Gabriel, not heeding the admiral, went straight up to his weatherbeaten
sergeant, whom he embraced. "Chaush Nurhan! It's all over now! Thank you!
And I thank every one of you!"
The bearded men broke their neat rank and surrounded Gabriel. Many of them
snatched his hand to kiss. This eager acclamation of their leader had
in it, too, a dash of mistrust and dislike of these very resplendent
guests. But the officers seemed profoundly affected by this scene, so much
too manly to be soldierly. When the rear-admiral had briefly examined the
trenches and rock barricades, he considered it his obvious duty to express
esteem for Gabriel Bagradian and the officers with him, in a speech.
This speech, although volubly Gallic, had in it the astringent severity of
the admiral's profession and of his creed. "Monsieur le Commandant,"
he began, "today in every country, and on all seas, deeds are being done
of the highest valor. But these are trained soldiers who confront each
other. Here, on Musa Dagh, it was otherwise. You had no trained men at
your disposal, only simple, peaceable peasants and craftsmen. And yet,
under your leadership, this handful of insufficiently armed villagers
not only held its own against an enemy many times as strong, but emerged
victorious in the desperate struggle for bare life. This deed merits not
to be forgotten. It was only possible with God's help. God helped you
because you fought for more than yourselves, for His holy Cross. You,
therefore, Monsieur, have given proof of the most exalted of all heroisms
-- Christian heroism, which defends something more precious than hearth
and home. The French nation thanks you out of my mouth, and is proud
to be able to assist you. I shall be delighted to bring you all, to the
last man, to a place of safety, and herewith inform you that my squadron
will convey you to an Egyptian port, to Port Said, or Alexandria. . . ."
As Gabriel bowed the deepest gratitude in answer to this sincerely felt
little speech, cordially grasping the rear-admiral's small, thin hand, he
casually thought: "Port Said? Alexandria? I? What should I do there? Live
in a concentration camp? Why? . . ."
The clear, hard eyes of the little admiral had in them an almost fatherly
look of sympathy. "Monsieur Bagradian, I ask you to be my guest for the
voyage, on the Jeanne d'Arc. . . ."
He awaited no thanks, but drew out a big, gold, bourgeois watch, from
its chamois-leather case, and glanced uneasily at it. "And now may I
have the honor of being presented to Madame Bagradian? I used to know
her father very well."
In the night Juliette had made fast the entrance to her tent with every
available strap and bit of string. For her lifeless hands it had been an
exhausting task, and she could scarcely drag herself back to bed again. it
was not any fear of plundering thieves which caused her to shut her tent
so carefully. Strangely enough, the whole deserter episode, the grimacing
mask of the long-haired thief, Sato's hands stripping off her sheets, had
passed Juliette by like any other dream. She made fast her tent to prevent
its ever being light again, to keep another day from ever beginning,
so that she might be left alone in bed, with her beloved, lace-trimmed
little cushion, off which her head should never again be lifted. She
proposed a kind of walling-up for herself. And so, as familiar darkness
enclosed the chrysalis of her being, she felt frostily at peace. Now she
had never lived on Musa Dagh, never lost a son, never known that Turks
were coming nearer and nearer to kill her. Magically, the inside of her
tent had become the innermost refuge of Juliette, beyond which there
was no longer anything but the vague sounds of a dangerous world. Her
reason had long since been unseated, her being sat inconceivably secure.
Towards morning the little gong outside the curtain was loudly struck.
Juliette never stirred. Nor did Avakian's begging, imploring voice, which
she recognized, move her to reply. Then came the cracks of the howitzer
fire, and the terrifying shell from the Guichen. But for Juiiette it was
still dark night, and she crept even closer under her coverlets, so that
nothing should worry her in the grave. Her fears for the darkness of her
sepulchre were stronger than any instinctive panic. Her sick memory forgot
each shell as it was fired. She crouched closer and closer into herself
not to hear these voices. But they kept assailing her. And now even her
tent walls heaved, being wildly shaken from without. Were the Turks there?
Kristaphor's voice chimed in with Avakian's: "Madame, please! Open!
Open at once, please! Madame!"
The tent heaved more and more violently; Juliette raised her head once.
And now she also recognized Mairik Antaram.
"Answer, my darling, please, for Christ's sake! A wonderful piece of
good luck!"
Juliette turned over on her side. She knew what these Armenians called
"good luck." Let Gabriel come, too, it makes no difference, I shall
stay where I am, I won't be drawn out. Who, after all, is this Gabriel
Bagradian? Is my name also Bagradian by any chance? Juliette Bagradian?
At last somebody outside slit up the laces, impetuously broke open this
insecure vault. But she turned her back on the intruders, to show that,
whenever she chose, she could be alone, in her own world. Avakian,
Antaram, Kristaphor, were yelling, in strange, little high-pitched voices,
something about a French warship called the Guichen. Juliette pretended to
be unconscious, but pricked up her ears, and decided, with the incredulous
mistrust of all neurotics: a trap! Had not Dr. Altouni only last night
tried to force her to leave her beloved tent, her own, her very own --
to go off and live with all the others, those filthy animals, who made
her feel sick and hated her. No doubt this clumsy trick was concocted by
Gabriel and Iskuhi, this story of a
French
ship was to lure her out,
put her at their mercy, with nowhere to hide. But Juliette was not to
be got so easily. Her enemies should not manage to dislodge her from
this motherly and beneficent encasement in which she need not know any
reality. Juliette let Avakian, Antaram, and Kristaphor beg and whine,
and lapsed into unconsciousness.
When at last all attempts proved useless, the old woman shrugged.
"Let her be! There's plenty of time."
But Avakian and Kristaphor dragged the mishandled trunks outside the
tent and loyally began to pack and tidy all that had not been stolen or
torn to shreds. Gabriel sent to fetch them before they had finished.
Then, still early that morning, the curtain was again drawn back, and
there stood two men, with Mairik Antaram. But these were two young men,
in blue uniforms, with sparkling buttons and Red Cross bands round their
left arms. Juliette, stiff on her back, saw two chubby, rosy, male faces,
with clear, merry eyes. A delicious, startled commotion at the sight of
the inexpressibly akin went shuddering through her. The shorter of the
two young men saluted her stiffly; his brotherly voice spoke the sounds
of a vanished world: "Sorry to disturb you, Madame. We're the hospital
orderlies of the Guichen. We have orders from the head-surgeon to carry
Madame down with all the rest. We'll be back later. Would Madame be so
good as to be ready?"
And the little fellow drew himself up, his hand went up in salute to his
sailor's cap, while the other, with clumping, embarrassed steps, came
on into the tent to set down a thermos flask beside the looking glass,
a dish of butter, and two rolls of fine white bread. "Head-surgeon's
orders, tea, bread, butter, for Madame, just to go on with . . ."
He announced it like the progress of a battle, clicking his heels and
turning his snub-nosed, chubby profile towards the bed, without appearing
to see the woman on it. A deliciously clumsy boy! But Juliette emitted
a whispering sigh, whereupon the two hospital orderlies, feeling that
perhaps they disturbed the patient, clumped out of the tent on noisy
tiptoe. They followed Mairik Antaram to the hospital hut, which the
flames had spared. There the whole hospital staffs of the battleships had
collected, with stretchers, to carry sick and wounded down to the coast.
Juliette stretched out two nostalgic arms towards her vanishing compatriots,
and then flung off the sheet. She sat up on the edge of the bed.
Her chrysalis sheath had split at last. Covering her face with both hands,
she ran fingers through her wildly tousled hair. In horror, she whispered:
"Frenchmen! Frenchmen! What do I look like! Frenchmen!"
And then it was as though, in this dried-up body, there shot to life a
pillar of the old, flaming energy. She sat down before the glass. Her
still, shaky fingers confused every objet de toilette that the dressing
table still displayed. She daubed on rouge, without having rubbed off
the face cream, and so looked more sickly and withered than ever. She
worked away at her head with a brush and comb, whispering: "What do
I look like!" again and again. She was too weak to manage to put her
hair up. Then she put her head down on her arms and began to sob quite
uncontrollably. But self-pity as usual proved so soothing that its soft
caress made her forget she had any hair, and she left it hanging. A new,
sharp panic. "Frenchmen! Frenchmen! What have I got to put on!" She
began to look about for her things, the wardrobe trunk, all the other
luggage -- nothing! The tent was empty! Juliette rushed like a mad thing
round and round those few square yards. It was the old nightmare. She
was being forced to attend a soirée, the most brilliant soirée, in her
nightgown, with bare feet. After long, vain searchings, she ventured
to put her nose outside the tent. The clear, gold September sunlight
nearly drove her into it again. But the next minute she was on her knees
by the wardrobe trunk. . . . Who'd played this dirty, common trick on
her? Iskuhi? Everything was in ribbons, crumbled, turned inside out. Not
one frock, of all those faded, last year's rags. Juliette had nothing
to wear! And yet she must look her best, since these were Frenchmen!
Mairik Antaram found Juliette sitting on the ground, amid heaps of such
slips, stockings, frocks and shoes as the deserters had left her. She
was too exhausted to move, but she clamored obstinately: "The French
are here! The French are here! What have I got to put on . . . ?"
Mairik Antaram stared at the invalid, unable to believe her ears. Was it
conceivable that this woman, who scarcely had managed to say a word ever
since she had ceased to be delirious, the woman who had put forth all her
strength to defend herself against the horror of knowledge -- that now
her mind could so run on clothes? But slowly Antaram understood. It was
not vanity. Why, her brothers were coming! She was shy, she wanted to be
worthy of them! Madame Altouni knelt beside Juliette and, in her turn,
rummaged among gay heaps. But whatever she picked out made Juliette
angry. After a long time, during which the invalid, in this curious
fashion, defied her fate, and Mairik Antaram displayed celestial patience,
a frock found acceptance at last. To be sure it was a stiff and formal
frock, lace-trimmed at the opening round the throat. While the old woman,
who really had little skill in such subtle arts, was with the greatest
difficulty helping the almost inanimate Juliette to get into it, the
patient moaned: "It's all wrong!"
But would any frock have been the right one in which to welcome rescuing
brothers, since for broken lives there can be no rescuer?
Gabriel hurried on ahead to prepare her for the rear-admiral's visit.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed when he reached her. Mairik was
holding a cup of tea and petting the refractory Juliette as though she
were a spoilt child. "If you want to look your best for the Frenchmen,
you must keep up your strength, dear, or all your clothes will be no
use. . . ."
Juliette stood up with formality as though a stranger had come in,
whom she must follow. Mairik Antaram left the tent with a glance from
one to the other of them. She took one of the rolls, since she herself
was nearly dead with hunger. Gabriel saw his old life; it confronted
him in a livid flash of perception, and he knew that the way back to it
could not be bridged. This old life was wearing a stiff, taffeta frock,
every movement of which rustled with memories. But the cheeks and limbs
of the old life were shrunken and colorless; its form could scarcely keep
upright and aroused compassion in him. How close to him she had still
been as an invalid! Only now, as he saw her in formal silks, could he
measure the gulf of the forty days. He had to talk to her very guardedly:
"Thank God, my dear, you're almost as you used to be. . . ."
He asked if she felt she had the strength to come a few steps to meet
the admiral of the French squadron. He was sure she would not want to
receive him here, in this dark sick-tent. Juliette looked round the place
which so recently she had chosen to be her sepulchre. Then she put out
her hands in a queer little gesture of longing for her lace-edged pillow.
Gabriel took her by the arm.
"You'll have all your things there with you tonight, Juliette. They shan't
forget anything."
But Juliette, in spite of this appeasement, turned again at the door of
her tent, like Eurydice, towards the dark.
The admiral came with only his adjutant and a young officer. He had been
warned not to come too close to this convalescent. The infectious fever
on Musa Dagh was apparently a very dangerous species. But the admiral was
a valiant seaman, on whom warnings usually had the contrary effect. In his
stiff little steps, which over-emphasized those of youth, he came to her
and kissed her hand. "You too, Madame, as a Frenchwoman, a stranger,
have played a considerable part in the sufferings and heroic deeds on
this mountain. Permit me to wish you a speedy recovery."