Film — continued her with a slight bow "That will be all, Madame. I shall not trouble you again, certainly not to the extent of climbing seven flights of stairs. Good day." The hours sped all too fast till Chico's return He came in, bubbling over with good spirits at having passed his test as a street washer, and proposing a celebration with the Gobins. "What have you been doing with yourself ? Has anyone called today?" he asked, shaking the drops from his dark hair at the handbasin while she handed him a clean towel. "No one," she said, but her voice was unsteady. Having smartened up his own appearance, not refusing her help, it evidently occurred to him to look at her. "Couldn't you do a Little smiling ?" he enquired. "Make yourself look pretty . . here. He tossed her a marguerite from the mantleshelf vase and departed to join Gobin in fetching supplies. She had tucked in the marguerite above her ear, pleased with the effect, when a noise at the window made her start. It was Aristide, the atrologist from the opposite attic. Behind deeply concave glasses, his black eyes were vindictive. He stood with Grisette under his arm. "You still there?" he demanded. " In spite of the police having called?" "How did you know the police called?" "Never mind. Chico told me you were only staying here till they had been. Now you have lied to him, so as to stay. No good will come of it. You will drag him down to your level, rob him of the greatness that he might have known. Is that your plan ?" He said much more in the same vein. While he talked, he followed her as she backed towards the door. At last he had gone but she was convinced of her own inferiority. Without daring to look round the room in farewell, she hurried down the many stairs into the street and the nearest wine-shop. A man, seeing the marguerite in her hair, offered her a drink. She sat with him at a table, dazed, unable to smile when the swing doors burst open to admit Chico. "What d'you think you're doing here?" he said. "Come home at once." Dealing her companion a stinging blow, he seized Diane's hand. On the second flight of the familiar stairway he realised that she was breathless. Out it all came at last about the arrival of the police and what Aristide had said. " Never mind what Aristide said," Chico declared. " I say you're a good, fine girl and so you must be one." This time she didn't refuse his offer of help. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her up to Seventh Heaven. On the morning of August 3,1914, Chico surprised her by coming into the room with a cardboard box. " Eh, Chico, you are not at work ?" " No. I have something else to see to . . . well . . . why don't you open it?" " For me." Awestruck, she cut the string and dived among folds of tissue to draw out folds of filmy whiteness. "Chico ... a wedding dress. Oh . . . you give me everything. 30 You . . . you really want to marry me." "At two o'clock to-day. Boul will drive us and Father Revillon marry us at the church . . . now, don't come over sentimental. I have to shave and you — you must get into that thing." She couldn't part from her precious burden, nor for a moment with what she wanted to say. At last the words came. "Chico, couldn't you tell me something, just to show you aren't marrying me out of pity ?" His eyes widened as he was preparing to lather. He put down the shaving brush. "You mean you want me to make love to you?" he asked. For all his scared tone, he sat on the window sill beside her, while she held her frock and they talked. "You see, it's all a matter of arithmetic," he explained. "First there were two of us. Now there's going to be one. Put it another way if you like 'Chico . . . Diane . . . heaven." "Say it again?" she pleaded. He reminded her not to be sentimental and she was obliged to go off with her frock to Madame Gobin's, proud of being able to make use of the plank. " I shall never be afraid again," she called waving to him half-way across, encouraged by the admiration in his eyes. She found poor Madame Gobin in tears beside her husband. War with Germany had been declared. Gobin had received his notice to join the colours. "It came this morning," Madame Gobin explained, "while he was at work. Chico expected one, but none arrived." She dried her eyes. Soberly, Diane dressed, but all thoughts of war and its partings, were driven from her as she stepped back across the plank. Chico stood in the middle of the room staring as though something new, strange and infinitely lovely were being revealed to him. " Diane . . . Diane . . . listen." He gathered her in his arms, carrying her now this way, now that, as though he would proclaim to the world the unassailable truth. "I love you, Diane." The concierge knocked. " For you, Monsieur, by this morning's post. It came after you left," she said. Diane stared at the War Department's official mobilisation note. "It ... it can't be," she faltered. Chico caught her to him. They were closer than they had ever been, closer in spirit, for now he knew what it was to be afraid. "Diane, I can't leave you," he cried. "Already you're part of me. What's the matter ? I feel all shaken inside. Don't leave me ever, or I shall go out like a candle." "Chico . . . and you talk to me about courage." " Yes . . . how easy it is to say it." "Lean on me. Trust me. I'll make you brave. I'll be strong and wise for you." "Diane. I have to report in an hour. I must know you're my wife . . . see, these medals. . . . Father Revillon gave them to me. They hang round the neck by the chains. Diane, do you believe in God ?" " Yes . . . since He brought you to me." "Then in His sight we'll be married. A man must appeal to something. Say ' Before God I take you Chico for my husband.' " With hands clasped they were married thus, each putting the chain and medal over the other's head. "I'll come to you every morning at eleven o'clock," Chico promised. " I'll hold the medal and think of you and say, Chico . . . Diane . . . Heaven. You do the same." She promised. Standing at the window, he begged her to come no nearer, but took a last sight of her, and went like the wind. Sobbing with her head against the wall, Diane did not hear a knock. She started back as the door was flung open. Nana, dark-eyed, malignant with every sign of her profession about her dress and bearing, stood there. " I've been waiting till your sewer man got out," she sneered. "Well, why don't you ask me how I like being in gaol ?" "What do you want, Nana?" " What's this . . . something he gave you ? " She snatched the medal with the slender chain from Diane's throat. Once Diane would have remained silent. Now her new-born courage put forth its voice. " Give that back to me . . . back, I tell you ! " The two women struggled. The medal and chain fell from Nana's grip, on the floor by the bed. "I'm not afraid of you," Diane cried. "I'll never be afraid of you again." With one hand she seized her treasure, with the other, despite Nana's blows, a belt from behind the wardrobe curtain. Wielding it, she slashed at Nana till the terrified woman sought the street. The war years dragged on. In the crypt of Father Revillon's church, converted into a military hospital, Diane obtained work as a laundress. She was passing at one rush hour through the main building — stretcher after stretcher was being carried in — when Sister stopped her. Would she go to Lieutenant Brissac behind the curtain ? He was coming-to after an anaesthetic. It was the first of many occasions on which Diane was to be touched by his youthful charm as he evidently was by hers. She did not realise the appeal among so many haggard and harassed women, of her serene beauty. "Why do you always look so happy round about eleven o'clock ? " Brissac asked her one day, from the convalescent's wheel chair. "That's when I'm in heaven. Every day at eleven o'clock my husband comes to me. I think about him and he always is there." " I ought to laugh at you, but I can't," he confessed. " Your husband must be a very remarkable fellow." "He is indeed . . . now I must go back to work." True every day, Chico had never failed her. As in some quiet corner, she raised his medal to her lips and whispered, "Chico — Diane — heaven," the inner conviction that he was alive and safe although she might not have heard from him by letter, was strong enough to keep her untroubled throughout the day. One morning, however, as she was alone in a quiet corner, and the clock struck eleven, a shudder went through her. Something had happened to Chico. With every moment her fear increased till it became merged in a physical faintness. She struggled back to her neglected wash-tub As the weeks passed, her fears died down. Chico every morning still came to her. Armistice Day dawned and an excited nation hovered on the brink of cessation of the horrors of war. To Diane this meant an extra scouring of the home and feeding Aristide's growing colony of cats. He had gone out early, hoping to sell horoscopes, coming home disappointed, but very grateful. " Such crowds . . . people outside want news, not philosophy," he said, adding after a pause, "It was very kind of you to look after my creatures. I should thank you for that and your many kindnesses, after all I said about you. I thought you unworthy of Chico. I was wrong. You are a good, brave woman." For answer she kissed him. She had slipped back to her room, when the door opened. Brissac asked permission to come in. "Diane, I'm terribly sorry that I should be the one to tell you this," he said. "But I had to go to the War Office and I saw the list of casualties. Your husband was one of those killed in action." Her face grew white but her faith was undimmed. "No ... no ... I can't believe it ! " she cried. " Yesterday he came to me. There would have been no time to hear if anything had happened to-day. Gobin is alive and home. He was with him. He would know." She hurried across the plank. When she came back, her face was still grave though her heart would not believe disaster. "Gobin saw him just before an attack. He ran to Chico's dug-out to warn him gas was coining over, but never saw him again. Tm going to see Father Revillon. He comes from that part of the front," she declared. Brissac insisted on going with her. They found the good Father in his presbytery. He smiled at Diane, but looked anxious on hearing her question. "My child, since you ask me," he said, " I must tell you. I have been meaning to come and see you. When I was at the field hospital, several cases of gas poisoning were brought in. Chico was among them. He was coughing wretchedly. He gave me this medal and chain to give you, and said I was to tell you he died, looking up." Diane's self-control broke. Brissac lead her sobbing away. Outside among the street crowds, shouting, singing because Armistice had been declared, she lost him. Paper streamers fluttered past her. With renewed strength she elbowed through the crowd. Intuition, stronger than reason, upheld her. Chico was alive. He would meet her in Seventh Heaven. She must go there. Up, up past groups of excited neighbours, she went, stumbling, panting, and at last reached the door. She opened it and went in. Chico was there. . . . Chico himself standing with his back to the wide window and the roofs of Paris. Diane, is that you?" he called. " I can't see you. Come to me." He held out his arms. She ran into them. His sightless eyes were pressed against her cheek. His voice was in her ear. "Diane . . . did you think I was dead ? " "They tried to make me believe so, but I couldn't ... I didn't." The old smile made his features young again. "Well, of course I'm a very remarkable fellow," he said.