"Wilkie Collins - The New Magdalen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Collins Wilkie)

man, staring at her rudely through his great tortoiseshell spectacles.
"You can be of no use, sir," she said, shortly. "The lady was killed when your
troops shelled this cottage."
The Englishman started, and looked compassionately toward the bed. The German
refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff, and put another question.
"Has the body been examined by a medical man?" he asked.
Mercy ungraciously limited her reply to the one necessary word "Yes."
The present surgeon was not a man to be daunted by a lady's disapproval of him.
He went on with his questions.
"Who has examined the body?" he inquired next.
Mercy answered, "The doctor attached to the French ambulance."
The German grunted in contemptuous disapproval of all Frenchmen, and all French
institutions. The Englishman seized his first opportunity of addressing himself
to Mercy once more.
"Is the lady a countrywoman of ours?" he asked, gently.
Mercy considered before she answered him. With the object she had in view, there
might be serious reasons for speaking with extreme caution when she spoke of
Grace.
"I believe so," she said. "We met here by accident. I know nothing of her."
"Not even her name?" inquired the German surgeon.
Mercy's resolution was hardly equal yet to giving her own name openly as the
name of Grace. She took refuge in flat denial.
"Not even her name," she repeated obstinately.
The old man stared at her more rudely than ever, considered with himself, and
took the candle from the table. He hobbled back to the bed and examined the
figure laid on it in silence. The Englishman continued the conversation, no
longer concealing the interest that he felt in the beautiful woman who stood
before him.
"Pardon me, "he said, "you are very young to be alone in war-time in such a
place as this."
The sudden outbreak of a disturbance in the kitchen relieved Mercy from any
immediate necessity for answering him. She heard the voices of the wounded men
raised in feeble remonstrance, and the harsh command of the foreign officers
bidding them be silent. The generous instincts of the woman instantly prevailed
over every personal consideration imposed on her by the position which she had
assumed. Reckless whether she betrayed herself or not as nurse in the French
ambulance, she instantly drew aside the canvas to enter the kitchen. A German
sentinel barred the way to her, and announced, in his own language, that no
strangers were admitted. The Englishman politely interposing, asked if she had
any special object in wishing to enter the room.
"The poor Frenchmen!" she said, earnestly, her heart upbraiding her for having
forgotten them. "The poor wounded Frenchmen!"
The German surgeon advanced from the bedside, and took the matter up before the
Englishman could say a word more.
"You have nothing to do with the wounded Frenchmen," he croaked, in the harshest
notes of his voice. "The wounded Frenchmen are my business, and not yours. They
are our prisoners, and they are being moved to our ambulance. I am Ingatius
Wetzel, chief of the medical staff--and I tell you this. Hold your tongue." He
turned to the sentinel and added in German, "Draw the curtain again; and if the
woman persists, put her back into this room with your own hand."