FRANTZ’S CALL

Hou-ou!

This time I have heard. It is a signal--a call on two notes, high and low--which I once heard of old.... Ah! I remember: it is the cry of the tall comedian as he hailed his young companion from the school gate. It is the call to which Frantz made us swear to answer no matter where or when it came. But what can he be wanting here to-day, that fellow?

‘It comes from the big fir wood on the left,’ I say in half whispers. ‘Most likely a poacher.’

Jasmin shakes his head: ‘You know quite well it’s not,’ he says.

Then lower: ‘They have both been in these parts ever since this morning. About eleven I came unawares upon Booby keeping a lookout in a field close to the chapel. He took to his heels when he spotted me. Perhaps they’ve come a long way on their bikes, for he was covered with mud halfway up his back....’

‘What are they after, I wonder?’

‘I don’t know. But we must certainly send them off. They must not be left to prowl about here. Else all the mad tricks will begin again.’

I am of the same opinion without owning to it.

‘The best would be to join them,’ I say, ‘to see what they want, to make them listen to reason....’

So, stooping under the branches, we slowly and silently make our way across the copse as far as the big fir wood from where, at regular intervals, rises this prolonged cry, which is not in itself uncanny, yet seems to us an evil omen.

In this part of the wood where the eye roams between regular rows of trees, it is difficult to take any one by surprise or walk any distance without being seen. We make no attempt at it. I post myself at one corner of the wood, Jasmin goes to the opposite corner, thus allowing each of us to command, from the outside, a view on two sides of a rectangle and to let neither of the bohemians escape without hailing him. These arrangements being made, I begin to play my part of peace messenger and call out:

‘Frantz!... Frantz! Have no fear. It’s only me, Seurel; I want to talk to you....’

There is a moment’s silence; I am about to call again when from the very heart of the wood and rather too far for my eyes to reach, a voice orders: ‘Stay where you are; he’ll come to you.’

Gradually from between the tall firs, which in the distance look closely set together, I discern the outline of the young man approaching. He seems to be covered with mud and is badly dressed; trouser clips are tight round his ankles, an old midshipman’s cap fits closely on his hair which is too long. I can now see his face, so much thinner.... He looks as if he has been crying.

Coming towards me resolutely: ‘What is it you want?’ he asks insolently.

‘And yourself, Frantz, what are you doing about here? Why come and disturb those who are happy? What are you asking for? Tell me.’

Questioned thus point-blank, he blushes slightly, stammers, and only replies: ‘But _I_ am not happy; I am so wretched.’

Then he breaks into bitter sobs, his head in the bend of one arm; he is leaning against a tree. We had taken a few steps in the wood, the spot is perfectly quiet. Even the sound of the wind is hushed by the tall firs bordering the wood. Amongst the rows of trunks the noise of the stifled sobbing of the young man echoes and dies out.

I wait until he grows calmer, and, placing a hand on his shoulders, say:

‘Frantz, you’d better come with me. I’ll take you to them. They’ll welcome you as a lost child now found, and all this will be at an end.’

But he would hear nothing; in a voice subdued by tears, miserable, angry, obstinate, he started once again: ‘And so Meaulnes won’t be bothered with me? Why does he not answer when I call? Why can’t he keep his word?’

‘Oh! come on, Frantz,’ I replied, ‘these fantastic childlike days are over. Don’t disturb with mad whims the happiness of those you love; of your sister and Augustin Meaulnes.’

‘But he alone can save me, you know that well. He alone can find again the trail I am looking for. These last three years, now, Booby and I have been knocking about France without any success. My one hope left was in your friend. And he does not answer my call. Hasn’t he got his love back? Why can’t he think of me? He must begin to think of me. Yvonne will let him go.... She’s never refused me anything.’

He turned towards me a face where tears had traced dirty streaks in dust and grime, the face of an old-looking child, worn-out and beaten. His eyes were circled with freckles, his chin badly shaved; his hair, too long, trailed over his dirty collar; with hands in his pockets he stood shivering. He no longer was, as of old, a princely child dressed in tatters. Yet at heart, most likely, he was more of a child than ever: fantastically imperious and then all at once in despair. But these childish ways were now intolerable in a young man already looking more than grown up.... Formerly there was so much youthful pride about him that all the madness in the world was right for him. But now one was at first tempted to pity him for having failed in life, then to reproach him for absurdly acting the romantic young hero, as I saw that he persisted in doing.... And finally I could not help thinking that our handsome Frantz with the beautiful love story had most likely taken to stealing for a living, just like his companion Booby.... So much pride had ended in this!

‘What if I promise,’ I said at last, having thought it out, ‘that in a few days Meaulnes shall start on a search all for your sake?...’

‘He will be successful, won’t he? You are sure of it?’ he asked with chattering teeth.

‘I believe so. Everything comes easy to him now!’

‘And how shall I know? Who will tell me?’

‘You will come back here in exactly a year from to-day, at this same time: you will then find the girl you love.’

And saying this I am thinking not of disturbing the newly married couple, but of making inquiries through Aunt Moinel and myself hastening to find the girl.

The bohemian looked straight at me with really wonderful trustfulness. Just as if he were fifteen!--the age one could easily have taken us to be at Sainte-Agathe, on the evening of the sweeping of the classrooms, when we three took that terrible childlike oath.

Despair gripped him once more when he felt obliged to say: ‘Very well, we must go.’

He looked with an evident pang at the surrounding woods which he was about to leave again.

‘In three days from now,’ he said, ‘we shall be on the roads of Germany. We’ve left our caravans a long way off. And for the last thirty hours we’ve ridden without a stop. We thought to get here in time to take Meaulnes away before the wedding and search with him for my fiancée, as he once looked for the Sand Pit Manor.’

Then again, falling back to his terrible childishness: ‘Call your Delouche back,’ he said, going away; ‘meeting him would really be too dreadful.’

Gradually, in between the firs, I watched until I saw his grey outline disappear. I called Jasmin and we resumed our watch. But almost at once, farther out, we spotted Augustin closing the shutters of the house, and we were struck by his strange behaviour.