Hamilton High School - Hamiltonian Yearbook (South Hamilton, MA)

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nervousness of the American rookies who were about to go into their first battle. As five-fifteen came nearer and nearer, Gene had a sinister feeling. He spoke to the fellow next to him, “If I die,” said he, “will you see for me that this letter is sent?” The soldier promised and put the letter — which was to Alec Dupont — in his pocket. At five o’clock the bom- bardment commenced. The nervous ten- sion of the soldiers ran high. Red Cross dressing-stations, just behind the lines, showed more and more signs of life, and there preparations were going on for the receiving of a large amount of wounded. Five-ten came. The rookies in the reserve trenches glued their eyes to their wrist watches. Some of the soldiers whom war had hardened Avere grouped around an old Poilu who was telling them a story. Some of the men were writing letters to mothers, and to “girls they had left be- hind” whom they would never perhaps again see. At twelve minutes past men clasped their rifles firmer, bayonets fixed, and waited for the order to advance. « As he lay wounded out in No Man’s Land he saw, as if in a dream, a girl in w ' hite come out of the hazy nowhere. Stretchers bearers followed her, on her errand of mercy, as she went from soldier to soldier, administering aid to the wounded. His eyes roamed over the bat- tle-scarred field, and he saw her kneeling beside a dying soldier holding his rosary. She was a picture, kneeling there, one hand resting on the fevered brow of the Poilu, the other holding the beads that meant so much to him. His company had made an advance that Avas very notice- able when the futile attempts of past days were considered, and the casualty list was very heavy. Suddenly he looked again. That nurse looked strangely familiar. Was she — could she be — his sister? He raised himself to a sitting position despite the pain in his shoulder. He looked intently at her through pain-dimmed eyes. Then he fell back exhausted. “Marie,” he gasped in as loud a voice as he could command, “Marie.” Thinking he Avas in great pain, Marie Duplessis — for it Avas she — came OA er to him. “Marie,” he said again and Avith great difficulty, “Don’t you know me? I’m Gene.” Thinking perhaps she could still keep her identity concealed she said, as if speaking to a child, “Why of course you’re Gene.” Then he lost con- sciousness, and while he Avas in this stupor he was taken back to the base hospital in the rear of lines. When he came to, a nurse Avas bathing his forehead. “You’re not Marie,” he murmured, “I want her.” “Noav,” said the nurse firmly, “I don’t Avant you to talk any more. You’re just going to sleep for a short time Avhile Doc- tor Rambeau dresses that shoulder. Her work for the day being done, Ma- rie Duplessis sank into a chair in her room at the base hospital. She Avas thoroughly despondent. What should she do? ‘ ‘ What, ’ ’ she said to herself, ” “if he asks for me, and not by my assumed name ? He will no doubt tell them that I am not Aurele Latour, a poor French nurse. They will think I am a spy, ’ ’ she ended bitterly. There she sat far into the evening Avonder- ing Avhat she should best do. Should she see Gene and warn him not to speak of her, or should she merely try to avoid seeing him, and trust to luck and fate that he would think he saw her in a dream? If she made herself knoAAm to him, he would ask why she had gone away so silently — so mysteriously — gone AAdth- out even telling him or Rene Dupre. As she sat there an idea came to her. She got up, took her cape from the closet, and went out. When the sun rose over a 4

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for he had been Assistant Property-man in a theatre, and many times had he heard it rise high and clear in some simple melody. He spoke to a fellow- sufferer a few feet away, who lay wound- ed in a shell-hole, — an American, who was with the Foreign Legion. “I know that voice. It is that of the great singer, Marie Duplessis.” John Howard, the American, who was still conscious, though in great pain, believed this to be merely the imagination of a fevered mind. “It is probably the voice of a nurse,” he mused, ‘ ‘ one of these wonderful American girls who are making life (and death) so much easier for our brave soldiers.” But the poilu was certain that it was the voice of “Le gracieux Ma’mselle” and no other. The battle raged fiercely, and Francois Pallette, the poilu, never lived to see its end. Afterwards John Howard told the Lieutenant of his company what the poilu had said of the singer, and the officer replied that he, too, had heard the voice, and that it was that of a girl ambulance driver, who was singing to a seriously wounded soldier, on his way to Blighty, to keep his spirits up. However, the news spread, for when John Howard was sent back of the lines to a rest camp, he was placed beside Gene Duplessis. Not knowing Duplessis’ name, Howard one day mentioned the peculiar incident of the battlefield. Gene at once sent word to his sister’s manager, but when a detective was sent to the front, he could gain no information as to who the singer had been. She had not been seen after that incident, but a soldier who hap- pened to have been in the ambulance she was driving said, that she was “a tiny thing with big black eyes.” The detec- tives closely followed up this clue, but, as by chance there was found another girl ambulance driver who resembled Marie in all those details, but who had already been a year and half at the front, the search was abandoned. At last the detectives in Paris had a clue ! A girl had been seen in a suburb , of Paris whom they felt beyond doubt was Marie Duplessis. Then she had disappear- ed again, and she was not Seen for days. Her press-agent put out more posters and her manager raised the amount of the reward ; but to no purpose, for after days of earnest and painstaking effort, the de- tective found that the clue led to only a poor French girl working in a millinery store, and they then gave up the chase. On the battle-field the voice was heard often at the close of some big fight, or when there was a lull in the turmoil. Dy- ing soldiers heard it, and passed out with a smile on their lips, and a blessing in their hearts for the woman who, in that desolate waste, could raise her voice in some old-time melody. Rene Dupre still flew over the lines, and it was said that at sight of him, the sing- ing would cease. Why was it? Was the mysterious singer really Marie Duplessis or was she merely the “tiny American girl ambulance di ' iver with big black eyes?” Chapter II. — Marie Appears. Gene Duplessis wondered, as the pre- parations went on for a big attack, wheth- er or not he would come out of the battle. They were to go “over the top” at 5.15 the next morning, preceded by a heavy barrage of fire concentrated against a two mile front. As he sat cleaning his gun he recalled how he had come out of his last fight with only a slight wound. He was back from the rest camp, and was again going to serve his country, perhaps die for it. He was anxious for the battle to start, and yet, in a way, he dreaded it. He laughed with his companions over the 3

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certain base hospital it became known that Aurele Latour had received a very important summons from Paris — where she had immediately gone on a city-bound ambulance, at midnight. « As Gene lay in bed he said to the nurse who was dressing the wound in his shoul- der, “Who is the nurse with the black eyes and hair that is so pretty.” “Oh!”, said the nurse, “that is Miss Latour who received a summons from Paris last eve- ning. She is not here now. Did you hear her singing to the soldiers?” “No,” said he, “she dressed my wound for me. She looked very much like someone I know, and I was wondering who she was.” He was disappointed for he was sure that he had seen his sister, but, he thought, she might have changed her name. “But what would she do that for?” he asked himself. No, he would not think of it. It was not his sister, but oh ! how she resembled her. As he lay pondering a thought came to him. IMarie Duplessis had been recognized on the battlefield by another soldier, for had not John Howard heard her voice and re- ceived the statement of Francois Pallette that it was she? Why had Miss Latour gone away? Had she really received a sximmons from Paris or had she asked the authorities to say so as a blind? If so, why did she not want her identity known ? Would he ever see his sister again? Mean- while where was Marie Duplessis ? Where had she gone at midnight on an ambu- lance? Who knew? Do you? (To be continued) LYNDALL M. MILLER, ’20. YVONNE It was just at the daffodil time of spring, and the yellow flowers were grow- ing in profusion never seen except in Italy. Up on the hill side in the midst of their riotous beauty stood the old Pa- lazzo, stained with the marks of time, dilapidated, as were so many of the old mansions where the families lived on little else than the memories of their an- cient splendor, but looking to-day like a house of romance. All the land seemed at rest and peace. On the low broken wall that surrounded the moss-grown courtyard Yvonne was seated. Her eyes were sad and thoughtful, for she was thinking of Francois, the man whom she was to marry and who was to rebuild the broken traditions of her house. He was coming home to-day. Then, with the bitter-sweetness of re- membrance, her thoughts went back to another spring, when she was walking in the daffodil fields. On that morning .she had heard a man’s voice singing, pure, clear, and perfect. The singer, young, lean, muscular and handsome had passed her. Laughing eyes had met his. She had smiled and thrown him a daffodil. “I paid him for his song,” Yvonne had said to herself. Something within her had answered, “You lie! you threw him a love token.” They had met again and again. Yvonne in her day-dreams, smiled as she thought of how under the very eyes of their friends, her father, and her mother they had whispered their love. They had mur- mured their secret until it no longer be- came a secret, and they were watched. They had resolved to run away, and, far from the friends and enemies of their youth, find some place where they could live forgotten by the w ' orld — a perpetual honey moon among the roses. But then had come the war. Francois, with a burst of patriotic feeling — fierce,