[Frontispiece: WITH THOSE WHO WAIT]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

BY

FRANCES WILSON HUARD

AUTHOR OF "MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR, " "MY HOME IN THE FIELD OFMERCY, " ETC. 

WITH DRAWINGS BY CHARLES HUARD

McCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART

PUBLISHERS -------- TORONTO

Copyright, 1918, By George H. Doran Company

Printed in the United States of America

A MES AMIES FRANÇAISES, HÉROINES TOUTES

ILLUSTRATIONS

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

VIEW OF CHATEAU-THIERRY

MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH HIS GAS MASK

A VILLAGE ON THE FRONT

DOOR OF MADAME HUARD'S HOME--PARIS

VIEW OF ST. GERVAIS FROM MADAME HUARD'S PARIS HOME

THE COURTYARD LEADING TO MADAME HUARD'S CELLAR

A COURTYARD IN MONTMARTRE

MONSIEUR AMÉDÉ

FLOCKING TO READ THE COMING COMMUNIQUÉ IN A LITTLE FRENCH CITY

MAXENCE

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

I

Once upon a time there wasn't any war. In those days it was my customto drive over to Château-Thierry every Friday afternoon. The horses, needing no guidance, would always pull up at the same spot in front ofthe station from which point of vantage, between a lilac bush and theswitch house, I would watch for the approaching express that was tobring down our week-end guests. 

A halt at the bridge head would permit our friends to obtain abird's-eye view of the city, while I purchased a measure offresh-caught, shiny-scaled river fish, only to be had of the oldboatman after the arrival of the Paris train. Invariably there werepackages to be called for at Berjot's grocery store, or Dudrumet's drygoods counter, and then H. Having discovered the exact corner fromwhich Corot painted his delightful panorama of the city, a pilgrimageto the spot almost always ensued. 

A glance in passing at Jean de la Fontaine's house, a final stop at"The Elephant" on the quay to get the evening papers, and then passingthrough Essommes with its delightful old church, Bonneil and Romery, our joyful party would reach Villiers just in time for dinner. 

A certain mystery shrouded the locality where our home was situated. Normandy, Brittany, the Châteaux of Touraine, the climate of theRiviera, have, at various seasons been more attractive, not only toforeigners, but to the Parisians themselves, so aside from the artlovers who made special trips to Rheims, there was comparatively littlepleasure travelling in our immediate neighbourhood, and yet whatparticular portion of France is more historically renowned? Is it noton those same fertile fields so newly consecrated with our blood thatevery struggle for world supremacy has been fought?

It would be difficult to explain just why this neglect of the lovelyEast; neglect which afforded us the privilege of guiding our friends, not only along celebrated highways, but through leafy by-paths thatbreathed the very poetry of the XVIIth. Century, and stretched, practically untrodden, through Lucy-le-Bocage, Montreuil-aux-Lions, down to the Marne and La Ferté-sous-Jouarre. 

It was wonderful rolling country that rippled back from the river;abounding not only in vegetation, but in silvery green harmonies sobeloved of the Barbizon master, and sympathetic even by the names ofthe tiny hamlets which dotted its vine-covered hills. 

Our nearest dealer in agricultural machines lived in a place calledGaudelu. We called him "MacCormick" because of his absolute andloquacious partiality for those American machines, and to reach hisestablishment we used to pass through delightful places called le GrandCormont, Neuilly-la-Poterie, Villers-le-Vaste. 

As I write these lines (July, 1918) the station at Château-Thierry isall of that city that remains in our hands. The bridge head has becomethe most disputed spot on the map of Europe; "The Elephant" a heap ofwaste in No Man's Land, while doubtless from the very place where Corotpainted his masterpiece, a German machine gun dominating the city isbelching forth its ghastly rain of steel. 

That very country whose obscurity was our pride is an open hook forthousands of eager allies and enemies, while on the lips of every wifeand mother, from Maine to California, Belleau Woods have become wordsfull of fearful portent. I often wonder then, if the brave Americanswho are actually disputing inch by inch my home and its surroundingshave ever had time to think that a little village known as "Ecoute s'ilpleut, " might find its English equivalent in "Hark-how-it-rains!"

Two touching accounts of the second descent upon our country have cometo my hands. A little orphan peasant lad, under army age, who fledwith our caravan four years since, now pointer in the Frenchartillery--writes as follows from "Somewhere in France"--June 6, 1918:

DEAR MADAME:

Just a line to tell you I am alive and well; unfortunately I cannot sayas much for my grandparents, for you doubtless know what has againbefallen our country. All the inhabitants have been evacuated. 

I am absolutely without news of my grandparents. I learned to-daythrough a word from my brother Alfred that they had been obliged toleave home and had fled in an unknown direction. In spite of therumour of a new invasion they did not intend to leave Villiers. 

My sister left the first, with some of the young girls of the village. After twenty-four hours in Paris they were evacuated to a village inthe Yonne. 

My brother was obliged to go the next day, and at the present time isat Rozoy-en-Brie. I believe we made a halt there in 1914 when we fledas refugees. After three days at Rozoy, Alfred could stand it nolonger, and with three companions they started home on bicycles, inorder to see what had happened. They reached Villiers to find everyhouse empty, and were almost instantly expulsed by shells. So now weare all scattered to the four winds of heaven. I am so sad when Ithink of my poor grand-parents, obliged to leave home and to roll alongthe high-roads at their age. What misery!

I am afraid our village is going to suffer much more than it did in1914. That horde of scoundrels will spare nothing! And when will itall be over?

I hope that my letter will find you well and happy, and I beg you tobelieve me gratefully and respectfully yours, LÉON CHATELAIN Maréchal des Logis 206e Artillerie--28e Batterie Secteur 122. 

"With the Mayor, and thanks to a neighbour's car, I was able to getaway, " writes Monsieur Aman Jean, the well-known painter, who had ahome in Château-Thierry. "The situation was becoming unbearable and wethree were the last to leave our unfortunate city. Behind us an armyengineer blew up the post and telegraph office, the military buildings, the station, the store house, and finally the bridge. Our eyes werebeginning to smart terribly, which announced the presence of mustardgas, and told us we had left none too soon. 

"I will never forget the sight and the commotion of the road leadingfrom Château-Thierry to Montmirail. Interminable lines of armytransports on one side counterbalanced by the same number of fleeingcivilians going in the opposite direction. Now and then a farm cartwould pull aside to let a heavy military truck get by, and one canhardly imagine the state of a highway that is encumbered by a doublecurrent of refugees and soldiers hastening towards the front. Thepainful note was made by the unfortunate civilians who had put on theirSunday clothes, the only way they had of saving them. As to thepicturesque, it was added by the multitude of little donkeys trottingbeneath the weight of the machine guns, and by the equipment of theItalian troops. There were bright splashes of colour here and there, together with a heroic and lamentable animation. It impressed me mostviolently. It was wonderfully beautiful and pathetically horrible. 

"On one side old people, women and children formed a long stragglingcortège; while on the other--brilliant youth constituted a homogeneousand solid mass, marching to battle with calm resolution. 

"The populations of the East are astonishingly courageous and resigned. That of Château-Thierry watched the evacuation of the GovernmentOffices, the banks, the prefecture and the post office without theslightest alarm. The retreat was well advanced ere they dreamed of it. When finally the people realised that the enemy was at their verygates, they moved out swiftly without any commotion. "

The German onslaught at the Marne in 1914 had been terrible but brief. The life of our entire region was practically suspended while the Hunwreaked his vengeance, not only on our armies, but our innocentcivilians and their possessions. Shot and shell, organised looting andcruelty, were employed to cow the intrepid spirit of the French, butwithout success. When, finally their retreat came, hands were quick torepair material damage, refugees swiftly returned, and even theSeptember rains joined in the effort to purify the fields which hadbeen so ruthlessly polluted. 

With the Hun on the Aisne, and a victory to our credit, there wasn'teven a pause for breath. A new life seemed to surge forth, and allbent their energies towards effacing every trace of what had seemedlike a hideous nightmare. Even the Eastern Railway, which had beenclosed on account of the destruction of some seven or eight bridgesover the Marne, broke all records by repairing or replacing them ineleven days' time. And while this had no direct bearing upon oursituation, the moral effect of even _hearing_ the train-loads of menand munitions passing through our region, was certainly surprising. 

Little by little things began to assume their normal aspect. Not thatthey ever entirely regained it, for there was always the dull rumblingof the cannon to remind us of bygone terrors, while the establishmentof several emergency hospitals in the vicinity lent an animation to thehighroads, formerly dotted with private cars, but now given overentirely to ambulances and supply trucks. 

As to the uniforms, they quickly became such accustomed sights that ayouthful civilian would have been the novelty. 

Buoyed up by the success of our armies, every one expected an earlypeace, and even the busiest of us began making projects for the fairfuture. In the odd moments of relief from my somewhat onerous hospitalduties, my only pleasure and distraction was to build castles in theair, and in the eternal Winter lights I laid many a plan for a littleboudoir next my bedroom, which I had long desired to see realised. 

When news of H. 's safety reached me, my imagination knew no limits. 

The convalescent patients from all branches of trade, who at differenttimes had filled the rooms of the château, converted into wards, hadbeen very deft at repairing everything in the way of furniture that theGermans had defaced or neglected to appropriate. There were manyskilful carpenters and cabinet makers among them, and I saw visions ofemploying them at their own trade, producing both occupation, whichthey craved, and funds which they needed, but were too proud to acceptas gifts, and what a surprise that room would be for H. !

I even pushed my collector's mania so far as to pay a visit to an oldbourgeois who lived in a little city called La Ferté-Milon, quite a bitnorth of us. The walls of his salon were ornamented with some charmingeighteenth century paper representing the ports of France, and inexcellent condition. I had long coveted it for my boudoir, and in daysbefore the war had often dickered with him as to price. I now fearedlest it should have been destroyed or disfigured, and regretted havingwished to drive too keen a bargain, but on finding it intact, I amashamed to say the collector's instinct got the better of the woman, and I used every conceivable argument to persuade him to come to myprice. The old fellow was as obdurate as ever. 

"But, " I suggested, "don't you realise what a risk you are taking?Suppose the Germans were to get back here again before you sell it?You're much nearer the front than we! You will not only lose yourmoney, but the world will be minus one more good thing, and we've losttoo many of those already. "

The withering glance with which this remark was received was as good asany discourse on patriotism. 

"The Germans back here? Never! Why at the rate we're going now itwill be all over before Spring and you'll see what a price my paperwill fetch just as soon as peace comes!"

Peace! Peace! the word was on every lip, the thought in every heart, and yet every intelligence, every energy was bent on the prosecution ofthe most hateful warfare ever known. In all the universe it seemed tome that the wild animals were the only creatures really exempt frompreoccupation about the fray. It might be war for man and the friendsof man, but for them had come an unexpected reprieve, and even the morewary soon felt their exemption from pursuit. Man was so busy fightinghis own kind that a wonderful armistice had unconsciously arisenbetween him and these creatures, and so birds and beasts, no longerfrightened by his proximity, were indulging in a perfect revel offreedom. 

During the first weeks of the conflict, the "cotton-tails, " always sonumerous on our estate, were simply terrified by the booming of theguns. If even the distant bombardment assumed any importance, theywould disappear below ground completely, for days at a time. My oldfoxhound was quite disconcerted. But like all the rest of us they soonbecame accustomed to it, and presently displayed a self assurance and afamiliarity undreamed of, save perhaps in the Garden of Eden. 

[Illustration: VIEW OF CHATEAU-THIERRY]

It became a common sight to see a brood of partridges or pheasantsstrutting along the roadside like any barnyard hen and chickens, andone recalled with amazement the times when stretching themselves ontheir claws they would timidly and fearfully crane their necks abovethe grass at the sound of an approaching step. 

At present they are not at all sure that man was their worst enemy. The Government having decreed that there shall be no game shooting inthe army zone, weazels, pole cats and even fox have become verynumerous, and covey of quail that once numbered ten and fifteen, havesingularly diminished by this incursion of wild animals, not to mentionthe hawks, the buzzards and the squirrels. 

One Autumn morning I appeared at our gateway just in time to see aneighbour's wife homeward bound, the corpses of four white hens that_Maître Renard_ had borrowed from their coop, dangling from her arm. Her husband heard her coming, and on learning the motive of her wails, the imprecations brought down on the head of that fox werepicturesquely profane to say the least. Presently the scene grew inviolence, and then finally terminated with the assertion that the wholetragedy was the result of the Kaiser's having thrown open the Germanprisons and turned loose his vampires on France. 

Be that as it may, there was certainly no more enchanting way ofobtaining mental and physical relaxation than in wandering throughthose wonderful woodlands that abound in our vicinity, and whichbreathed so many inspirations to the Master of Fable, who at one timewas their keeper. How I wish that good La Fontaine might have seen hisdumb friends under present circumstances. What fantasies would he nothave woven about them. 

Season and the temperature were of little importance. There was nevera promenade without an incident--never an incident, no matter howinsignificant, that did not remind me of the peculiar phase under whichevery living creature was existing. 

Once in the very early Spring, taking my faithful Boston bull, we stoleaway for a constitutional. Suddenly my little companion darted upclose to the hedgerow, and on hurrying to the scene to find out thecause of this departure from her usual dignified demeanour, I found herstanding face to face with a hare! Both animals, while startled, wererooted to the spot, gazing at each other in sheer fascination of theirown fearlessness. It was so amazingly odd that I laughed aloud. Buteven this did not break the spell. It lasted so long that presentlyeven I became a little puzzled. Finally it was the hare who settledthe question by calmly moving away, without the slightest sign ofhaste, leaving my bull dog in the most comical state of concern that Ihave ever seen. 

It was about this time that _Fil-de-Ver_, our donkey, decided toabandon civilised life in favour of a more roaming career in the woods, which he doubtless felt was his only true vocation. He had fared illat the hands of the Germans, and during the entire Winter our own boyshad used him regularly to haul dead wood. This kind of _kultur_ heresented distinctly, and resolved to show his disgust by becoming moreindependent. 

First he tried it out for a day or two at a time. Then he was gone aweek, and finally he disappeared altogether. 

Being of sociable disposition he joined a little herd of deer which wasthe pride and joy of our woods, and one afternoon I came upon thismotley company down by a little lick we had arranged on the brink of atiny river that crosses our estate. 

As I approached they all lifted their heads. A baby fawn, frightened, scurried into the underbrush. But the others let me come quite close, and then gently, as though to display their nimbleness and grace, bounded away mid the tender green foliage, gold splashed here and thereby the fast sinking sun. _Fil-de-Fer_ stood a moment undecided. Presently, lifting his hind legs high into the air he gave vent to aseries of kickings and contortions which might have been taken for acomical imitation, while a second later as though realising howridiculous he had been, he fell to braying with despair, and breakinginto a gallop fled in the direction of his new found friends. 

Simultaneous with _Fil-de-Fer's_ disappearance came the rumour that the_Loup-garou_ was abroad and was sowing panic in its wake. Just whatkind of animal the _Loup-garou_ might be, was somewhat difficult toascertain. No one in our vicinity had ever seen him, and from all Icould gather he seemed to be a strange sort of apocalyptic beast, gifted with horns, extraordinary force, and the especial enemy ofmankind. 

There was something almost uncanny in the way the peasants would lookat one and lower their voices when speaking of this weird phenomenon, and presently from having suspected my innocent donkey, I began towonder if I were not in the presence of some local popular superstition. 

The rumour was still persistent, when one evening at dark there was anurgent call from Headquarters asking that we send down for four or fivepatients that were destined for our hospital. I do not now recall forjust what reason I went alone, save for a twelve-year-old village lad, but what I do remember was the respectful moral lecture that I receivedfrom an old peasant woman who met our cart on the high-road just beforewe turned off into the Bois du Loup. 

Night, black and starless, was upon us before we had penetrated half amile into the woods. My youthful companion began to sing martial airs, and stimulated his courage by beating time with his feet on the bottomof the cart. A chill Autumn rain commenced to fall, tinkling againstthe rare leaves that now remained on the trees, blinding both horse anddriver, and greatly impeding our progress. Presently I noticed thatour lantern had gone out, and fearing lest we be borne down upon bysome swift moving army truck, I produced a pocket lamp and descendedfrom my seat. 

A handful of damp matches, much time and good humour were consumed ereI succeeded in getting a light, and just as I swung the lantern backinto place, the air was pierced by a high-pitched, blood-curdlingshriek!

_Le Loup_ . . . !

At the same moment there was a sharp crackling on the opposite side ofthe road, and an instant later a wild boar, followed by her young, brushed past me and darted into the obscurity. 

My companion was livid. His teeth chattered audibly. He tried to pullhimself together and murmured incoherent syllables. Personally, I wasa bit unnerved, yet somewhat reassured. If my eyes had not deceivedme, the mystery of the _Loup-garou_ was now solved. And yet I feltquite sure that wild boar were unknown in our region. 

At Château-Thierry I made enquiries and from soldiers and foresterslearned that heretofore inhabitants of the Ardennes forest, theseanimals had been driven South when man had chosen to make the firingline of their haunts; and that, prolific breeders, they were nowpractically a menace to the unarmed civilian. From these same loversof nature I gathered that for the first time in their recollectionsea-gulls and curlews had likewise been seen on the banks of the Marne. 

While the country now abounds in newcomers, many of the old familiarbirds and animals are rapidly disappearing. 

Larks are rare visitors these days, and the thrush which used to hoverover our vineyards in real flocks, have almost entirely vanished. Theswallows, however, are our faithful friends and have never failed toreturn to us. 

Each succeeding Spring their old haunts are in a more or lessdilapidated condition according to the number of successful visits theGerman aviators have chosen to pay us during the Winter, and I fancythat this upsets them a trifle. For hundreds of generations they havebeen accustomed to nest in the pinions of certain roofs, to locate in adetermined chimney, and it is a most amusing sight to see them clusterabout a ruined spot and discuss the matter in strident chirpings. 

Last season, after a family consultation, which lasted well nigh allthe morning, and during which they made repeated visits of inspectionto a certain favourite drain pipe, I suddenly saw them all lift wingand sail away towards the North. My heart sank. Something near anddear seemed to be slipping from me, and one has said _au revoir_ so oftin vain. So they too were going to abandon me!

In one accustomed to daily coping with big human problems, such emotionmay seem trivial, but it was perhaps this constant forced endurancethat kept one up, made one almost supersensitively sentimental. Littlethings grew to count tremendously. 

At lunch time I sauntered forth quite sad at heart, when an unexpectedfamiliar twittering greeted my ear, and I turned northward to see mylittle friends circling about the stables. Life closer to the fronthad evidently not offered any particular advantages, and in a few days'time their constant comings and goings from certain specific pointstold me that they had come back to stay. 

But if friend swallow may be praised for his fidelity, unfortunatelynot so much can be said for another familiar passerby--the wild duck. October had always seen them flocking southward, and some one of ourhousehold had invariably heard their familiar call, as at daybreak theywould pass over the château on their way from the swamps of the Sommeto the Marais de St. Gond. The moment was almost a solemn one. Itseemed to mark an epoch in the tide of our year. Claude, Benôit, George and a decrepit gardener would abandon all work and prepareboats, guns and covers on the Marne. 

Oh, the wonderful still hours just before dawn! Ah, thatindescribable, intense, yet harmonious silence that preceded thearrival of our prey!

Alas, all is but memory now. Claude has fallen before Verdun, Benôitwas killed on the Oise, and George has long since been reported missing. 

Alone, unarmed, the old gardener and I again awaited the cry of ourfeathered friends, but our waiting, like that of so many others, was invain. The wild ducks are a thing of the past. Where have they gone?No one knows, no one has ever seen them. And in the tense hush of theAutumn nights, above the distant rumble of the cannon rose only theplaintive cry of stray dogs baying at the moon. 

Dogs, _mon Dieu_, I wonder how many of those poor, forgotten, abandonedcreatures having strayed into our barnyard were successively washed, combed, fed, cared for and adopted. 

Some of them, haunted by the spirit of unrest, remained with us but amoment; others tried us for a day, a week, and still others, appreciative of our pains, refused to leave at all. 

Oh, the heart rending, lonesome, appealing look in the eyes of a poorbrute that has lost home and master!

It is thus that I came into possession of an ill tempered French poodlecalled _Crapouillot_, which the patients in our hospital insisted onclipping like a lion with an anklet, a curl over his nose and a puff atthe end of his tail. A most detestable, unfortunate beast, always tobe found where not needed, a ribbon in his hair, and despicably badhumoured. 

He was succeeded by a Belgian sheep dog, baptised _Namur_, who in timegave place to one of the most hopelessly ugly mongrels I have everseen. But the new comer was so full of life and good will, had such acomical way of smiling and showing his gleaming white teeth, that inmemory of the joy caused by the Charlie Chaplin films, he wasunanimously dubbed _Charlot_. 

The mere sound of his name would plunge him into ecstasies of joy, accompanied by the wildest yapping and strange capers, which invariablyterminated by a double somersault in the mud so anxious was he toconvince us of his gratitude. Imagine then what might be obtained by acaress, or a bowl of hot soup. 

Last in line, but by no means least, was a splendid English pointer, asuperb, finely bred animal, who day in, day out would lie by the openfire, lost in a profound revery that terminated in a kind of sob. Poor, melancholy _Mireille_, what master was she mourning? For whathome did she thus pine? How I respected and appreciated her sadness. How intensely human she became. 

Finally when I could resist no longer I would take her long delicatehead into my hands and gently stroke it, seeking to impart my sympathy. "I know that you never can be mine, " I would murmur, "that you willever and eternally belong to him to whom you gave yourself once andentirely. But these are sad anxious days for us all; we must beartogether. And so as my own dogs have often been my only consolation inlike times of misery and despair, oh, how I would love to comfortyou--beautiful, faithful, disconsolate Mireille!"

II

Cities, like people, seem to have souls, deep hidden and rarely everentirely revealed. How well must one come to know them, stone bystone, highways, homes and habitants, ere they will disclose theirsecret. I have rejoiced too often in the splendid serenity of St. Jeandes Vignes, felt too deeply the charm of those ancient streets, hopedand suffered too intensely within its confines that Soissons should notmean more to me than to the average zealous newspaper correspondent, come there but to make note of its wounds, to describe its ruins. 

Fair Soissons, what is now your fate? In what state shall we find you?What ultimate destiny is reserved for your cathedral, your statelymansions, your magnificent gardens? What has become of those fifteenor sixteen hundred brave souls who loved you so well that they refusedto leave you? _Qui sait_?

One arrived at Soissons in war time by long avenues, shaded on eitherside by a double row of stately elms, whose centenary branchesstretching upward formed an archway overhead. Then came the lastoutpost of Army Police, a sentinel stopped you, minutely examined yourpassports, verified their visés, and finally, all formalitiesterminated, one entered what might have been the City of Death. 

Moss and weeds had sprung up between the cobble stone pavings; as faras eye could see not a human soul was astir, not a familiar noise wasto be heard, not a breath of smoke stole heavenwards from thosehundreds of idle chimneys: and yet life, tenacious ardent life waswonderfully evident here and there. A curtain lifted as one passed, acat on the wall, a low distant whistle, clothes drying at a window, aflowering plant on a balcony, sometimes a door ajar, through which oneguessed a store in whose dimly lighted depths shadows seemed to bemoving about; all these bore witness to an eager, undaunted existence, hidden for the time being perhaps, but intense and victorious, ready tospring forward and struggle anew in admirable battles of energy andconscience. 

The Hotel du Soleil d'Or offered a most hospitable welcome. It was theonly one open or rather, if one would be exact, the only one stillextant. To be sure there were no panes in the windows, and ungainlyholes were visible in almost all the ceilings, but the curtains werespotlessly white and the bed linen smelled sweet from having been driedin the open air. 

A most appreciable surprise was the excellent _cuisine_, and asornament to the dining-room table, between a pair of tall preservedishes, and on either side of the central bouquet, stood an unexplodedGerman shell. One of them had fallen on to the proprietor's bed, thesecond landing in the pantry, while twenty or thirty others had workedmore efficiently, as could be attested by the ruins of the carriagehouse, stables, and what had once been a glass covered Winter garden. 

On a door leading out of the office, and curiously enough left intact, one might read, _Salon de conversation_. If you were to attempt tocross the threshold, however, your eye would be instantly greeted by amost abominable heap of plaster and wreckage, and the jovial proprietorseeing your embarrassment, would explain:

"My wife and the servants are all for cleaning up, but to my mind it'sbetter to leave things just as they are. Besides if we put all torights now, when our patrons return they will never credit half we tellthem. Seeing is believing! At any rate, it's an out of the way place, and isn't bothering people for the time being. "

And truly enough this mania for repairing and reconstructing, thisinstinct of the active ant that immediately commences to rebuild itshill, obliterated by some careless foot, has become as characteristicof the French. 

The Sisters of St. Thomas de Villeneuve, who were in charge of animmense hospital, had two old masons who might be seen at all times, trowel in hand, patching up the slightest damage to their buildings;the local manager of a Dufayel store had become almost a fanatic on thesubject. His stock in trade consisted of furniture, china and crockeryof all kinds, housed beneath a glass roof, which seemed to attract theBoches' special attention, for during the four years of war just past, I believe that scarcely a week elapsed during which he was not directlyor indirectly the victim of their fire. 

The effects were most disastrous, but aided by his wife and an elderlyman who had remained in their employ, he would patiently recommencescrubbing, sweeping and cleaning, carefully reinstating each object orfragment thereof, in or as near as possible to its accustomed place. 

It was nothing less than miraculous to survey those long lines ofwardrobes that seemed to hold together by the grace of the Almightyalone; gaze upon whole rows of tables no one of which had the requisitenumber of legs; behold mere skeletons of chairs, whose seats or backswere missing; sofas where gaping wounds displayed the springs; hugepiles of plates each one more nicked or cracked than its predecessor;series of flower pots which fell to pieces in one's hands if one wereindiscreet enough to touch them. 

"I don't see the point in straightening things out so often"--was mycasual comment. 

"Why, Madame, what on earth would we do about the inventory when peacecomes, if we were not to put a little order into our stock?" was theimmediate reply. 

I was sorry I had spoken. 

Among the other numerous places of interest was the store of a dealerin haberdashery and draperies. An honest, well equipped old fashionedFrench concern, whose long oak counters were well polished fromconstant use. The shelves were piled high with piece after piece ofwonderful material, but not a single one of them had been exempt fromthe murderous rain of steel; they were pierced, and pierced, andpierced again. 

"So pierced that there is not a length sufficient to make even a cap!"explained Madame L. , "but you just can't live in disorder all the time, and customers wouldn't like to see an empty store. Everything we haveto sell is in the cellar!"

And true enough this subterranean existence had long ceased to be anovelty, and had become almost a habit. 

From the basement windows of every inhabited dwelling protruded a stovepipe, and the lower regions had gradually come to be furnished almostas comfortably as the upper rooms in normal days. Little by little thekitchen chair and the candle had given way to a sofa and a hanginglamp; beds were set up and rugs put in convenient places. 

"We live so close to the trenches that by comparison it seems like areal paradise to us, " gently explained Madame Daumont, the porkbutcher. Her _charcuterie_ renowned far and wide for its hot meatpatès, ready just at noon, had been under constant fire ever since theinvasion, but had never yet failed to produce its customary ovenful atthe appointed hour. 

"At the time of the battle of Crouy, " she confessed, "I was just on thepoint of shutting up shop and leaving. I'm afraid I was a bit hasty, but three shells had hit the house in less than two hours, and my oldmother was getting nervous. The dough for my patés was all ready, butI hesitated. Noon came, and with it my clientèle of Officers. 

"'_Eh bien, nos patés_? What does this mean!'

"'No, gentlemen, I'm sorry, but I cannot make up my mind to bear itanother day. I'm leaving in a few moments. '

"'What? Leaving? And we who are going out to meet death have got toface it on empty stomachs?'

"They were right. In a second I thought of my own husband out there inLorraine. So I said to them 'Come back at four o'clock and they'll beready. '"

And then gently, and as though to excuse herself, she added--

"There are moments though when fear makes you lose your head, but theredoesn't seem to be anything you can't get used to. "

"You soon get used to it" was the identical expression of a youngfarmer's aid who sold fruit, vegetables and flowers beneath an archwaythat had once been the entrance to the Hotel de la Clef. She hadattracted my attention almost immediately, the brilliant colours of herdisplay, and her pink and white complexion, standing out so fresh andclear against the background of powder-stained stones and chalky ruinheaps. 

The next day, after an extra heavy nocturnal bombardment, we went outin search of a melon. A shell had shattered her impromptu showcase, dislocated a wall on one side of the archway, which menaced immediatecollapse. In fact, the place had become untenable. 

"Oh, it's such a nuisance to have to look for another sure spot, " wasthe only lament. "Just see, there's a whole basket of artichokes goneto waste--and my roses--what a pity!"

An explosion had gutted the adjacent building leaving an immense breachopening on to the street from what had once been an office or perhaps astore-room. 

"Just wait a moment, " she pleaded, "until I get set up inside there. You can't half see what I've got out here. "

Five minutes later I returned and explained the object of my quest. 

"We've only got a very few, Madame, our garden is right in their range, and we had a whole melon patch destroyed by splinters, only day beforeyesterday. I had three this morning, but I sold them all to thegentleman of the artillery, and I've promised to-morrow's to theBrigade Officers. I hardly think I shall be able to dispose of anymore before the end of the week. But why don't you go and see 'PèreFrançois'? He might have some. "

"You mean old Père François who keeps the public gardens?"

"Yes, Madame. "

"Oh, I know him very well. I've often exchanged seeds and slips withhim. Does he still live where he used to?"

"I believe so. "

We were not long seeking him out, and in response to our knocking hisgood wife opened the door. 

"Oh, he's out in his garden, " was her reply to our queries. "You can'tkeep him away from it. But he's going crazy, I think. He wants toattend to everything all by himself now. There isn't a soul left tohelp him, and he'll kill himself, or be killed at it as sure as I'malive. You'll see, the shells won't miss him. He's escaped so far buthe may not always be so lucky. He's already had a steel splinter inhis thumb, and one of them tore a hole in his cap and in his waistcoat. That's close enough, I should think. But there's no use of my talking;he just won't listen to me. He's mad about gardening. That's what heis!"

On the old woman's assurance that we would find him by pounding hard onthe gateway leading to the Avenue de la Gare, we hastened away, leavingher to babble her imprecations to a lazy tabby cat who lay sunningitself in a low window box. 

The old fellow being a trifle deaf we were destined to beat a ratherlengthy tattoo on the high iron gate. But our efforts were crownedwith success, for presently we heard his steps approaching, his sabotscrunching on the gravel path. 

His face lighted up when he saw us. 

"Oh, I remember you, of course I do. You're the lady who used to havethe American sweet peas and the Dorothy Perkins. I know you! And thedahlias I gave you? How did they turn out?"

I grew red and sought to change the conversation. Perhaps he saw andunderstood. 

"Come and see mine anyway!"

That sight alone would have made the trip worth while. 

"I cut the grass this very morning so as they'd show off better!They're so splendid this year that I've put some in the garden at theHotel de Ville. "

Further on the _Gloire de Dijon, La France_ and _Maréchal Niels_ spreadforth all their magnificent odorous glory onto the balmy air of thisIsle de France country, whose skies are of such exquisite delicateblue, whose very atmosphere breathes refinement. 

I felt my old passion rising;--that passion which in times gone by haddrawn us from our sleep at dawn, and scissors and pruning knife inhand, how many happy hours had H. And I thus spent; he at his fruittrees, I at my flower beds, cutting, trimming, scraping, clipping;inwardly conscious of other duties neglected, but held as thoughfascinated by the most alluring infatuation in the world--the love ofnature. Here now in this delightful garden kept up by the superhumanefforts of a faithful old man, the flame kindled anew. 

In an instant H. Had discovered the espaliers where _Doyenné duCornice_ and _Passe Cressane_ were slowly but surely attaining therequired degree of perfection beneath Père François' attentive care. As I stood open mouthed in wonder before the largest bush of fuchsias Ihad ever yet beheld, an explosion rent the air, quickly followed by asecond, the latter much closer to us. 

"Boche bombs! Come quick, " said Père François without seeming in theleast ruffled. 

Led by the old man we hastened to a tiny grotto, in whose depths wecould hear a fountain bubbling. Legion must have been the lovingcouples that have visited this spot in times gone by, for their vows offidelity were graven in endearing terms on the stony sides of theretreat. _Léon et Marguerite pour toujours, Alice et Théodore, Georgeset Germaine_ were scrawled above innumerable arrow-pierced hearts. 

"All things considered, I'd rather they'd send us over a shell or twothan bomb us from above!" ejaculated Père François, who spoke fromexperience. 

"It was one of those hateful things that hit my Japanese pepper tree onthe main lawn, and killed our only cedar. The handsomest specimen wehad here! It makes me sick every time I throw a log of it on to thefire in the Winter. I can't tell you how queer it makes me feel. Ofcourse, it's bad enough for them to kill men who are their enemies, butthink of killing trees that it takes hundreds of years to grow. Whatgood can that do them?"

The Boche deemed at a safe distance, we visited the vegetable gardenwhere we purchased our melon and were presented with any number oflittle packets containing seeds. We protested at the old man'sgenerosity and sought to remunerate him. 

"Nothing of the kind; I wouldn't think of accepting it. It's mypleasure. Why it's been ages since I had such a talk as this. I'm soglad you came. So glad for my roses too!" and he started to cut asplendid bouquet. 

"I've been saying to myself every day, " he continued, "Isn't it a pitythat nobody should see them? But now I feel satisfied. "

At the gateway we held out our hands which he took and shook mostheartily, renewing his protestations of delight at our visit, andbegging us to "Come again soon. "

"To be happy one must cultivate his garden, " murmured H. , quotingVoltaire as we made off down the road. And within a day or two weagain had an excellent proof of this axiom when we discovered that AbbéL. Still resided in his little home whose garden extended far into theshadow of St. Jean des Vignes. 

That worthy ecclesiastic gave over every moment that was not employedin the exercise of his sacred functions to the joys of archaeologicalresearch, and was carefully compiling a history of the churches in thearrondissement of Soissons and Château-Thierry. He had been our guestat Villiers, and I remember having made for him an imprint of twosplendid low-relief tombstones which date back to the 15th century, andwere the sole object and ornament of historic interest in our littlevillage chapel. 

This history was the joy and sole distraction of his entire existence, and he never ceased collecting documents and photographs, books, plansand maps, all of which though carefully catalogued, threatened one dayto take such proportions that his modest dwelling would no longersuffice to hold them. 

We found him comfortably installed behind a much littered kitchen tablein a room that I had heretofore known as his dining room. I was a bitstruck by its disorder, and the good man was obliged to remove severalpiles of papers from the chairs before inviting us to be seated. 

"I trust you will forgive this confusion, " he begged, "but you see ashell hit my study yesterday noon, and has forced me to take refuge inthis corner of the house which is certainly far safer. "

"I've had an excellent occasion to work, " he continued. "Our dutiesare very slight these days, and the extreme quiet in which we live ismost propitious for pursuing the task I have undertaken. "

"But, Monsieur l'Abbé, " we cried. "What a paradox! And thebombardment?"

"Really, you know, I've hardly suffered from it--except when that shellstruck the house the other morning. Of course, the whole edificeshook, and at one time I thought the roof was coming through upon myhead. My ink bottle was upset and great streams trickled to the floor. But Divine intervention saved my precious manuscript which I was in thevery act of copying, and although my notes and files were a bitdisarranged, they were easily sorted and set to rights. So you seethere was nothing really to deplore and God has graciously seen fit tolet me continue my work. It is such a joy to be able to do so. "

Strange placidity! the immediate countryside for miles around havinglong since been delivered up to brutal destruction, wanton waste, hideous massacre, and a goodly number of the churches of which thepious man was taking so much pains to record the history, were now butanonymous heaps of stone. 

All the way home I could not refrain from philosophising on thehappiness of life, perfect contentment, and the love of good. Myreflections, while perhaps not particularly deep nor brilliant, werenone the less imbued with a sense of gratitude to the Almighty, andfilled with pity and respect for poor human nature. 

It is certain that for such people, the idea of escaping the terrors, the dangers and the sight of most horrible spectacles, had not weighedan instant in the balance against the repugnance of altering life-longhabits, or abandoning an assemblage of dearly beloved landscapes andfaces. 

Naturally enough, a certain number of commercial minded had remainedbehind, tempted by the possibility of abnormal gain through catering tothe soldier; and to whatever had been their habitual merchandise, wassoon added a stock of mandolins, accordions, cheap jewelry, kit bags, fatigue caps and calico handkerchiefs--in fact all that indispensable, gaudy trumpery that serves to attract a clientèle uniquely composed ofwarriors. 

But, besides these merchants, there were still to be counted a certainnumber of well-to-do citizens, professors, government employés, priestsand magistrates, all simple honest souls who had stayed because theywere unable to resign themselves to an indefinite residence away fromSoissons, and there was no sacrifice to which they were not resolved inadvance, so long as it procured them the joy of remaining. 

I accompanied the President of the local French Red Cross Chapter on avisit to a lady who was much interested in an _ouvroir_, and who livedin a splendid old mansion located near the ruins of the Palais deJustice. 

The little bell tinkled several times, resounding clearly in thedeathlike silence, and presently a young maid-servant made herappearance at a small door that opened in the heavy portico. 

"Is Madame at home?"

"Oh, no, Madame! Why didn't Madame know that both Monsieur and Madameleft for the seashore last evening? Shall I give Madame their addressat Houlgate? They've been going there for the last twenty years. Theywill be back the first of September as usual. "

"How stupid of me, " exclaimed my companion. "I might have knownthough. We shall discover what we wish to know from Madame V. "

We found the last mentioned lady and her daughter in a pretty dwellingon the boulevard Jeanne d'Arc. After presentations and greetings:

"You are not leaving town this Summer?"

"Not this season; unfortunately our country house is at presentoccupied by the Germans, and as the mountains are forbidden, and thesea air excites me so that I become quite ill, I fear we shall have toremain at home, for the time being at least. The garden is reallydelightfully cool though--we sit out there and sew all day. "

I asked permission to admire the exquisite embroidered initials whichboth mother and daughter were working. 

"I'm so glad you like them. Do you know we found that monogram on anold 18th century handkerchief? We merely enlarged it, and really feelthat we have something quite unusual. But my table cloths are wellworth it, they were the very last that were left at the Cour Batave. Idoubt if any finer quality will ever be woven. "

"Your daughter will have a wonderful trousseau. "

"She will have something durable at least, Madame, a trousseau thatwill stand the test of time and washing, " replied the good mothersmiling blandly, touched by my appreciation. 

"I still have sheets which came down to me from my great grand-mother, and I hope that my own great grand-sons will some day eat from thisvery cloth. "

"But they will never guess under what strange circumstances it washemmed and embroidered, " gently proffered the young girl raising herbig blue eyes and smiling sweetly. 

"Bah, what difference does that make so long as they are happy and canlive in peace? That's the principal thing, the one for which we're allworking, isn't it?"

Such is the spirit that pervades all France. It is simple, undemonstrative heroism, the ardent desire of a race to last in spiteof all. What more imperturbable confidence in its immortality could bemanifested than by this mother and daughter calmly discussing thedurability of their family linen, within actual range of Teuton gunfirethat might annihilate them at any moment?

As we were about to leave Monsieur S. Came up the front steps. He hadbeen out in company of a friend, making his habitual daily tour of thecity. Like most middle aged, well-to-do bourgeois his attire wascomposed of a pair of light trousers, slightly baggy at the knee, and abit flappy about the leg; a black cutaway jacket and a white piquéwaistcoat. This classic costume usually comports a panama hat and anumbrella. Now Monsieur S. Had the umbrella, but in place of the panamahe had seen fit to substitute a blue steel soldier's helmet, whichamazing military headgear made a strange combination with the remainderof his civilian apparel. Nevertheless he bowed to us very skilfully, and at that moment I caught sight of a leather strap, which slung overone shoulder, hung down to his waist and carried his gas mask. 

[Illustration: MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH HIS GAS MASK]

For several days I laboured under the impression that this mode wasquite unique, but was soon proved mistaken, for on going to the PostOffice to get my mail (three carriers having been killed, there were nolonger any deliveries) I discovered that it was little short ofgeneral. Several ladies had even dared risk the helmet, and the wholeassembly took on a war like aspect that was quite apropos. 

Thus adorned, the octogenarian Abbé de Villeneuve, his umbrella swungacross his back, his cassock tucked up so as to permit him to ride abicycle, was a sight that I shall never forget. 

"Why, Monsieur le Curé, you've quite the air of a sportsman. "

"My child, let me explain. You see I can no longer trust to my legs, they're too old and too rheumatic. Well then, when a bombardment setsin how on earth could I get home quickly without my bicycle?"

As visitors to the front, we were guests of the French Red CrossSociety while in Soissons. The local president, whose deeds of heroismhave astonished the world at large, is an old-time personal friend. 

A luncheon in our honour was served on a spotless cloth, in the onlyroom of that lady's residence which several hundred days of constantbombardment had still left intact. Yet, save for the fact that paperhad replaced the window panes, nothing betrayed the proximity of theGerman. Through the open, vine grown casement, I could look out onto acleanly swept little court whose centre piece of geraniums was aperfect riot of colour. 

Around the congenial board were gathered our hostess, the old Curé deSt. Vast, the General in command of the Brigade, his Colonel, threeAides-de-Camp, my husband and myself. 

Naturally, the topic of conversation was the war, but strange as it mayseem, it was we, the civilians, that were telling our friends of thedifferent activities that were afoot and would eventually bring theUnited States to the side of the Allies. 

Towards the middle of the repast our enemies began sending over a fewshells and presently a serious bombardment was under way. Yet no onestirred. 

Dishes were passed and removed, and though oft times I personally feltthat the pattering of shrapnel on the tin roof opposite wasuncomfortably close, I was convinced there was no theatrical display ofbravery, no cheap heroism in our companions' unconsciousness. Theywere interested in what was being said--_voilà tout_. 

Presently, however, our hostess leaned towards me and I fancied she wasabout to suggest a trip cellarward, instead of which she whispered thaton account of the bombardment we were likely to go without dessertsince it had to come from the other side of town and had not yetarrived. 

Then a shell burst quite close, and at the same time the street bellrang. The _cordon_ was pulled, and through the aperture made by thebackward swing of the great door, I caught sight of a ruddy cheeked, fair haired maiden in her early teens, bearing a huge bowl of freshcream cheese in her outstretched hands. 

Steadily she crossed the court, approached the window where she halted, smiled bashfully, set down her precious burden, and timidly addressingour hostess:

"I'm sorry, Madame, " said she, "so sorry if I have made you wait. "

And so it goes. 

I remember a druggist who on greeting me exclaimed:

"A pretty life, is it not, for a man who has liver trouble?" And yethe remained simply because it was a druggist's duty to do so when allthe others are mobilised. 

There was also the printer of a local daily, who continued to set uphis type with one side of his shop blown out; who went right onpublishing when the roof caved in, and who actually never ceased doingso until the whole structure collapsed, and a falling wall haddemolished his only remaining press. 

Monsieur le Préfet held counsel and deliberated in a room against whoseoutside wall one could hear the constant patter of machine gun bulletsraining thick from the opposite bank of the river. Monsieur Muzart, the Mayor, seemed to be everywhere at once, and was always the first onthe spot when anything really serious occurred. 

Add to these the little dairy maids, who each morning fearlesslydelivered the city's milk; or the old fellow on whom had devolved theentire responsibility of the street-cleaning department and who wentabout, helmet clad, attending to his chores, now and then shouting ahearty "_Whoa Bijou_" to a faithful quadruped who patiently dragged hisdump cart, and over whose left ear during the entire Summer, was tied abunch of tri-colour field flowers. 

I had almost forgotten to mention two extraordinary old women, whom Icame upon seated out in a deserted street, making over a mattress, while gently discussing their private affairs. It was the end of awarm July afternoon. A refreshing coolness had begun to rise from theadjacent river, and in the declining sunlight I could see great swarmsof honey bees hovering about a climbing rose bush whose fragrantblossoms hung in huge clusters over the top of a convent wall near by. I could not resist the temptation. Pressed by the desire to possess Istepped forward and was about to reach upward when a masculine voice, whose owner was hidden somewhere near my elbow called forth:

"Back, I say! Back! you're in sight!"

I quickly dived into the shadow for cover just in time to hear thebullets from a German machine gun whizz past my ear!

"You can trust them to see everything, " murmured one of the old women, not otherwise disturbed. "But if you really want some roses just goaround the block and in by the back gate, Madame. "

How in the presence of such calm can we believe in war?

Ah, France! elsewhere perhaps there may be just as brave--but surelynone more sweetly!

III

The little village was just behind the lines. The long stretch ofroadway, that following the Aisne finally passed through its mainstreet, had been so thoroughly swept by German fire that it was asthough pockmarked by ruts and shell holes, always half full of muddywater. 

A sign to the left said--

 _Chemin, défilé de V. _--

There could be no choice; there was but to follow the directionindicated, branch out onto a new highway which, over a distance of twoor three miles, wound in and out with many strategic contortions; atruly military route whose topography was the most curious thingimaginable. If by accident there happened to be a house in its way itdidn't take the trouble to go _around_, but _through_ the edifice. 

One arrived thus in the very midst of the village, having involuntarilytraversed not only the notary's flower garden, but also hisdrawing-room, if one were to judge by the quality of the now much fadedwall paper, and the empty spots where portraits used to hang. 

The township had served as target to the German guns for many a longmonth, and was seriously _amoché_, as the saying goes. "Coal scuttles"by the hundred had ripped the tiles from almost every roof. Hugebreaches gaped in other buildings, while some of them were completelylevelled to the ground. Yet, in spite of all, moss, weeds and vineshad sprung up mid the ruins, adding, if possible, the picturesque tothis scene of desolation. One robust morning glory I noted had climbedalong a wall right into the soot of a tumble-down chimney, and itsfairylike blossoms lovingly entwined the iron bars whereon had hung andbeen smoked many a succulent ham. 

The territorials (men belonging to the older army classes), hadinstalled their mess kitchens in every convenient corner: some in theopen court-yards and others beneath rickety stables and sheds, wherethe sunlight piercing the gloom caught the dust in its rays and made itseem like streams of golden powder, whose brightness enveloped even themost sordid nooks and spread cheer throughout the dingy atmosphere. 

Fatigue squads moved up and down the road, seeking or returning withsupplies, while those who were on duty, pick and shovel in hand, movedoff to their work in a casual, leisurely manner one would hardly termmilitary. 

Of civilians there remained but few. Yet civilians there were, and ofthe most determined nature: "hangers-on" who when met in this vicinityseemed almost like last specimens of an extinct race, sole survivors ofthe world shipwreck. 

At the moment of our arrival an old peasant woman was in the very actof scolding the soldiers, who to the number of two hundred and fifty (awhole company) filled to overflowing her modest lodgings, where itseemed to me half as many would have been a tight squeeze. It wasnaturally impossible for her to have an eye on all of them. In herdistress she took me as witness to her trials. 

"Just see, " she vociferated, "they trot through my house with theirmuddy boots, they burn my wood, they're drying up my well, and on topof it all they persist in smoking in my hay-loft, and the hay for nextWinter is in! Shouldn't you think their Officers would look afterthem? Why, I have to be a regular watch-dog, I do!"

"That's all very well, mother, " volunteered a little dried up Corporal. "But how about _their_ incendiary shells? You'll get one of themsooner or later. See if you don't!"

"If it comes, we'll take it; we've seen lots worse than that! Humph!That's no reason why you should mess up a house that belongs to yourown people, is it? I'd like to know what your wife would say if shecaught you smoking a pipe in her hay loft?"

Shouts of laughter from the culprits. Then a tall, lean fellow, takingher side, called out:

"She's right, boys, she had a hard enough job getting the hay in all byherself. Put out your pipes since that seems to get on her nerves. Now then, mother, there's always a way of settling a question betweenhonest people. We won't smoke in your hay any more; that is, providedyou'll sell us fresh vegetables for our mess. "

The old woman was trapped and had to surrender, which she did, but mostungraciously, all the while moaning that she would more than likely dieof starvation the following Winter. So a moment later the groupdispersed on hearing the news that the "Auto-bazaar" had arrived. 

This auto-bazaar certainly contained more treasures than were everdreamed of in ancient Golconda. There was everything the soldier'sheart might desire, from gun grease and cigarette paper down to wineand provisions; the whole stored away in a literal honey-comb ofshelves and drawers with which the sides were lined. 

The men all hurried forward. Loaded with water bottles, their handsfull of coppers, they clustered about it. 

From his dominating position at the rear end of the truck, thestore-keeper announced:

"No more pork pie left!"

This statement brought forth several indignant oaths from thedisappointed. 

"It's always that way, they're probably paid to play that joke on us. It was the same story last time! We'll send in a complaint. See if wedon't. "

But these grumblings were soon outvoiced by the announcement--

"Plenty of head-cheese and camembert. Now then! boys, who's ready?"

The effect was instantaneous. 

Smiles broke out on every countenance. The good news was quicklyspread abroad, and presently the sound of plates and dishes, clinkingcups, and joyful laughter recalled a picnic which we had organised inthe vicinity, one warm July afternoon some four years ago. 

A military band rehearsing a march in an open field just behind usadded life and gaiety to the scene, and reminded me of the"Merry-go-round, " the chief attraction of that defunct country fair, and upon which even the most dignified of our friends had insistedriding. 

After all, could it be possible that this was the very midst of war?Was it such a terrible thing, since the air fairly rung with merriment?

"Make room there, " called a gruff voice, not far distant. 

"Stand aside! Quick now!"

The crowd parted, and a couple of stretcher bearers with their sadhuman burden put an end to my soliloquy. My afternoon was stained withblood. On their litter they bore a lad whose bloodless lips, fluttering eyelids, and heaving breast, bespoke unutterable suffering. 

One must have actually witnessed such sights to realise the enormity ofhuman agony, grasp the torment that a stupid bit of flying steel caninflict upon a splendid human frame--so well, so happy, so full of hopebut a second since. Oh, the pity of it all!

"Who is it?" the men whisper. 

"Belongs to the 170th. They replaced us. He was caught in the _Boyaudes Anglais_. "

"That's a wicked spot, that is!"

"Is he one of ours?" questioned a man from an upper window, stopping aninstant in the act of polishing his gun. 

"No, " answers some one. 

The enquirer recommenced his work, and with it the refrain of his song, just where he had left off. 

"_Sur les bords de la Riviera_, " sang he blithely. 

Little groups formed along the wayside. Seated on the straw theyfinished their afternoon meal, touching mugs, and joking together. Near them the artillerymen greased and verified their axles; othersbrushed and curried the horses. In one spot a hair dresser had set uphis tonsorial parlor in the open, and his customers formed in lineawaiting their turns. 

Further on the _permissionaires_ blacked their boots and furbishedtheir raiment, making ready to leave for home. Swarms of humming birdsand bees clustered about a honeysuckle vine which clung to thefragments of a fence near by, and whose fragrance saturated the air. 

The friend, whose regiment number we had recognised, and stopped tosee, came up from behind and touched me on the shoulder. 

"Well, of all things! What on earth are you doing here?"

We explained our mission, and then inquired about mutual acquaintances. 

"Pistre? Why he's with the munitions in the 12xth. We'll go over andsee him. It's not far. But hold on a minute, isn't Lorrain a friendof yours?"

We acquiesced. 

"Well, his son's my lieutenant. I'll go and get him. He'd be toosorry to miss you. "

He disappeared and a few moments later returned followed by hissuperior, a handsome little nineteen year old officer, who came runningup, his pipe in his mouth, his drinking cup still in his hand. The ladblushed scarlet on seeing us, for he doubtless recalled, as did I, thetimes not long gone by, when I used to meet him at a music teacher's, his long curls hanging over his wide sailor collar. 

The idea that this mere infant should have command over such a man asour friend Nourrigat, double his age, and whose life of work andstruggle had been a marvel to us all, somewhat shocked me. 

I think the little chap felt it, for he soon left us, pleading that hemust be present at a conference of officers. 

"A brave fellow and a real man, " commented Nourrigat, as the boy movedaway. "His whole company has absolute confidence in him. You can'timagine the calm and prestige that kid possesses in the face of danger. He's the real type of leader, he is! And let me tell you, he's prettyhard put sometimes. "

And then in a burst of genuine enthusiasm, he continued:

"It's wonderful to be under twenty, with a smart little figure, awinsome smile, and a gold stripe on your sleeve. The women willinglycompare you to the Queen's pages, or Napoleon's handsome hussars. Thatmay be all very well in a salon, or in the drawings you see in 'La VieParisienne, ' but it takes something more than that to be a trueofficer. He's got to know the ropes at playing miner, bombarder, artilleryman, engineer, optician, accountant, caterer, undertaker, hygienist, carpenter, mason--I can't tell you what all. And in eachparticular job he's got to bear the terrible responsibility of humanlives; maintain the discipline and the moral standard, assure thecohesion of his section. Moreover, he's called upon to receive orderswith calm and reserve under the most difficult and tryingcircumstances, must grasp them with lightning speed and execute themaccording to rules and tactics. A moment of hesitancy orforgetfulness, and he is lost. The men will no longer follow him. Itell you it isn't everybody that's born to be a leader!"

"But, was he educated for the career?" we questioned. 

"I don't think so. I imagine he's just waiting for the end of the warto continue his musical studies--that is if he comes out alive. "

"And you?"

"I? Why I've no particular ambition. I suppose I could have gone intothe Camouflage Corps if I'd taken the trouble to ask. But what's theuse of trying to shape your own destiny?"

"You've gotten used to this life?"

"Not in the least. I abominate and adore it all in the same breath. Or, to be more explicit, I admire the men and abhor the militarypictures, the thrilling and sentimental ideas of the warrior with whichthe civilian head is so generously crammed. I love military servitude, and the humble life of the men in the ranks, but I have a genuinehorror of heroes and their sublimity. 

"Just look over there, " he went on, waving his hand towards a long lineof seated _poilus_ who were peacefully enjoying their pipes, whilewistfully watching the smoke curl upward. "Just look at them, aren'tthey splendid? Why they've got faces like the 'Drinkers' in theVelasquez picture. See that little fellow rolling his cigarette?Isn't he the image of the Bacchus who forms the centre of the painting?That's Brunot, and he's thinking about all the god-mothers whoseletters swell out his pockets. He can't make up his mind whether heprefers the one who lives in Marseilles and who sent him candiedcherries and her photograph; or the one from Laval who keeps him wellsupplied with devilled ham which he so relishes. The two men besidehim are Lemire and Lechaptois--both peasants. When they think, it'sonly of their farms and their wives. That other little thin chap is aParisian bookkeeper. I'd like to bet that he's thinking of his wife, and only of her. He's wondering if she's faithful to him. It's almostbecome an obsession. I've never known such jealousy, it's fairlykilling him. 

"That man Ballot, just beyond"--and our friend motioned up theline--"that man Ballot would give anything to be home behind hiswatch-maker's stand. In a moment or so he'll lean over and begin aconversation with his neighbour Thevenet. They've only one topic, andit's been the same for two years. It's angling. They haven't yetexhausted it. 

"All of them at bottom are heartily wishing it were over; they've hadenough of it. But they're good soldiers, just as before the war theywere good artisans. The _métier_ is sacred--as are the Family andDuty. 'The Nation, Country, Honour' are big words for which they havea certain repugnance. 

"'That's all rigmarole that somebody hands you when you've won theWooden Cross and a little garden growing over your tummy, ' is the waythey put it in their argot. 'The Marseillaise, the Chant du Depart areall right for the youngsters, and the reviews--and let me tell you, thereviews take a lot of furbishing and make a lot of dust. That's allthey really amount to. '

"When they sing, it's eternally 'The Mountaineers' who, as you know, are always 'there, ' 'Sous les Ponts de Paris, ' 'Madelon' and othersentimental compositions, and if by accident, in your desire to please, you were prone to compare them to the heroes of Homer, it's more thanlikely your pains would be rewarded by the first missile on which theycould lay their hands and launch in your direction. They will nottolerate mockery. 

"No"--he went on, filling his pipe, and enunciating between each puff. "No, they are neither supermen nor heroes; no more than they aredrunkards or foul mouthed blackguards. No, they are better than allthat--they are men, real men, who do everything they do well; be itrepairing a watch, cabinet-making, adding up long columns of figures orpeeling potatoes, mounting guard, or going over the top! They do thebig things as though they were small, the small things as though theywere big!

"Two days ago the captain sent for two men who had been on patrol dutytogether. He had but one decoration to bestow and both chaps were inhot discussion as to who should _not_ be cited for bravery. 

"'Now, boys, enough of this, ' said the captain. 'Who was leading, andwho first cut the German barbed wire?'

"'Dubois. '

"'Well then, Dubois, what's all this nonsense? The cross is yours. '

"'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic! I'm a foundling, haven't any family. What's a war cross more or less to me? Now Paulhere keeps a café; just think of the pleasure it will give hisclientèle to see him come back decorated. '

"The captain who knows his men, understood Dubois' sincerity, and soPaul got the medal. 

"I believe it was Peguy who said that 'Joan of Arc' has the samesuperiority over other saints, as the man who does his military servicehas over those who are exempt. ' But it's only the soldiers who reallyunderstand that, and when they say _On les aura_, it means somethingmore from their lips, than when uttered by a lady over her tea-cups, ora reporter in his newspaper. "

During this involuntary monologue we had strolled along the road whichNourrigat had originally indicated as the direction of our friendPistre. Presently he led us into the church, a humble little villagesanctuary. A shell had carried away half the apse, and sadly damagedthe altar. The belfry had been demolished and the old bronze bellsplit into four pieces had been carefully fitted together by someloving hand, and stood just inside the doorway. 

St. Anthony of Padua had been beheaded, and of St. Roch there remainedbut one foot and half his dog. Yet, a delightful sensation of peaceand piety reigned everywhere. From the confessional rose the murmur ofvoices, and the improvised altar was literally buried beneath garlandsof roses. 

In what had once been a chapel, a soldier now sat writing. His notebooks were spread before him on a table, a telephone was at his elbow. 

Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate indicate that this is the"_Bureau de la 22e_. "

An old bent and withered woman, leaning on a cane, issued from thisoffice-chapel as we approached. 

"Why that's mother Tesson, " exclaimed Nourrigat. "Good evening, mother; how's your man to-day?"

"Better, sir. Much better, thank you. They've taken very good care ofhim at your hospital. "

The old couple had absolutely refused to evacuate their house. TheSous-Prefet, the Prefet, all the authorities had come and insisted, butto no avail. 

"We've lost everything, " she would explain. "Our three cows, ourchickens, our pigs. Kill us if you like, but don't force us to leavehome. We worked too hard to earn it!"

And so they had hung on as an oyster clings to its rock. One shell hadsplit their house in twain, another had flattened out the hayloft. Theold woman lay on her bed crippled with rheumatism, her husband a victimof gall stones. Their situation was truly most distressing. 

But there were the soldiers. Not any special company orindividual--but the soldiers, the big anonymous mass--who took them incharge and passed them on from one to another. 

"We leave father and mother Tesson to your care, " was all they said tothe new comers as they departed. But that was sufficient, and so theold couple were nursed, clothed and fed by those whom one would supposehad other occupations than looking after the destitute. 

[Illustration: A VILLAGE ON THE FRONT]

Three times the house was brought to earth. Three times they rebuiltit. The last time they even put in a stove so that the old woman wouldnot have to bend over to reach her hearth. New beds were made andinstalled, the garden dug and planted. The old man was operated uponat the Division Hospital, and when he became convalescent they sharedthe contents of their home packages with him. 

Who were they? This one or that one? Mother Tesson would most surelyhave been at a loss to name the lad who returned from his furloughbringing two hens and a rooster to start her barnyard. She vaguelyremembered that he was from the south, on account of his accent, andthat he must have travelled across all France with his cage of chickensin his hand. 

They entered her home, smoked a pipe by her fireside, helped her towash the dishes or shell peas; talked a moment with her old man andleft, saying _au revoir_. 

Another would come back greeting her with a cordial "_Bonjour, mèreTesson_. "

"Good day, my son, " she would reply. 

And it was this constantly changing new found son who would chop wood, draw water from the well, write a letter that would exempt them fromtaxes, or make a demand for help from the American Committees. 

Thus the aged pair had lived happily, loved and respected, absolutelywithout want, and shielded from all material worry. And when some poordevil who has spent four sleepless nights in the trenches, on hisreturn steals an hour or two from his well earned, much craved sleep, in order to hoe their potato patch, one would doubtless be astonishedto hear such a man exclaim by way of excuse for his conduct--

"Oh, the poor old souls! Just think of it! At their age. What apity. "

We found Pistre making a careful toilet with the aid of a tin pail fullof water. 

"This is a surprise, on my soul!"

We hastened to give him news of his family and friends. 

Presently he turned towards Nourrigat. 

"How about your regiment? Stationary?"

"I fancy so. We were pretty well thinned out. We're waiting forreinforcements. "

"What's become of Chenu, and Morlet and Panard?"

"Gone! all of them. "

"Too bad! They were such good fellows!"

And our friends smiled, occupied but with the thought of the livingpresent. Paris, their friends, their families, their professions, allseemed to be forgotten, or completely over-shadowed by the habitualdaily routine of marches and halts, duties and drudgery. They were nolonger a great painter and a brilliant barrister. They were twosoldiers; two atoms of that formidable machine which shall conquer theGerman; they were as two monks in a monastery--absolutely oblivious toevery worldly occupation. 

We understand, we feel quite certain that they will be ours again--butlater--when this shall all be over--if God spares them to return. 

At that same instant two boys appeared at the entrance to thecourtyard. They may have been respectively ten and twelve years ofage. The perspiration trickled from their faces, and they were bendingbeneath the weight of a huge bundle each carried on his back. 

"Hello, there, fellows, " called one of them. 

A soldier appeared on the threshold. 

"Here Lefranc--here are your two boxes of sardines, and your snuff. There isn't any more plum jam to be had. Oh, yes, and here's yourwriting paper. "

The child scribbled something in an old account book. 

"That makes fifty-three sous, " he finally announced. 

Other soldiers now came up. 

The boys were soon surrounded by a group of eager gesticulating_poilus_. 

"Oh, shut up, can't you? How can a fellow think if you all scream atonce? Here--Mimile"--and he turned to his aid. "Don't you give 'em athing. "

Then the tumult having subsided, he continued--

"Now then, your names, one at a time--and don't muddle me when I'mtrying to count!"

Pistre quickly explained that this phenomenon was Popaul called"Business"--and Mimile, his clerk, both sons of a poor widow who washedfor the soldiers. In spite of his tender years "Business" haddeveloped a tendency for finance that bespoke a true captain ofindustry. He had commenced by selling the men newspapers, and thenhaving saved enough to buy first one and then a second bicycle, thebrothers went twice a day to Villers Cotterets, some fifteen milesdistant, in quest of the orders given them by the soldiers. At firstthe dealers tried to have this commerce prohibited, but as the ladswere scrupulously honest, and their percentage very modest, theCommandant not only tolerated, but protected them. 

Mimile was something of a Jonah, having twice been caught by bits ofshrapnel, which necessitated his being cared for at the dressingstation. 

"All his own fault too, " exclaimed Business, shrugging his shoulders. "He's no good at diving. Doesn't flatten out quick enough. Why I usedto come right over the road last Winter when the bombardment was onfull tilt. I was then working for the Legion and the Chasseurs. Nocinch let me tell you! It used to be--'Popaul here--Popaulthere--where's my tobacco? How about my eau-de-Cologne?' There wasn'tany choice with those fellows. It was furnish the goods or bust--and Inever lost them a sou's worth of merchandise either!"

Business knew everything and everybody; all the tricks of the trade, all the tricks of the soldiers. He had seen all the Generals, and allthe Armies from the British to the Portuguese. 

He had an intimate acquaintance with all the different branches ofwarfare, as well as a keen memory for slang and patois. He nourishedbut one fond hope in his bosom--a hope which in moments of expansion heimparts, if he considers you worthy of his confidence. 

"In four years I'll volunteer for the aviation corps. "

"In four years? That's a long way off, my lad. That's going some, Ishould say, " called a _poilu_ who had overheard the confession. 

"Look here, Business, did I hear you say it won't be over in fouryears?" asked another. 

"Over? Why, it'll have only just begun. It was the Americans on themotor trucks who told me so, and I guess they ought to know!"

We watched him distribute his packages, make change and take down hisnext day's orders, in a much soiled note-book, and with the aid of astubby pencil which he was obliged to wet every other letter. When hehad finished a soldier slipped over towards him. 

"I say, Paul, " he called out to him, "would you do us the honour ofdining with us? We've got a package from home. Bring your brotherwith you. "

Business was touched to the quick. 

"I'm your man, " he answered. "And with pleasure. But you must let mefurnish the _aperatif_. "

"Just as you say, old man. "

Brusquely turning about, the future tradesman sought for his clerk whohad disappeared. 

"Mimile, " he shouted, "Mimile, I say, run and tell mamma to iron ourshirts and put some polish on our shoes. I'll finish to-day's job bymyself. "

IV

Not satisfied with the havoc wrought in Soissons and other cities ofthe front, the Boche is now trying to encircle the head of Paris withthe martyr's crown. The capital, lately comprised in the army zone, has been called upon to pay its blood tax, and like all the otherheroic maimed and wounded, has none the less retained its good humour, its confidence and its serenity. 

"It will take more than that to prevent us from going to the cafés, "smiled an old Parisian, shrugging his shoulders. 

And this sentiment was certainly general if one were to judge by thecrowd who literally invaded the _terrasses_ between five and seven, andnone of whom seemed in the least preoccupied or anxious. 

_Aperatifs_ have long since ceased to be anything save pleasantremembrances--yet the custom itself has remained strong as a tradition. Absinthes, bitters and their like have not only been abolished, butreplaced--and by what? Mineral waters, fruit syrups and tea!

The waiters have been metamorphosed into herbalists. Besides, what amI saying, there are really no more waiters, save perhaps a few decrepitspecimens whom flatfoot has relegated beyond the name, their waddlingso strangely resembles that of ducks. All the others are serving--atthe front. 

From my seat I could see two ferocious looking, medal bespangledwarriors ordering, the one a linden flower and verbena, the othercamomile with mint leaf. And along with the cups, saucers andtea-pots, the waiter brought a miniature caraffe, which in times goneby contained the brandy that always accompanied an order of coffee. Atpresent its contents was extract of orange flower!

There may be certain smart youth who brag about having obtained kirschfor their _tilleul_, or rum in their tea, but such myths are scarcelycredited. 

Naturally there is the grumbling element who claim that absinthe neverhurt any one, and cite as example the painter Harpignies, who lived tobe almost a hundred, having absorbed on the average of two a day untilthe very last. 

But all have become so accustomed to making sacrifices that even thisone is passed off with a smile. What can one more or less mean now?Besides, the women gave up pastry, didn't they?

One joked the first time one ordered an infusion or a lemon vichy, onewas even a bit disgusted at the taste. And then one got used to it, the same as one is ready to become accustomed to anything; to trottingabout the darkened streets, to going to bed early, to getting alongwithout sugar, and even to being bombed. 

There is a drawing by Forain which instantly obtained celebrity, andwhich represents two French soldiers talking together in the trenches. 

"If only they're able to stick it out!"

"Who?"

"The civilians!"

And now at the end of four long years it may be truly said of thecivilian that he has "seen it through. " Not so gloriously, perhaps, but surely quite as magnificently as his brothers at the front. 

In a country like France, where all men must join the army, theleft-behind is not an indifferent being; he is a father, a brother, ason, or a friend; he is that feverish creature who impatiently waitsthe coming of the postman, who lives in a perpetual state of agony, trembles for his dear ones, and at the same time continues hisbusiness, often doubling, even trebling his efforts so as to replacethe absent, and still has sufficient sense of humour to remark:

"In these days when every one is a soldier, it's a hard job to play thecivilian. "

Last summer an American friend said to me:

"Of course, there are some changes, but as I go about the streets dayin and day out, it hardly seems as though Paris were conscious of thewar. It is quite unbelievable. "

But that very same evening when slightly after eleven, Elizabeth and Isauntered up the darkened, deserted Faubourg St. Honoré--

"Think, " she said, catching my arm, "just think that behind each andevery one of those façades there is some one suffering, hoping, weeping, perhaps in secret! Think of the awful moment when all thebells shall solemnly toll midnight, every stroke resounding like adirge in the souls of those who are torn with anxiety, who craverelief, and patiently implore a sleep that refuses to come. "

The soldiers know it, know but too well the worth of all the energiesexpended without thought of glory; appreciate the value of thatstoicism which consists in putting on a bold front and continuing theevery-day life, without betraying a trace of sorrow or emotion. 

Many a husband is proud of his wife, many a brother of his sister, andmany a son of his father and his mother. 

Even those, who all things considered would seem the farthest from thewar, suffer untold tortures. How often last autumn did H. And I payvisits to old artist friends, men well into the sixties with nomaterial worries, and no one at the front; only to find them alone inone corner of their huge studios, plunged in profound reveries, andutterly unconscious of the oncoming night, or the rain that beatagainst the skylights. 

"I know, I know, it's all very well to shake yourself and say you mustwork. It's easy enough to recall that in 1870 Fantin Latour shuthimself up and painted fruit and flowers, and by emulation, buoyed upperhaps by this precedent, you sit down and sketch a still life. Whatgreater joy than to seek out a harmony, find the delicate suave tones, and paint it in an unctuous medium. Yes, it's a joy, but only whenhead and heart are both in it! The museums too, used to be a source ofuntold pleasure, but even if they were open you wouldn't go, becausethe head and the heart are 'Out there' where that wondrous youth isbeing mowed down--'Out there' where lies our every hope, 'Out there'where we would like to be, all of us! 'Tis hardly the moment to paintripe grapes and ruddy apples, and to feel that you're only good forthat! It's stupid to be old!"

And many, many a dear old man has passed away, unnoticed. When oneasks the cause of a death friends shrug their shoulders, "We scarcely know, some say one thing, some another--perhaps the war!"

"In proportion you'll find that there are as many deaths on theBoulevard as in the trenches, " said our friend, Pierre Stevens, onreturning from Degas' funeral. 

I would you might go with me, all you who love France, into one ofthose Parisian houses, where after dinner when the cloth has beenremoved, the huge road maps are spread out on the dining-room table, and every one eagerly bends over them with bated breath, while thelatest _communiqué_ is read. Fathers, mothers, grandmothers, andlittle children, friends and relatives, solemnly, anxiously await thename of their _secteurs_--the _secteurs_ where _their_ loved ones areengaged. How all the letters are read, re-read and handed about, eachone seeking a hidden sense, the meaning of an allusion; how dark growsevery brow when the news is not so good--what radiant expanse at theword victory. 

And through fourteen hundred long days this same scene has beenrepeated, and no one has ever quailed. 

The theatres have cellars prepared to receive their audiences in caseof bombardment, and one of our neighbours, Monsieur Walter, has justwritten asking permission in my absence to build an armoured dug-out inthe hallway of my home. 

"It is precisely the organisation of this dugout that prompts mywriting to you, _chère Madame_. 

"So much bronchitis and so many other ills have been contracted incellars, that I hesitate to take my children down there; but on theother hand, I dare not leave them upstairs, where they would bealtogether too exposed. It is thus that I conceived the idea of askingyour permission to transform into a sort of 'Dug-out dormitory'--(if Imay be permitted the expression) the little passage way, which in yourhouse separates the dining-room from the green room. To have somethingabsolutely safe, it would be necessary to give the ceiling extrasupport, then set steel plates in the floor of the little linen roomjust above and sandbag all the windows. 

"Naturally, I have done nothing pending your consent. Useless to say, we will put everything in good order if you return, unless you shouldcare to use the dug-out yourself. My wife and I shall anxiously awaityour reply. "

And this in Paris, June 28th, 1918!

I do not know what particular epoch in world war events served asinspiration to the author of a certain ditty, now particularly popularamong the military. But decidedly his injunction to

 "Pack all your troubles in an old kit bag, And smile, smile, smile, "

has been followed out to the letter, in the case of the Parisian, whohas also added that other virtue "Patience" to his already long list ofqualities. 

With the almost total lack of means of communication, a dinner downtownbecomes an expedition, and a theatre party a dream of the future. 

During the Autumn twilights, on the long avenues swept by the rain, orat street corners where the wind seizes it and turns it into miniaturewater spouts, one can catch glimpses of the weary, bedraggled Parisian, struggling beneath a rebellious umbrella, patiently waiting for a cab. He has made up his mind to take the first that goes by. There can beno question of discrimination. Anything will be welcome. Yes, anything, even one of those evil-smelling antiquated hackneys drawn bya decrepit brute who will doubtless stumble and fall before havingdragged you the first five hundred yards, thereby bringing down thepitiless wrath of his aged driver, not only on his own, but your head. 

Taxis whizz by at a rate which leads one to suppose that they had arendezvous with dame Fortune. Their occupants are at the same timeobjects of envy and admiration, and one calls every latent cerebralresource to his aid, in order to guess where on earth they were to befound empty. And how consoling is the disdainful glance of thechauffeur who, having a fare, is hailed by the unfortunate, desperatepedestrian that has a pressing engagement at the other end of town. 

If one of them ever shows signs of slowing up, it is immediatelypounced upon and surrounded by ten or a dozen damp human beings. 

Triumphantly the driver takes in their humble, supplicating glances(glances which have never been reproduced save in pictures of theMartyrs), and then clearing his throat he questions:

"First of all I've got to know where you want to go. I'm bound forGrenelle. "

Nobody ever wants to go to Grenelle. 

If some one tactfully suggests the Avenue de Messine, he is instantlyrebuffed by a steady stare that sends him back, withered, into thesecond row of the group. A shivering woman, taking all her courageinto her hands, suggests the Palais d'Orsay, but is ignored while a manfrom behind calls forth "Five francs if you'll take me to the Avenue duBois. "

The chauffeur's glance wavers, it seems possible that he mightentertain the proposal. The gentleman steps forward, already has hishand on the door handle, when from somewhere in the darkness, helmetclad, stick in his hand, kit bag over one shoulder, a _poilupermissionaire_ elbows his way through the crowd. There is noargument, he merely says, "Look here, old man, I've got to make the 6. 01 at the Gare du Nord;drive like hell!"

"You should worry. We'll get there. "

Now, the Gare du Nord is certainly not in the direction of Grenelle. On the contrary it is diametrically opposite, geographically speaking. But nobody seems to mind. The chauffeur is even lauded for hispatriotic sentiments, and one good-hearted, bedraggled creatureactually murmurs:

"I only hope the dear fellow does make it!"

"What does it matter if we do have to wait a bit--that's all we'vereally got to do, after all, " answers an elderly man moving away. 

"It would be worse than this if we were in the trenches, " chimes insome one else. 

"My son is in water up to his waist out there in Argonne, " echoes athird, as the group disbands. 

And yet people do go to the theatre. 

Gemier has made triumphant productions, with the translations of theShakesperean Society, and true artist that he is, has createdsensational innovations by way of _mise-en-scène_ in the "Merchant ofVenice" and "Anthony and Cleopatra. "

It's a far cry now to the once all too popular staging à la Munich. 

Lamy and Le Gallo were excruciatingly funny in a farce called "MyGod-son, " but the real type of theatrical performance which isunanimously popular, which will hold its own to the very end, is theReview. 

How on earth the authors manage to scrape up enough comic subjects, when sadness is so generally prevalent, and how they succeed in makingtheir public laugh spontaneously and heartily, without the slightestremorse or _arrière pensée_, has been a very interesting question to me. 

Naturally, their field is limited, and there are certain subjects whichare tabooed completely; so the trifling event, the ridiculous side ofParisian life, have come to the fore. Two special types, the slackerand the profiteer, or _nouveau riche_, are very generally and verythoroughly maltreated. If I am any judge, it is the _embusqué_, who isthe special pet, and after him come the high cost of living, the lackof fuel, the obscurity of the streets, the length of women's skirts, etc. --all pretexts for more or less amusing topical songs. 

As to the war itself, they have made something very special of it. Thanks to them the trenches become a very delightful spot populated bya squadron of nimble footed misses, who, booted, spurred, helmet-crowned and costumed in horizon blue, sing of the heroism andthe splendid good humour of the _poilu_ while keeping time to a martialrhythm. 

There is invariably a heavy comedian who impersonates the jovial_chef_--preparing a famous sauce in which to dish up "Willy" the day heshall be captured; the soldier on furlough who is homesick for thefront; the wounded man who stops a moment to sing (with many frills andflourishes) the joys of shedding one's blood for his country. 

Attacks are made to well known accompaniments--Bombardments perpetratedin the wings by the big bass drum, and both though symbolic, are aboutas unreal as possible. 

Nobody is illusioned, no one complains. On the contrary, they seemdelighted with the show they have paid to see. Furthermore, the betterpart of the audience is composed of soldiers, wounded men, convalescents, and _permissionaires_, and they all know what to expect. 

Near me sat two of the latter--healthy looking lads, wind burned andtanned, their uniforms sadly faded and stained, their helmets scarredand indented. Both wore the Croix de Guerre, and the Fourragère orshoulder strap, showing the colours of the military medal, which atthat time being quite a novelty, caught and held the eyes of all whosurrounded them. 

From scraps of their conversation I learned that they had left thebattle front of the Somme that very morning, were merely crossingParis, taking a midnight train which would land them home some time thefollowing day. 

I even managed to gather that their papers had reached them at the verymoment when they came out of the trenches, that they had not even hadtime to brush up, so great was their fear of missing the last train. 

Less than twenty-four hours ago, then, they had really been init--standing out there in the mud, surrounded by rats and the putridodour of dead bodies, the prey not only of the elements, but of enemybombs and shells, expecting the end at any instant; or curled up, halffrozen in a humid, slimy dug-out, not long enough to permit stretchingout--scarcely deep enough to be called a shelter. 

Would they not be disgusted? Ready to protest against this disfiguredtravesty of their war?

I feel quite certain they never gave it a thought. Blissfullyinstalled in their comfortable orchestra seats they didn't intend tomiss a word of the entire performance. And when finally in an endlesschain of verses, a comedian, mimicking a _poilu_ with his kit on hisback, recited his vicissitudes with the army police, and got mixed upin his interpretation of R. A. T. , G. Q. G. --etc. , they burst into roundafter round of applause, calling and recalling their favourite, whiletheir sides shook with laughter, and the tears rolled down their cheeks. 

These same faces took on a nobly serious aspect, while a tall, pale, painted damsel draped in a peplum, evoked in ringing tones the glorioushistory of the tri-colour. I looked about me--many a manly countenancewas wrinkled with emotion, and women on all sides sniffed audibly. Itwas then that I understood, as never before, what a philosopher friendcalls "the force of symbols. "

An exact scenic reproduction of the war would have shocked all thosegood people; just as this impossible theatrical deformation, thispotpourri of songs, dances and orchestral tremolos charmed anddelighted their care-saturated souls. 

Little girls in Alsatian costume, and the eternally sublime Red Crossnurse played upon their sentimentality; the slacker inspired them withdisgust; they shrieked with delight at the _nouveau riche_; and theirenthusiasm knew no bounds when towards eleven-fifteen arrived the"Stars and Stripes" accompanied by a double sextette of khaki-colouredfemale ambulance drivers. Tradition has willed it thus. 

If the war continue any length of time doubtless the United States willalso become infuriated with the slacker, and I tremble to think of thespecial brand of justice that woman in particular will have in storefor the man who does not really go to the front, or who, thanks tointrigue and a uniform, is spending his days in peace and safety. 

Alas, there are _embusqués_ in all countries, just as there are_nouveaux-riches_. In Paris these latter are easily discernible. Theyhave not yet had time to become accustomed to their new luxuries;especially the women, who wear exaggerated styles, and flaunt theirfurs and jewels, which deceive no one. 

[Illustration: DOOR OF MADAME HUARD'S HOME--PARIS]

"They buy everything, so long as it is expensive, " explained anantiquity dealer. "They want everything, and want it at once!"

The few old artisans still to be found who are versed in the art ofrepairing antiques, are rushed to death, and their ill humour is almostcomic, for in spite of the fact that they are being well paid for theirwork, they cannot bear to see these precious treasures falling into thehands of the vulgar. 

"This is for Mr. Or Mrs. So-and-So, " they inform you with an ironicalsmile, quite certain that you have never heard the name before. 

It would almost seem as if a vast wave of prosperity had enveloped thecountry, were one to judge of the stories of millions made in a minute, fortunes sprung up over night, new factories erected where work neverceases; prices paid for real estate, monster strokes on the Bourse. Little wonder then that in May just past, with the Germans scarcelysixty miles from Paris, the sale of Degas' studio attained theextraordinary total of nearly two million dollars; an Ingres drawingwhich in 1889 brought eight hundred and fifty francs, selling forfourteen thousand, and a Greco portrait for which Degas himself gavefour hundred and twenty francs in 1894, fetching eighty-two thousandfrancs. 

Yes, such things happen even in France, and one hears but too often offortunes accumulated in the past four years--but alas! how much morenumerous are those which have been lost. The _nouveaux-pauvres_ faroutnumber the _nouveaux-riches_; but these former seem to go intohiding. 

The Parisian bourgeois was essentially a property owner. His delightwas in houses; the stone-front six-story kind, the serious rent-payingproposition, containing ten or a dozen moderate-priced apartments, andtwo good stores, from which he derived a comfortable income. Such wasthe ultimate desire of the little shop-keeper, desire which spurred himon to sell and to economise. 

A house, some French rentes, government bonds (chiefly Russian inrecent years) and a few city obligations, were the extent of hisinvestments, and formed not only the nucleus but the better part ofmany a French fortune. 

Imagine then the predicament of such people under the moratorium. Fewand far between are the tenants who have paid a sou of rent sinceAugust, 1914, and the landlord has no power to collect. Add to thisthe ever increasing price of living, and you will understand why manyan elderly Parisian who counted on spending his declining years inpeace and plenty, is now hard at work earning his daily bread. 

Made in a moment of emergency, evidently with the intention that it beof short duration, this law about rentals has become the mostperplexing question in the world. Several attempts have been madetowards a solution, but all have remained fruitless, unsanctioned; andthe property owners are becoming anxious. 

That men who have been mobilised shall not pay--that goes withoutsaying. But the others. How about them?

I happen to know a certain house in a bourgeois quarter of the cityabout which I have very special reasons for being well informed. 

Both stores are closed. The one was occupied by a book-seller, theother by a boot-maker. Each dealer was called to the army, and both ofthem have been killed. Their estates will not be settled until afterthe war. 

The first floor was rented to a middle-aged couple. The husband, professor in a city school, is now prisoner in Germany. His wife diedduring the Winter just passed. 

On the second landing one entered the home of a cashier in a bigNational Bank. He was the proud possessor of a wife and three prettybabies. The husband, aged thirty-two, left for the front with the rankof Lieutenant, the first day of the mobilisation. His bank kindlyconsented to continue half salary during the war. The lieutenant waskilled at Verdun. His employers offered a year and a half's pay to theyoung widow--that is to say, about six thousand dollars, which sheimmediately invested in five per cent government rentes. Alieutenant's yearly pension amounts to about three hundred dollars, andthe Legion of Honour brings in fifty dollars per annum. 

They had scarcely had time to put anything aside, and I doubt if hecarried a life insurance. At any rate the education of these littleboys will take something more than can be economised after the barenecessities of life have been provided. So how is the brave littlewoman even to think of paying four years' rent, which when computedwould involve more than two-thirds of her capital?

The third floor tenant is an elderly lady who let herself be persuadedto put her entire income into bonds of the City of Vienna, Turkishdebt, Russian roubles, and the like. I found her stewing up oldnewspapers in a greasy liquid, preparing thus a kind of briquette, theonly means of heating which she could afford. Yet the prospect of aWinter without coal, possibly without bread, did not prevent her fromwelcoming me with a smile, and explaining her case with grace anddistinction, which denoted the most exquisite breeding. Her maid, sheapologised as she bowed me out, was ill of rheumatism contracted duringthe preceding Winter. 

The top apartment was occupied by a government functionary and hisfamily. As captain in the infantry he has been at the front since thevery beginning. His wife's family are from Lille, and like mostpre-nuptial arrangements when the father is in business, the daughterreceived but the income of her dowry, which joined to her husband'ssalary permitted a cheerful, pleasant home, and the prospect of anexcellent education for the children. 

The salary ceased with the Captain's departure to the front; the wife'sincome stopped when the Germans entered Lille a few weeks later. Theynow have but his officer's pay, approximately eighty dollars per month, as entire financial resource. Add to this the death of a mother andfour splendid brothers, the constant menace of becoming a widow, and Ifeel certain that the case will give food for reflection. 

All these unfortunate women know each other; have guessed their mutualmisfortunes, though, of course, they never mention them. Gatheredabout a single open fire-place whose welcome blaze is the result oftheir united economy, they patiently ply their needles at whateverhandiwork they are most deft, beading bags, making filet and meshlaces, needle-work tapestry and the like, utilising every spare moment, in the hope of adding another slice of bread to the already too frugalmeals. 

But orders are rare, and openings for such work almost nil. To obtaina market would demand business training which has not been part oftheir tradition, which while it tempts, both intimidates and revoltsthem. Certain desperate ones would branch out in spite of all--butthey do not know how, dare not seem so bold. 

And so Winter will come anew--Winter with bread and sugar rations at amaximum; Winter with meat prices soaring far above their humble pocketbooks. 

Soup and vegetable stews quickly become the main article of diet. Eachsucceeding year the little mothers have grown paler, and more frail. The children have lost their fat, rosy cheeks. But let even a localsuccess crown our arms, let the _communiqué_ bring a little bit of realnews, tell of fresh laurels won, let even the faintest ray of hope forthe great final triumph pierce this veil of anxiety--and every heartbeat quickens, the smiles burst forth; lips tremble with emotion. These people know the price, and the privilege of being French, theglory of belonging to that holy nation. 

V

When after a lengthy search our friends finally discover our Parisianresidence, one of the first questions they put is, "Why on earth isyour street so narrow?"

The reason is very simple. Merely because la rue Geoffrey L'Asnier wasbuilt before carriages were invented, the man who gave it its namehaving doubtless dwelt there during the fourteenth or fifteenthcentury, as one could easily infer after inspecting the choir of ourparish church. But last Good Friday, the Germans in trying out theirsuper-cannon, bombarded St. Gervais. The roof caved in, killing andwounding many innocent persons, and completely destroying that choir. 

Elsewhere a panic might have ensued, but residents of our quarter arenot so easily disturbed. The older persons distinctly recall theburning of the Hotel de Ville and the Archbishop's Palace in 1870. Anddid they not witness the battles in the streets, all the horrors of theCommune, after having experienced the agonies and privations of theSiege? I have no doubt that among them there are persons who wereactually reduced to eating rats, and I feel quite certain that many aman used his gun to advantage from between the shutters of his ownfront window. 

Their fathers had seen the barricades of 1848 and 1830, theirgrandfathers before them the Reign of Terror--and so on one mightcontinue as far back as the Norman invasion. 

The little café on the rue du Pont Louis-Philippe serves as meetingplace for all the prophets and strategists of the quarter, who have nowords sufficient to express their disdain for the Kaiser's heavyartillery. 

"It's all bluff, they think they can frighten us! Why, I, Madame, Iwho am speaking to you--I saw the Hotel de Ville, the Theatre desNations, the grain elevators, all in flames and all at once, the wholecity seemed to be ablaze. Well, do you think that prevented theParisians from fishing in the Seine, or made this café shut its doors?There was a barricade at either end of this street--the blinds were upand you could hear the bullets patter against them. The insurgents, all covered with powder, would sneak over and get a drink--and whenfinally their barricade was taken, it was the Republican soldiers whosat in our chairs and drank beer and lemonade! _Their_ guns, humph!Let them bark!"

It is at this selfsame café that gather all the important men of ourdistrict, much as the American would go to his club. They are serious_bourgeois_, well along in the fifties, just a trifle ridiculous, perhaps on account of their allure and their attire. But should onegrow to know them better he would soon realise that most of them areshrewd, hard-working business men, each burdened with an anxiety or asorrow which he never mentions. 

They too love strategy. Armies represented by match safes, dominoesand toothpicks have become an obsession--their weakness. They arethorough Frenchmen and their critical sense must be unbridled. Theylove their ideas and their systems. They would doubtless not hesitateto advise Foch. Personally, if I were Foch, I should turn a deaf ear. But if I were a timid, vacillating, pessimistic spirit, still in doubtas to the final outcome, I should most certainly seat myself at aneighbouring table and listen to their conversation that I might comeaway imbued with a little of their patience, abnegation, and absoluteconfidence. 

Nor does the feminine opinion deviate from this course. I found thesame ideas prevalent in the store of a little woman who sold umbrellas. Before the war Madame Coutant had a very flourishing trade, but now hersales are few and far between, while her chief occupation is repairing. She is a widow without children, and no immediate relative in the war. Because of this, at the beginning she was looked down upon and hersituation annoyed and embarrassed her greatly. But by dint of search, a most voluminous correspondence, and perhaps a little bit of intrigue, she finally managed to unearth two very distant cousins, peasant boysfrom the Cevennes, whom she frankly admitted never having seen, but towhom she regularly sent packages and post cards; about whom she was atliberty to speak without blushing, since one of them had recently beencited for bravery and decorated with the _Croix de Guerre_. 

This good woman devotes all the leisure and energy her trade leavesher, to current events. Of course, there is the official _communiqué_which may well be considered as the national health bulletin; butbesides that, there is still another, quite as indispensable and fullyas interesting, made up of the criticism of local happenings, andpopular presumption. 

This second _communiqué_ comes to us direct from Madame Coutant's, where a triumvirate composed of the scissors-grinder, thewoman-who-rents-chairs-in-St. -Gervais, the sacristan's wife, theconcierge of the Girls' School, and the widow of an office boy in theCity Hall, get their heads together and dispense the news. 

The concierges and cooks while out marketing, pick it up and start iton its rounds. 

"We are progressing North of the Marne"; "Two million Americans havelanded in France, " and similar statements shall be accepted only whenelucidated, enlarged and embellished by Madame Coutant's group. Eachmorning brings a fresh harvest of happenings, but each event iscertified or contradicted by a statement from some one who is "Outthere, " and sees and knows. 

Under such circumstances an attack in Champagne may be viewed from avery different angle when one hears that Bultot, the electrician, istelephone operator in that region; that the aforesaid Bultot haswritten to his wife in most ambiguous phraseology, and that she hasbrought the letter to Madame Coutant's for interpretation. 

But it is more especially the local moral standards which play animportant part and are subject to censorship in Madame Coutant'scircle. The individual conduct of the entire quarter is under the mostrigid observation. Lives must be pure as crystal, homes of glass. Itwere better to attempt to hide nothing. 

That Monsieur L. , the retired druggist, is in sad financial straits, there is not the slightest doubt; no one is duped by the fact that heis trying to put on a bold face under cover of war-time economy. 

That the grocer walks with a stick and drags his leg on the ground tomake people think he is only fit for the auxiliary service, deceives noone; his time will come, there is but to wait. 

Let a woman appear with an unaccustomed furbelow, or a family of aworkman that is earning a fat salary, eat two succulent dishes the sameweek, public opinion will quickly make evident its sentiments, andswiftly put things to rights. 

The war must be won, and each one must play his part--do his bit, nomatter how humble. The straight and narrow paths of virtue have beenprescribed and there is no better guide than the fear of mutualcriticism. That is one reason why personally I have never sought toignore Madame Coutant's opinion. 

It goes without saying that the good soul has attributed theparticipation of the United States in this war entirely to my efforts. And the nature of the advice that I am supposed to have given PresidentWilson would make an everlasting fortune for a humourist. But in spiteof it all, I am proud to belong to them; proud of being an old residentin their quarter. 

"Strictly serious people, " was the opinion passed upon us by thesacristan's wife for the edification of my new housemaid. 

It is a most interesting population to examine in detail, made up ofhonest, skilful Parisian artisans, _frondeurs_ at heart, jesting witheverything, but terribly ticklish on the point of honour. 

"They ask us to 'hold out', " exclaims the laundress of the rue de Jouy;"as if we'd ever done anything else all our lives!"

These people were capable of the prodigious. They have achieved themiraculous!

With the father gone to the front, his pay-roll evaporated, it was acase of stop and think. Of course, there was the "Separation fee, "about twenty-five cents a day for the mother, ten cents for each child. The French private received but thirty cents _a month_ at the beginningof the war. The outlook was anything but cheerful, the possibility ofmaking ends meet more than doubtful. So work it was--or rather, extrawork. Eyes were turned towards the army as a means of livelihood. With so many millions mobilised, the necessity for shirts, underwear, uniforms, etc. , became evident. 

Three or four mothers grouped together and made application for threeor four hundred shirts. The mornings were consecrated to house work, which must be done in spite of all, the children kept clean and thefood well prepared. But from one o'clock until midnight much might beaccomplished; and much was. 

The ordinary budget for a woman of the working class consists inearning sufficient to feed, clothe, light and heat the family, besidessupplying the soldier husband with tobacco and a monthly parcel ofgoodies. Even the children have felt the call, and after school, whichlasts from eight until four, little girls whose legs must ache fromdangling, sit patiently on chairs removing bastings, or sewing onbuttons, while their equally tiny brothers run errands, or watch to seethat the soup does not boil over. 

Then when all is done, when with all one's heart one has laboured andpaid everything and there remains just enough to send a money-order tothe _poilu_, there is still a happiness held in reserve--a delight askeen as any one can feel in such times; i. E. , the joy of knowing thatthe "Separation fee" has not been touched. It is a really and trulyincome; it is a dividend as sound as is the State! It has almostbecome a recompense. 

[Illustration: VIEW OF ST. GERVAIS FROM MADAME HUARD'S PARIS HOME(BOMBARDED BY GERMAN SUPER CANNON, APRIL, 1918)]

What matter now the tears, the mortal anxieties that it may have cost?For once again, to quote the laundress of the rue de Jouy--

"Trials? Why, we'd have had them anyway, even if there hadn't been awar!"

In these times of strictest economy, it would perhaps be interesting togo deeper into the ways of those untiring thrifty ants who seem to knowhow "To cut a centime in four" and extract the quintessence from abone. My concierge is a precious example for such a study, havingdiscovered a way of bleaching clothes without boiling, and numerousrecipes for reducing the high cost of living to almost nothing. 

It was in her lodge that I was first introduced to a drink made fromash leaves, and then tasted another produced by mixing hops andviolets, both to me being equally as palatable as certain brands ofgrape juice. 

Butter, that unspeakable luxury, she had replaced by a savoury mixtureof tried out fats from pork and beef kidney, seasoned with salt, pepper, allspice, thyme and laurel, into which at cooling was stirred aglass of milk. Not particularly palatable on bread but as a seasoningto vegetable soup, that mighty French stand-by, I found it mostexcellent. Believe me, I've tried it!

Jam has long been prepared with honey, and for all other sweeteningpurposes she used a syrup of figs that was not in the leastdisagreeable. The ration of one pound of sugar per person a month, andbrown sugar at that, does not go very far. 

The cold season is the chief preoccupation of all Parisians, and untilone has spent a war winter in the capital he is incapable of realisingwhat can be expected from a scuttle full of coal. 

First of all, one commences by burning it for heating purposes, rejoicing in every second of its warmth and glow. One invites one'sfriends to such a gala! Naturally the coal dust has been left at thebottom of the recipient, the sack in which it was delivered is wellshaken for stray bits, and this together with the sittings is mixedwith potter's clay and sawdust, which latter has become a mostappreciable possession in our day. The whole is then stirred togetherand made into bricks or balls, which though they burn slowly, burnsurely. 

The residue of this combustible is still so precious, that whengathered up, ground anew with paper and sawdust, and at lengthamalgamated with a mucilaginous water composed of soaked flax-seed, onefinally obtains a kind of pulp that one tries vainly to make ignite, but which obstinately refuses to do so, though examples to the contraryhave been heard of. 

The fireless cooker has opened new horizons, for, of course, there isstill enough gas to start the heating. But none but the wealthy canafford such extravagance, so each one has invented his own model. Myconcierge's husband is renowned for his ingenuity in this particularbranch, and people from the other side of the Isle St. Louis, or therue St. Antoine take the time to come and ask his advice. It seems tome he can make fireless cookers out of almost anything. Antiquatedwood chests, hat boxes, and even top hats themselves have been utilisedin his constructions. 

"These are real savings-banks for heat"--he explains pompously--for heloves to tackle the difficult--even adjectively. His shiny bald pateis scarce covered by a Belgian fatigue cap, whose tassel bobs in theold man's eyes, and when he carried his long treasured gold to thebank, he refused to take its equivalent in notes. It was necessary tohave recourse to the principal cashier, who assured him that if Franceneeded money she would call upon him first. Then and then only wouldhe consent to accept. 

He is a Lorrainer--a true Frenchman, who in the midst of all thesorrows brought on by the conflict, has known two real joys: the firstwhen his son was promoted and made lieutenant on the battle field; thesecond when his friends the Vidalenc and the Lemots made up a quarrelthat had lasted over twelve years. 

"I was in a very embarrassing position, " he explained, "for I held bothfamilies in equal esteem. Fortunately the war came and settledmatters. When I say fortunately, of course, you understand, Madame, what I mean. '_A quelquechose malheur est bon_. '"

And in truth the original cause of difference between the Lemots, drapers, and the Vidalenc, coal and wood dealers, had been lost in thedepths of time. But no hate between Montague and Capulet was ever morebitter. The gentle flame of antipathy was constantly kept kindled by aglance in passing, a half audible sneer, and if the Vidalenc chose theday of the White Sale to hang out and beat their stock of coal sacks, one might be certain that the Lemots would be seized with a fit ofcleanliness on the coldest of winter days, and would play the hose upand down the street in the freezing air about an hour or so before theVidalencs would have to unload their coal wagons. 

The younger generation, on leaving school every afternoon, would alsosee to it that the family feud be properly recognised, and many andbitter were the mutual pummelings. 

Reconciliation seemed an impossibility, and yet both were hardworking, honest families, economical and gracious, rejoicing in the friendshipof the entire quarter, who, of course, were much pained by thesituation. 

Even the mobilisation failed to bring a truce and the unforgettablewords of "Sacred Unity" fell upon arid ground. 

But how strange, mysterious and far reaching are the designs ofProvidence. Young Vidalenc was put into a regiment that was brigadedwith the one to which belonged Monsieur Lemot. 

The two men met "Out there, " and literally fell into each other's arms. 

A letter containing a description of this event arrived in the twoshops at almost the same moment. That is to say the postman first wentto Father Vidalenc's, but by the time the old man had found hisspectacles, Madame Lemot had received her missive, and both werepractically read at once. Then came the dash for the other's shop, thepaper waving wildly in the air. 

Of course, they met in the street, stopped short, hesitated, collapsed, wept and embraced, to the utter amazement of the entire quarter whofeared not only that something fatal had happened, but also for theirmental safety. 

Later in the day the news got abroad, and by nightfall every one hadheard that Father Vidalenc had washed Madame Lemot's store windows, andthat Madame Lemot had promised to have an eye to Vidalenc's accounts, which had been somewhat abandoned since the departure of his son. 

When Lemot returned on furlough there was a grand dinner given in hishonour at Vidalenc's, and when Vidalenc dined at Lemot's, it wasassuredly amusing to see the latter's children all togged out in theirSunday best, a tri-colour bouquet in hand, waiting on their doorstep togreet and conduct the old man. 

Unfortunately there was no daughter to give in matrimony so that theymight marry and live happily ever after. But on my last trip home Icaught a glimpse of an unknown girlish face behind Madame Lemot'scounter, and somebody told me it was her niece. 

It would not only be unfair, but a gross error on my part to attempt todepict life in our quarter without mentioning one of the most notableinhabitants--namely Monsieur Alexandre Clouet, taylor, so read the signover the door of the shop belonging to this pompous little person--whoclosed that shop on August 2nd, 1914, and rallied to the colours. Butunlike the vulgar herd he did not scribble in huge chalk letters allover the blinds--"The boss has joined the army. " No, indeed, not he!

Twenty four hours later appeared a most elaborate meticulous sign whichannounced:

 MONSIEUR CLOUET

 wishes to inform his numerous customers that he has joined the ranks of the 169th infantry, and shall do his duty as a Frenchman. 

His wife returned to her father's home, and it was she who pasted upthe series of neat little bulletins. First we read:

 MONSIEUR CLOUET

 is in the trenches but his health is excellent. 

 He begs his customers and friends to send him news of themselves. Postal Sector 24X. 

I showed the little sign to my friends who grew to take an interest inMonsieur Clouet's personal welfare, and passing by his shop they wouldcopy down the latest news and forward it to me, first at Villiers, andafterwards to the States. 

It is thus that I learned that Monsieur Clouet, gloriously wounded, hadbeen cared for at a hospital in Cahors, and later on that he hadrecovered, rejoined his depot and finally returned to the front. 

One of my first outings during my last trip sent me in the direction ofMonsieur Clouet's abode. I was decidedly anxious to know what hadbecome of him. To my surprise I found the shop open, but a hugeannouncement hung just above the entrance. 

 MONSIEUR CLOUET

 gloriously wounded and decorated with the Military Medal, regrets to state that in future it will be impossible for him to continue giving his personal attention to his business. 

 His wife and his father-in-law will hereafter combine their efforts to give every satisfaction to his numerous customers. 

I entered. For the moment the wife and the father-in-law werecombining their efforts to convince a very stout, elderly gentlemanthat check trousers would make him look like a sylph. 

"Ah, Madame, what a surprise, " she cried, on seeing me. 

"But your husband?" I queried. "Is it really serious--do tell me!"

"Alas, Madame, he says he'll never put his foot in the shop again. Yousee he's very sensitive since he was scalped, and he's afraid somebodymight know he has to wear a wig!"

VI

The Boche aeroplane was by no means a novelty to the Parisian. Itsfirst apparitions over the capital (1914) were greeted with curiousenthusiasm, and those who did not have a field glass handy at the time, later on satisfied their curiosity by a visit to the Invalides, whereevery known type of enemy machine was displayed in the broad court-yard. 

The first Zeppelin raid (April 15th, 1915) happened toward midnight, and resulted in a good many casualties, due not to the bombs dropped bythe enemy, but to the number of colds and cases of pneumonia andbronchitis caught by the pajama-clad Parisian, who rushed out halfcovered, to see the sight, thoughtlessly banging his front door behindhim. 

But the first time that we were really driven to take shelter in thecellar was after dinner at the home of a friend who lives in anapartment house near the Avenue du Bois. We were enjoying an impromptuconcert of chamber music, when the alarm was given, swiftly followed bydistant but very distinct detonations, which made hesitation becomeimprudence. 

The descent to the basement was accomplished without undue haste, orextraordinary commotion, save for an old Portuguese lady and herdaughter who lost their heads and unconsciously gave us a comicinterlude, worthy of any first-class movie. 

Roused from her sleep, the younger woman with self preservationuppermost in her mind, had slipped on an outer garment, grabbed thefirst thing she laid her hands on, and with hair streaming over herback, dashed down five long flights of stairs. 

At the bottom she remembered her mother, let forth an awful shriek, andstill holding her bottle of tooth wash in her hands, jumped into thelift and started in search of her parent. 

In the meantime, the latter on finding her daughter's bed empty, hadstarted towards the lower floors, crossing the upward bound lift, whichMademoiselle was unable to stop. 

Screams of terror, excited sentences in Portuguese--in which both gavedirections that neither followed, and for a full ten minutes mother anddaughter raced up and down in the lift and on the stairway, tryingvainly to join one another. 

A young lieutenant home on leave, at length took pity on them andfinally united the two exhausted creatures who fell into each other'sarms shrieking hysterically:

"If we must die--let us die together!"

The concierges and the servants began arranging chairs and camp stoolsaround the furnace; the different tenants introduced themselves andtheir guests. Almost every one was still about when the signal wasgiven, and this cellar where the electric lamps burned brightly soontook on the aspect of a drawing-room, in spite of all. One lone man, however, stood disconsolate, literally suffocating beneath a hugecavalry cape, hooked tight up to his throat. As the perspiration soonbegan rolling from his forehead, a friend seeking to put him at hisease, suggested he open up his cloak. 

The gentleman addressed cast a glance over the assembled group, broadened out into a smile, and exclaimed--

"I can't. Only got my night shirt underneath. "

The hilarity was general, and the conversation presently became brightand sparkling with humorous anecdotes. 

The officers held their audience spellbound with fear and admiration;the women talked hospital and dress, dress and hospital, finallyjesting about the latest restrictions. One lady told the story of afriend who engaged a maid, on her looks and without a reference, thewhich maid shortly became a menace because of her propensity fordropping and breaking china. 

One day, drawn towards the pantry by the sound of a noise more terriblethan any yet experienced, she found the girl staring at a whole pile ofplates--ten or a dozen--which had slipped from her fingers and lay inthousands of pieces on the floor. 

The lady became indignant and scolded. 

"Ah, if Madame were at the front, she'd see worse than that!" was theconsoling response. 

"But we're not at the front, I'll have you understand, and what's moreneither you nor I have ever been there, my girl. "

"I beg Madame's pardon, but my last place was in a hospital at Verdun, as Madame will see when my papers arrive. "

General laughter was cut short by the sound of two explosions. 

"They're here. They've arrived. It will soon be over now, " and likecommentaries were added. 

A servant popped the cork of a champagne bottle, and another passedcakes and candied fruit. 

An elderly man who wore a decoration, approached the officers. 

"Gentlemen, " said he, "excuse me for interrupting, but do any of youknow the exact depth to which an aeroplane bomb can penetrate?"

The officers gave him a few details, which, however, did not seem tosatisfy the old fellow. His anxiety became more and more visible. 

"I wouldn't worry, sir, if I were you. There's absolutely no dangerdown here. "

"Thank you for your assurance, Messieurs, " said he, "but I'm not in theleast anxious about my personal safety. It's my drawings and mycollection of porcelains that are causing me such concern. I thoughtonce that I'd box them all up and bring them down here. But you nevercan tell what dampness or change of temperature might do to a watercolour or a gouache. Oh! my poor Fragonards! My poor Bouchers!Gentlemen, never, never collect water colours or porcelains! Take itfrom me!"

At that moment the bugle sounded--"All's well, " and as we werepreparing to mount the stairs, the old man accosted the officers anew, asking them for the titles of some books on artillery and fortification. 

"That all depends to what use you wish to apply them. "

"Ah, it's about protecting my collection. I simply must do something!I can't send them to storage, they wouldn't be any safer there, andeven if they were I'd die of anxiety so far away from my preciousbelongings. "

"Good-nights" were said in the vestibule, and the gathering dispersedjust as does any group of persons after a theatre or an ordinaryreception. But once in the street, it was absolutely useless to eventhink of a taxi. People were pouring from every doorway, heads stuckout of every window. 

"Where did they fall? Which way?"

In the total obscurity, the sound of feet all hurrying in the samedirection, accompanied by shouts of recognition, even ripples oflaughter, seemed strangely gruesome, as the caravan of curious hastenedtowards the scene of tragedy. 

"No crowds allowed. Step lively, " called the _sergeants-de-ville_, attheir wits' end. "Better go back home, they might return. Steplively, I say!"

It happened thus the first few visits, but presently the situationbecame less humorous. One began to get accustomed to it. Then onecommenced to dislike it and protest. 

Seated by the studio fire, we were both plunged deep in our books. 

"_Allons_!" exclaimed H. "Do you hear the _pompiers_? The Gothasagain!"

We stiffened up in our chairs and listened. The trumpets soundedshrilly on the night air of our tranquil Parisian quarter. 

"Right you are. That means down we go! They might have waited until Ifinished my chapter, hang them! There's no electricity in our cellar, "and I cast aside my book in disgust. 

Taking our coats and a steamer rug we prepared to descend. In thecourt-yard the clatter of feet resounded. 

The cellar of our seventeenth century dwelling being extremely deep andsolidly built, was at once commandeered as refuge for one hundredpersons in case of bombardment, and we must needs share it with someninety odd less fortunate neighbours. 

"Hurry up there. Hurry up, I say, " calls a sharp nasal voice. 

That voice belonged to Monsieur Leddin, formerly a clock maker, but nowof the _Service Auxiliare_, and on whom devolved the policing of ourentire little group, simply because of his uniform. 

His observations, however, have but little effect. People comestraggling along, yawning from having been awakened in their firstsleep, and almost all of them is hugging a bundle or parcel containinghis most precious belongings. 

It is invariably an explosion which finally livens their gait, and theyhurry into the stairway. A slight jam is thus produced. 

"No pushing there! Order!" cries another stentorian voice, belongingto Monsieur Vidalenc, the coal dealer. 

"Here! here!" echo several high pitched trebles. "_Très bien, trèsbien_. Follow in line--what's the use of crowding?"

Monsieur Leddin makes another and still shriller effort, calling fromabove:

"Be calm now. Don't get excited. "

"Who's excited?"

"You are!"

"Monsieur Leddin, you're about as fit to be a soldier as I to be anArchbishop, " sneered the butcher's wife. "You'd do better to leave usalone and hold your peace. "

General hilarity, followed by murmurs of approval from various otherfemales, which completely silenced Monsieur Leddin, who never reopenedhis mouth during the entire evening, so that one could not tell whetherhe was nursing his offended dignity or hiding his absolute incompetenceto assume authority. 

Places were quickly found on two or three long wooden benches, and afew chairs provided for the purpose, some persons even spreading outblankets and camping on the floor. 

The raiment displayed was the typical negligée of the Parisian workingclass; a dark coloured woollen dressing gown, covered over with a shawlor a cape, all the attire showing evidence of having been hastilydonned with no time to think of looking in the mirror. 

An old lantern and a kerosene lamp but dimly lighted the groups whichwere shrouded in deep velvety shadows. 

Presently a man, a man that I had never seen before, a man with a longemaciated face and dark pointed beard, rose in the background, holdinga blanket draped about him by flattening his thin white hand againsthis breast. The whole scene seemed almost biblical, and instantly mymind evoked Rembrandt's masterpiece--the etching called 'The HundredFlorin Piece, ' which depicts the crowds seated about the standingfigure of our Saviour and listening to His divine words. 

But the spell was quickly broken when an instant later my visioncoughed and called--

"Josephine, did you bring down the 'Petit Parisien, ' as I told you?"

Ten or fifteen minutes elapsed, and then a rather distant explosiongave us reason to believe that the enemy planes were retiring. 

"_Jamais de la vie_! No such luck to-night. Why we've got a goodcouple of hours ahead of us, just like last time. You'll see! Muchbetter to make yourself as comfortable as possible and not lose anysleep over it. "

The tiny babies had scarcely waked at all, and peacefully continued toslumber on their mothers' knees, or on improvised cots made from ablanket or comforter folded to several thicknesses. 

The women soon yawned, and leaning their backs against the wall noddedregularly in spite of their efforts not to doze off, and each time, surprised by the sudden shock of awakening would shudder and groanunconsciously. 

Tightly clasped in their hands, or on the floor between their feet laya bag which never got beyond their reach, to which they clung assomething sacred. Certain among them were almost elegant in their greylinen covers. Others had seen better days, while still others datedback to the good old times of needlework tapestry. There were carpet, kit and canvas bags, little wooden chests with leather handles, and onepoor old creature carefully harboured a card-board box tied about witha much knotted string. 

What did they all contain? In France amid such a gathering it weresafe to make a guess. 

First of all, the spotless family papers--cherished documentsregistering births, deaths and marriages. A lock of hair, a babytooth, innumerable faded photographs, a bundle of letters, a scrap ofpaper whereon are scrawled the last words of a departed hero, and waydown underneath, neatly separated from all the rest, I feel quite surethe little family treasure lies hidden. Yes, here is that handful ofstocks and bonds, thanks to which their concierge bows to them withrespect; those earnings that permit one to fall ill, to face old ageand death without apprehension, the assurance the children shall wantfor nothing, shall have a proper education--the certitude that the twolittle rooms occupied can really be called home; that the furniture socarefully waxed and polished is one's own forever. Bah! what terrorscan lack of work, food shortage, or war hold for such people? Thusarmed can they not look the horrid spectres square in the face? Theworst will cost but one or two blue bank notes borrowed from the littlepile, but because of the comfort they have brought they will bereplaced all the more gayly when better days shall come. 

All this ran through my brain as I watched those hands--big and small, fat and thin, young and old, clasping their treasure so tightly, and Icouldn't help feeling that gigantic convulsive gesture of thousands ofother women, who all over the great Capital at that same moment werehugging so lovingly their little all; the fruit of so much toil and somuch virtue. 

My reflections were cut short by a deafening noise that roused mysleeping companions. The children shrieked, and the women openlylamented. 

"That was a close call, " commented Monsieur Neu, our concierge. 

Five or six boys wanted to rush out and see where the bomb had fallen. They were dissuaded, but with difficulty. 

An elderly man had taken his six year old grandson on to his knee, andthat sleepy little Parisian urchin actually clapped his hands andcrowed over the shock. 

"Jiminy, that was a fine one!"

"That's right, my child, " pompously exclaimed the grandsire. "Never, never forget the monsters who troubled your innocent sleep with theirinfamous crimes. "

"Oh, cut it out, grandpop, " was the somewhat irreverent reply. "Aren'tyou afraid you might miss forty winks?" and then turning to his mother, "I say, mamma, if one of them lands on our house, you promise you'llwake me up, won't you? I want to see everything, and last time and thetime before, I missed it!"

"Yes, darling, of course, but go to sleep, there's a good boy. "

A tall, good-looking girl over in one corner openly gave vent to hersentiments. 

"The idiots! the idiots! if they think they can scare us that way!They'd far better not waste their time, and let us sleep. It isn't abit funny any more, and I've got to work just the same to-morrow, Bocheor no Boche!"

Two rickety old creatures clasped each other in arms, and demanded intrembling voices if there was any real danger! This produced a rippleof merriment. 

Monsieur Duplan, the butcher, then asked the ladies' permission tosmoke, the which permission was graciously accorded. 

"Why, if I'd only thought, I'd have brought down another lamp and mywork. It's too bad to waste so much time. "

"I have my knitting. You don't need any light for that. "

"Where on earth did you get wool? How lucky you are!"

From Monsieur Leddin's lips now rose a loud and sonorous snore. 

"Decidedly that man is possessed of all the charms, " giggled asarcastic neighbour. 

"Yes, it must be a perfect paradise to live with such an angel, and tofeel that you've got him safe at home till the end of the war. I don'twonder his poor little wife took the children and went to Burgundy. "

"Why isn't he at the front?" hissed some one in a whisper. 

"Yes--why?"

"There are lots less healthy men than he out there. The fat oldplumber who lived on the rue de Jouy, and who can hardly breathe, wastaken----"

"And the milkman who passed a hundred and three medical inspections andfinally had to go. "

"If you think my husband is overstrong, you're mistaken. "

"And mine, Madame, how about him?"

Something told me that Monsieur Leddin's fate was hanging in thebalance on this eventful evening. 

"Shake him up, Monsieur Neu, he doesn't need to sleep if we can't. We've all got to work to-morrow and he can take a nice long nap at hisdesk. "

"Oh, leave him alone, " put in Monsieur Laurent, the stationer, who wasseated near me. "Just listen to those fiendish women. Why they'reworse than we are about the slackers. After all, I keep telling themthere must be a few, otherwise who's going to write history? Andhistory's got to be written, hasn't it?"

"Most decidedly, " I replied. 

And having at length found a subject of conversation that I had deignedapprove, he continued, "Just think of what all the poor kids in generations to come will haveto cram into their heads! The names of all the battles on all theFronts and the dates. It makes me dizzy! I'm glad it's not up to me. I like history all well enough, but I'd rather make it than have tolearn it. "

Monsieur Laurent did not speak lightly. He had veritably helped tomake history, having left his right foot and part of his leg "Outthere" on the hills of Verdun. 

I asked him how he was getting along since his return. 

"Better than ever! Excellent appetite--never a cold--never an ill. I'll soon be as spry as a rabbit. Why, I used to be too heavy, Ialways fell asleep after luncheon. That campaign set my blood torights. I'm ten years younger, " he exclaimed, pounding his chest. 

"That's a good strong-box, isn't it?" and he coughed loudly tothoroughly convince of its solidity. 

"France can still count on me! I was ready for war, and I shall beprepared for peace. "

"Just wait till it gets here, " murmured some woman. 

[Illustration: THE COURTYARD LEADING TO MADAME HUARD'S CELLAR]

"It'll come, it's bound to come some time, " he cried, evidentlypursuing a favourite theme. "And we'll like it all the better forhaving waited so long. "

Monsieur Laurent has firm faith in the immediate business future. 

"_Voilà_! all we've got to do is to lay Germany out flat. Even thenthe economical struggle that will follow the war will be terrible, " heprophesies. "The French must come to the fore with all the resourcesof their national genius. As to myself, I have my own idea on thesubject. "

We were fairly drinking in his words. 

"You've all doubtless seen the sign that I put up in my window?"

We acquiesced. 

"Well, it was that sign that opened my eyes. "

I was all attention by this time, for I distinctly remembered the abovementioned sign. It had puzzled and amused me immensely. Painted inbrilliant letters, it ran as follows:

 _EXCEPTIONAL BARGAIN:_

 _For men having their left foot amputated and wearing size No. 9. 3 shoes for the right foot--two black and one tan; excellent quality, almost like new. For sale, or exchange for shoes belonging to the left foot. Must be of same quality and in like condition. _

"I haven't yet made any special effort to ascertain whether there aremore amputations of the left than of the right foot, " continuedMonsieur Laurent; "I suppose it's about equal. Well, my plan is justthis. As soon as there's peace I'm going to set up shop on the rue St. Antoine, or the Place de la Bastille. I'll call it 'A la botte del'amputé, ' and I sell my shoes separately instead of in pairs. There'sa fortune in it inside of five years. "

"Just hear him raving, " sighed his wife. "You know well enough, Laurent, that just so soon as the war is over we're going to sell out, and with the money, your pension, and what we've saved up, we'll go outto the Parc St. Maur, buy a little cottage and settle down. I'll raisea few chickens and some flowers, and you can go fishing in the Seineall day long. "

"But the economical struggle?"

"You let the economical struggle take care of itself. Now, with yourmad idea, just suppose those who had a right foot all wanted tan shoes, and those who had a left couldn't stand anything but black? I'd liketo know where you'd be then? Stranger things than that have happened. "

Laurent gazed at his wife in admiration. 

"With all your talk about the future, it seems to me we've been downhere a long time since that last explosion. "

One woman looked for her husband but could not find him. The RembrandtChristhead had also disappeared. 

A tall fifteen year old lad who stood near the door informed us thatthey had slipped out to see. 

"So has Germain. "

"Then you come here! Don't you dare leave me, " scolded the mother. "Can you just see something happening to him with his father out therein the trenches?"

Monsieur Neu and two other men soon followed suit. 

The big boy who had so recently been admonished managed to crawl frombeneath his mother's gaze and make his escape. 

"If ever I catch him, he'll find out what my name is, " screamed theexcited woman, dashing after him into the darkness. 

Then, presently, one by one we took our way towards the hall, and thecellar seemed empty. 

The tall boy came back to the entrance, all excitement. 

"We saw where it fell!" he panted. "There are some wounded. Thepolice won't let you go near. There's lots and lots of people outthere. Where's mamma?"

"She's looking for you!"

He was off with a bound. 

The instinct to see, to know what is going on is infinitely strongerthan that of self preservation. Many a soldier has told me that, and Ihave often had occasion to prove it personally. 

Some of the women started towards the street. 

"We're only going as far as the door, " said they by way of excuse. "You're really quite safe beneath the portico. " And they carried theirbabies with them. 

So when the final signal of safety was sounded, there remained belowbut a few old women, a couple of very small children, and MonsieurLeddin, whom nothing seemed to disturb. 

The mothers returned to fetch their children. The old ladies andMonsieur Leddin were aroused. 

"_C'est fini_! _Ah_!"

And in the courtyard one could hear them calling as they dispersed. 

"Good-night, Madame Cocard. "

"Good-night, Madame Bidon. "

"Don't forget. "

"I won't. "

"Till next time. "

"That's it, till next time. "

A young woman approached me. 

"Madame, you won't mind if I come after them to-morrow, would you?" shebegged with big wistful eyes. "The stairway is so dark and so narrowin our house, I'm afraid something might happen to them. "

"Mercy me! you're surely not thinking of leaving your babies alone inthe cellar?"

"Oh, Madame, it's not my babies. Not yet, " and she smiled. "It's mybronze chimney ornaments!"

"Your what?"

"Yes, Madame, my chimney ornaments. A clock and a pair ofcandlesticks. They're over there in that wooden box all done upbeautifully. You see Lucien and I got married after the war began. Itwas all done so quickly that I didn't have any trousseau or weddingpresents. I'm earning quite a good deal now, and I don't want him tothink ill of me so I'm furnishing the house, little by little. It's asurprise for when he comes home. "

"He's at the front?"

"No, Madame, in the hospital. He has a bad face wound. My, how itworried him. He wanted to die, he used to be so handsome! See, here'shis photograph. He isn't too awfully ugly, is he? Anyway I don't lovehim a bit less; quite the contrary, and that's one of the very reasonswhy I want to fix things up--so as to prove it to him!"

VII

The Moulin Rouge no longer turns. The strains of sounding brass andtinkling cymbal which once issued incessantly from every open café, andtogether with the street cries, the tram bells and the motor horns ofthe Boulevards Exterieurs, formed a gigantic characteristic medley, have long since died away. The night restaurants are now turned intoworkrooms and popular soup kitchens. Montmartre, the heart of Paris, as it used to be called, Montmartre the care-free, has become drawn andwizened as a winter apple, and at present strangely resembles a littleprovincial city. 

If it were true that "There is no greater sorrow than recalling happytimes when in misery, " doubtless from France would rise but one longforlorn wail. The stoic Parisian _poilu_, however, has completelyreversed such philosophy, and unmindful of the change his absence hascreated, delights in the remembrance of every instant, dreams but ofthe moment when he shall again be part of the light-hearted throngs whocomposed the society of the Butte. Time and again I have seen heavyarmy trucks lumbering down the avenue, bearing in huge chalk letters oneither side of the awning-covered sides, such inscriptions as--_Bonjour, Montmartre. A bientot la Cigale--Greetings from the Front_--andlike nonsense, denoting not only a homesick heart, but a delicateattention towards a well beloved. 

A few months might have made but little difference, but each succeedingyear of war has brought indelible changes. Gone forever, I fear, arethe evenings when after dinner at the Cuckoo, we would stand on thebalcony and watch the gradual fairy-like illumination of the panoramathat stretched out before us. The little restaurant has closed itsdoors, but the vision from the terrace is perhaps more majestic, for asthe last golden rays of twilight disappear, a deep purple vapour risingfrom the unknown, rolls forward and mysteriously envelops the _VilleLumière_ in its sumptuous protecting folds. Alone, overhead the starlamp of a scout plane is the only visible light. 

The old Moulin de la Galette has cast aside its city airs and taken ona most rural aspect, while the _maquis_, or jungle on whose site awhole new white stone quarter had been projected, is now but a mass ofhalf finished, abandoned foundations, wherein the children of theentire neighbourhood gather to play at the only game which now has avogue, i. E. , "War. "

_La petite guerre_ they call it. 

We came upon them quite by accident one afternoon, and discovered twohostile bands occupying first line trenches. 

Of course, as no one wished to be the Boche, it looked for a time asthough the campaign would have to be deferred, but so violent was thelove of fray that it was soon decided that the _opposite_ side in bothcases would be considered Hun, and thus the difficulty was solved. 

It goes without saying that the school which is first dismissedoccupies the better positions. The others must rely upon theirstrength and valour to win out. 

The first attack was with hand grenades in the form of pebbles. Patrols advanced into No Man's Land, crawling and crouching until witha yell the belligerents met. Prisoners were taken on both sides. 

"What forces have we in front of us?" demanded an important lookingtwelve year old General of an enemy soldier who was brought before him. 

Dead silence ensued. 

"If he refuses to answer, turn him upside down until he does. "

The order was executed. 

From the opposite trench came shrieks of "Boche! Boche!--it's only theBoche who maltreat prisoners. "

The aforementioned who was rapidly developing cerebral congestion, madesign that he would speak. 

"Turn him right side up!"

The young executioner obeyed, but still held a firm grip on theunfortunate lad's collar. 

"Now, then, how many of you are there in your trenches?"

"Enough to make jelly out of your men if there are many like you!"shrieked the captive, struggling to escape. 

"Take him behind the lines, don't be rough with him. Respect is dueall prisoners, " ordered the General, whose eye had caught a glimpse ofhis army being menaced by the blond headed enemy. 

"Look out, boys! Down with your heads! They're sending over some'coal scuttles. ' Dig in I say and keep a sharp look out! What's thematter back there?"

"It's little Michaud. He's wounded!"

"Don't cry, Michaud, go out by the connecting trench to the dressingstation. It's not far. "

The hail of "coal scuttles" having subsided, the General mounted to hisobservation post. 

"Hey! Michel! Gaston! hey there, the artillery!" he yelled. "Get inat them quick. Go to it, I say. Don't you see they're going toattack! What's artillery for, anyway?"

"We can't fire a shot. They're pounding on our munitions dump. "

"What difference does that make?"

Under heavy fire the artillery achieved the impossible, which actuallyresulted in bloodshed. But their determination was soon rewarded, forthe patent "Seventy Fives, " represented by huge slabs of sod, soonrained into the enemy trenches, sowing panic and disorder. 

Profiting by the confusion, our General grabbed up a basket and begandistributing munitions. 

"Attention! Listen to me! Don't any one fire until I give the word. Let them approach quite close and then each one of you choose your man. Dentu, if you're too short, stand on a stone or something!"

The artillery wreaking havoc in his midst, the enemy decided to brusquematters and attack. He left his trenches shouting, "_Vive la France!En avant! Aux armes, mes citoyens! A bas le Boche!_"

"Attention! Are you ready? Fire!" commanded our General. 

Bing! bang! a veritable tornado of over-ripe tomatoes deluged theastonished oncomers, who hesitated an instant and then fell back. Thestandard bearer having received one juicy missile full in the face, dropped his emblem and stared wild-eyed about him. From the head andhair of the enemy General, whose cardboard helmet had been crushed to apulp, streamed a disgusting reddish mess. The other unfortunatewounded were weeping. 

"_En avant à la bayonette_! _Vive la France_! We've got them, they'reours, " shrieked the delighted commander, who owed his rank to the factthat his parents kept a fruit stand. 

It was victory for certain, and a proudly won triumph. The mêlée washot and ferocious, many a patch or darn being put in store for certainpatient, all-enduring mothers. 

The dressing station was full to overflowing. Here the feminineelement reigned supreme, their heads eclipsed beneath a stolen dishcloth, a borrowed towel, or a grimy handkerchief. And here too, littleMichaud, his pate enveloped in so many yards of bandage that he seemedto be all turban, sat on an impromptu cot, smiling benignly whiledevouring a three sou apple tart, due to the generosity of the Ladies'Red Cross Emergency Committee, which had taken up a collection in orderto alleviate the sufferings of their dear hero. 

To be perfectly frank, almost all the supply of dressings had beenemployed on Michaud's person at the very outbreak of hostilities, so, therefore, when the stock ran short and more were needed, they weremerely unrolled from about his head. 

Leaving him to his fate, we advanced a bit in order to communicate withone of the glorious vanquished. 

"They think they've got us, " he explained, "but just you wait and see!I know a shop on the Avenue de Clichy where you can get rotten eggs fornothing! They don't know what's coming to them--they don't!"

Thus for these little folks the very state of their existence is thewar. They do not talk about it because they are living it. Even thosewho are so fortunate as to recall the happy times when there was noconflict, scarcely assume a superiority over their comrades who cannotremember that far distant epoch. 

"My papa'll be home next week on furlough if there isn't an attack, " or"Gee, how we laughed down cellar the night of the bombardment, " arecommon phrases, just as the words, "guns, shells, aeroplanes and gas, "form the very elements of their education. The better informedinstruct the others, and it is no uncommon occurrence to see a group offive or six little fellows hanging around a doorway, listening to agratuitous lecture on the 75, given by an elder. 

"That's not true, " cuts in one. "It's not that at all, the_correcteur_ and the _debouchoir_ are not the same thing. Not by along sight! I ought to know, hadn't I, my father's chief gunner in hisbattery. "

"Ah, go on! Didn't Mr. Dumont who used to teach the third grade, drawit all out for us on the blackboard the last time he was home on leave?What do you take us for? Why he's even got the _Croix de Guerre_ andthe 'Bananna. '" [1]

Nor is the _communiqué_ ignored by these budding heroes. On thecontrary, it is read and commented upon with fervour. 

In a little side street leading to the Seine, I encountered a ten yearold lad, dashing forward, brandishing the evening paper in his hand. 

"Come on, kids, it's time for the _communiqué_, " he called to a coupleof smaller boys who were playing on the opposite curb. The childrenaddressed (one may have been five, the other seven, or thereabouts)immediately abandoned their marbles, and hastened to join theircompanion, who breathlessly unfolded the sheet. 

"Artillery combats in Flanders----" he commenced. 

The little fellows opened their big candid eyes, their faces were drawnand grave, in an intense effort of attention. Their mouths gapedunconsciously. One felt their desire to understand, to grasp thingsthat were completely out of reach. 

"During the night a spirited attack with hand grenades in the region ofthe Four de Paris, " continued the reader. "We progressed slightly tothe East of Mort Homme, and took an element of trenches. We capturedtwo machine guns, and made several prisoners. "

"My papa's in Alsace, " piped one listener. 

"And mine's in the Somme. "

"That's all right, " inferred the elder. "Isn't mine at Verdun?" andthen proudly, "And machine gunner at that!"

Then folding his paper and preparing to move on:

"The news is good--we should worry. "

Yes, that's what the little ones understood best of all, "the news isgood, " and a wonderful, broad, angelic smile spread out over theirfresh baby faces; a smile so bewitching that I couldn't resistembracing them--much to their surprise. 

[Illustration: A COURTYARD IN MONTMARTRE]

"I just must kiss you, " I explained, "because the news is good!"

From one end to the other of the entire social scale the children havethis self same spirit. 

Seated at the dining-room table, a big spot of violet ink on one cheek, I found little Jules Gauthier carefully copying something in a notebook. 

"What are you doing there, Jules?"

"Writing in my book, Madame. "

"What are you writing?"

"About the war, everything I can remember. "

At that particular moment he was inscribing an anecdote which he hadjust heard some one telling in his mother's drawing room. 

"The President of the Republic once asked General de Castelnau, 'Well, General, what shall you do after the war is over?'

"'Weep for my sons, Mr. President. '"

"But, Jules, why do you write such things?" I queried. 

"Because it's splendid, and I put down everything I know or hear that'sbeautiful or splendid. "

And true enough, pêle mêle with portraits he had cut out and pasted, plans for aeroplanes that he had drawn, were copies of extraordinarycitations for bravery, memorable dates and descriptions of battles. 

In the Summer of 1915, my friend Jeanne took her small baby and herdaughter Annette, aged five, to their little country home on theseashore in Brittany. The father, over military age, remained in townto look after some patriotic work. 

Help was hard to get, and Jeanne not over strong was torn betweenhousehold duties and her infant son, so that Annette, clad in a bathingsuit and sweater, spent most of her time on the beach in company withother small people of her own years. 

Astonished at seeing the little one so much alone, certain kind-heartedmothers invited her to partake of their bread, chocolate and otherdainties provided for the gouter of their own offspring, and as thechild gladly and continually accepted, her apparent abandon became asubject of conversation, and they decided to question Annette. 

"Where is your mother, dear?"

"She's home, very ill. "

"Oh, really. I'm so sorry, what's the trouble--nothing serious, Ihope?"

"I think it must be--you see she has had her three brothers killed andnow grandpa has enlisted. "

"Dear me, how terrible! And your papa?"

"Oh, he's in town working for the government. One of his brothers waskilled and the other is blind. Poor old grandma died of the shock. "

Moved by the lamentable plight of so young a mother, the good ladiessought to penetrate her seclusion, offer their condolences, and helplift the cloud of gloom. 

Imagine then their surprise at being received by my smiling, blond-haired friend, who failed to comprehend their mournful butastonished looks. 

At length Annette's story was brought to light, and Jeanne could butthank them for their trouble, at the same time explaining that neithershe nor her husband had ever had brothers, and that their parents hadbeen dead these many years. 

"You naughty, wicked girl!" scolded Jeanne, as her tearful progeny wasled forward. "You wicked, wicked girl--what made you tell such lies?"

The culprit twisted her hands; her whole body fairly convulsed withrestrained sobs. 

"Answer me at once! Do you hear me?"

Annette hesitated, and then throwing herself in her mother's arms, blurted out, "Oh, mamma, I just couldn't help it! All the others wereso proud of their _poilus_, and I haven't any one at the front; noteven a god-son!"

It seems highly probable that children who have received such aneducation will ultimately form a special generation. Poor littlethings who never knew what "play" meant, at a time when life shouldhave been all sunshine and smiles; tender, sensitive creatures broughtup in an atmosphere of privation and tears. 

Those who were between ten and fifteen years of age at the outbreak ofthe war have had a particularly hard time. 

In the smaller trades and industries, as well as on the farms, with afather or an elder brother absent, these youngsters have been obligedto leave school or college, and hasten to the counter or the plough. And not only have they been called upon to furnish the helping hand, but in times of moral stress they have often had to give proof of amature judgment, a courage, a will power, and a forebearance far beyondtheir years. 

After a ten months' absence, when I opened up my Parisian home, I foundit necessary to change or replace certain electric lightingarrangements. As usual I called up the Maison Bincteux. 

"_Bien, Madame_, I shall send some one to look after it. "

The next morning my maid announced _La Maison Bincteux_. 

When I reached the hallway, I found the aforesaid _Maison_ to be a ladsome fifteen years old, who might easily have passed for twelve, soslight was his build. His long, pale, oval face, which seemed almostunhealthy, was relieved by a pair of snapping blue eyes. 

"Did you bring a letter?"

"Oh, no, Madame, I am Monsieur Bincteux's son. "

"Then your father is coming later?"

"Oh, no, Madame, he can't, he is mechanician in the aviation corps atVerdun. My oldest brother is in the artillery, and the second one hasjust left for the front--so I quit school and am trying to help mothercontinue the business. "

"How old are you?"

"I belong to the Class of 1923, " came the proud reply. 

"Oh, I see. Come right in then, I'll show you what I need. "

With a most serious and important air he produced a note book, tappedon the partitions, sounded the walls, took measures and jotted down afew lines. 

"Very well, Madame, I've seen all that's necessary. I'll be backto-morrow morning with a workman. "

True to his word he appeared the next day, accompanied by a decrepit, coughing, asthmatic specimen of humanity, who was hardly worthy of thehonorable title his employer had seen fit to confer. 

Our studio is extremely high, and when it was necessary to stretch outand raise our double extension ladder, it seemed as though disasterwere imminent. 

We offered our assistance, but from the glance he launched us, I feltquite certain that we had mortally offended the manager of the _MaisonBincteux_. He stiffened every muscle, gave a supreme effort, and upwent the ladder. Truly his will power, his intelligence and hisactivity were remarkable. 

After surveying the undertaking, he made his calculations, and thenaddressing his aid:

"We'll have to bore here, " he said. "The wires will go through there, to the left and we'll put the switches to the right, just above; goahead with the work and I'll be back in a couple of hours. "

The old man mumbled something disobliging. 

"Do what I tell you and don't make any fuss about it. You're betteroff here than in the trenches, aren't you? We've heard enough fromyou, old slacker. "

The idea that any one dare insinuate that he ought to be at the frontat his age, fairly suffocated the aid electrician, who broke into a fitof coughing. 

"Madame, Madame, " he gasped. "In the trenches? Why I'm seventy-three. I've worked for his father and grandfather before him--but I've neverseen his like! Why only this very morning he was grumbling because Ididn't ride a bicycle so we could get to places faster!"

At noon the _Maison Bincteux_ reappeared, accompanied by the GeneralAgent of the Electric Company. He discussed matters in detail withthis awe inspiring person--objected, retaliated, and finally terminatedhis affairs, leaving us a few moments later, having accomplished thebest and most rapid job of its kind I have ever seen. 

With the Class of 1919 now behind the lines, by the time this volumegoes to press, there is little doubt but that the class of 1920 shallhave been called to the colours. All these lads are the little fellowswe used to know in short trousers; the rascals who not so many summerssince climbed to the house-tops, swung from trees, fell into the river, dropped torpedoes to frighten the horses or who when punished andlocked in their rooms, would jump out the window and escape. 

Then, there were those others, "the good boys, " whose collars and sockswere always immaculate, romantic little natures that would kiss yourhand with so much ceremony and politeness, blushing if one addressedthem affectionately, spending whole days at a time lost in fantasticreveries. 

To us they hardly seem men. And yet they are already soldiers, prepared to make the supreme sacrifice, well knowing from father, brothers or friends who have gone before, all the grandeur andabnegation through which their souls must pass to attain but anuncertain end. 

Any number of what we would call mere children have been so imbued withthe spirit of sacrifice, that they have joined the army long beforetheir Class was called. Madame de Martel's grandson, the sons ofMonsieur Barthou, Louis Morin, Pierre Mille, to mention but a few inthousands, all fell on the Field of Honour before attaining theireighteenth year. 

And each family will tell you the same pathetic tale:

"We tried to interest him in his work--we provided all kinds ofamusements; did everything to keep him here; all to no avail. Therewas just one thought uppermost in his mind--Enlist--Serve. He was allwe had!"

Little Jacques Krauss promised his mother he would not go until he hadwon his baccalaureate, and my friend lived in the hope that all wouldbe over by the time the "baby" had succeeded. But, lo! the baby, unknown to his parents, worked nights, skipped a year, passed hisexamination, and left for the front, aged seventeen years and threemonths! He had kept his word. What could they do?

In another household--my friends the G's. , where two elder sons havealready been killed, there remained as sole heir, a pale, lanky youthof sixteen. 

With the news of his brothers' death the flame of vengeance kindled, and then began a regime of overfeeding, physical exercises, and medicalsupervision, that would have made many a stouter heart quail. 

Every week the family is present when the chest measure is taken. 

"Just one more centimetre, and you'll be fit!" exclaims theenthusiastic father, while on the lashes of the smiling mother form twobright tears which trickle unheeded down her cheeks. 

There reigns a supernatural enthusiasm among all these youths; analmost sacred fire burns in their eyes, their speech is pondered butpassionate. They are so glad, so proud to go. They know but onefear--that of arriving too late. 

"We don't want to belong to the Class that didn't fight. "

And with it all they are so childlike and so simple--these heroes. 

One afternoon, in a tea room near the Bon Marché, I noticed a soldierin an obscure corner, who, his back turned to us, was finishing withvigorous appetite, a plate of fancy cakes and pastry. (There was stillpastry in those days--1917. )

"Good!" thought I. "I'm glad to see some one who loves cakes enjoyinghimself!"

The plate emptied, he waited a few minutes. Then presently he calledthe attendant. 

She leaned over, listened to his whispered order, smiled anddisappeared. A moment later she returned bearing a second well ladendish. 

It was not long before these cakes too had gone the way of theirpredecessors. 

I lingered a while anxious to see the face of this robust sweet tooth, whose appetite had so delighted me. 

He poured out and swallowed a last cup of tea, paid his bill and rose, displaying as he turned about a pink and white beardless countenance, that might have belonged to a boy of fifteen--suddenly grown to a manduring an attack of measles. On his breast was the _MedailleMilitaire_, and the _Croix de Guerre_, with three palms. 

This mere infant must have jumped from his school to an aeroplane. Atany rate, I feel quite certain that he never before had been allowedout alone with sufficient funds to gratify his youthful passion forsweetmeats and, therefore, profiting by this first occasion, hadindulged himself to the limit. Can you blame him?

[1] The "Bananna"--slang for the Medaille Militaire--probably onaccount of the green and yellow ribbon on which it hangs. 

VIII

To go from Le Mans to Falaise, from Falaise to St. Lo; from St. Lo toMorlaix, and thence to Poitiers would seem very easy on the map, andwith a motor, in times gone by it was a really royal itinerary, sovastly different and picturesque are the various regions crossed. Butnow that gasolene is handed out by the spoonful even to sanitaryformations, it would be just as easy for the civilian to procure awhite elephant as to dream of purchasing sufficient "gas" to make sucha trip. 

There is nothing to do but take the train, and that means of locomotionnot only requires time, but patience and considerable good humour. Railway service in France has been decidedly reduced, and whiletravelling is permitted only to those persons who must needs do so, thenumber of plausible motives alleged has greatly augmented, with theresult that trains are crowded to the extreme limit. To tell thetruth, a good third of the population is always moving. For how onearth is one to prevent the parents of a wounded hero from crossing theentire country to see him, or deny them the right to visit a lad at histraining camp?

This then accounts for the appearance of the Breton peasant'sberibboned hat and embroidered waistcoat on the promenades of theRiviera, the Arlesian bonnet in the depths of Normandy, the Pyrenesecap in Lorraine. 

All this heterogeneous crowd forms a long line in front of the ticketoffice, each one encumbered with a basket or a bag, a carpetsack or abundle containing patés and sausages, pastry and pickles, every knownlocal dainty which will recall the native village to the dear one sofar away. 

It is thus that from Argentan to Caën I found myself seated between astout motherly person from Auvergne, and a little dark man from whosedirection was wafted so strong an odour of garlic that I had nodifficulty discerning from what region he hailed. Next to him were abourgeois couple whose mourning attire, red eyes and swollen facesbespoke plainly enough the bereavement they had just suffered. Silent, indifferent to everything and everybody, their hands spread out ontheir knees, they stared into the ghastly emptiness, vainly seekingconsolation for their shattered dream, their grief-trammelled souls. 

A heavily built couple of Norman farmers occupied the seats on eitherside of the door, and then came a tall young girl and her mother, aBelgian soldier, and finally a strange old creature wearing anantiquated starched bonnet, a flowered shawl, and carrying an umbrellasuch as one sees but in engravings illustrating the modes and customsof the eighteenth century. She was literally buried beneath amonumental basket which she insisted upon holding on her knees. 

Every available inch of floor space was covered with crocks and kitsfull of provisions, and in the rack above our heads were so many boxesand bundles, bags and bales, remaining aloft by such remarkable laws ofequilibrium that I feared lest any moment they fall upon our heads, andonce this catastrophe occurred there seemed to be little hope ofextricating oneself from beneath the ruins. 

The conversation was opened by the Norman farmer who offered to relievethe little old woman of her basket and set it safely between his feet. 

"_Oh, non merci_, " she piped in a thin little wavering treble, and aninimitable accent which made it impossible to guess her origin. 

"Oh, no, Monsieur, thank you, " she continued. "It's full of creamtarts and cherry tarts, and custard pies made right in our own home. I'm taking them to my boy, and as we stayed up very late to make themso that they would be quite fresh, I should hate to have any of themcrushed or broken. He did love them so when he was little!"

"Our son was just the same. As soon as he was able to eat he beggedthem to let him have some _brioche_. But his fever was too high whenwe got there, and he couldn't take a thing. 'That doesn't matter, ' hesaid to his mother. 'Just the sight of them makes my mouth water, andI feel better already. '"

My Provençal neighbour could no longer resist. His naturalloquaciousness got the better of his reserve. 

"Well, the first thing my son asked for was olives, so I brought himenough to last, as well as some sausage which he used to relish. Oh, if only I could bring him a little bit of our blue sky, I'm sure hewould recover twice as quickly. "

The mother of the young girl now sat forward and asked the Normanfarmer's wife where and how her son had been wounded. 

"He had a splinter of shell in his left thigh. He'd been through thewhole campaign without a scratch or a day of illness. "

The woman's eyes sparkled with pride and tenderness. 

The short man beside me, who informed me he was a native of Beaucaireon the Rhone, had one son wounded and being cared for in a hospital atCaën, a second prisoner in Germany, and two sons-in-law already killed. 

According to a letter which the dear old flowered shawl spelled out tous word by word, her grandson had been wounded in seven differentplaces, and had had one hand and one leg amputated. But he hastened toadd that he was not worrying a bit about it. 

The young girl's mother had one son in the ranks, and a second, agedseventeen, had enlisted and was about to leave for the front. She andher daughter were on their way to embrace him for the last time. 

The Belgian soldier was just getting about after an attack of typhoidfever, and the motherly person on my left was travelling towards herhusband, a territorial of ripe years whose long nights of vigil beneathbridges and in the mud of the Somme had brought him down withinflammatory rheumatism. Their son, they prayed, was prisoner--havingbeen reported missing since the 30th of August, 1914. This coarse, heavy featured woman of the working classes, cherished her offspringmuch as a lioness does her young. She told us she had written to thePresident of the Republic, to her Congressman, her Senator, to the Kingof Spain, the Norwegian Ambassador, to the Colonel of the Regiment, aswell as to all the friends of her son on whose address she had beenable to lay hand; and she would keep right on writing until sheobtained some result, some information. She could not, would not, admit that her boy was lost; and scarcely stopping to take breath shewould ramble on at length, telling of her hopes and her disappointmentsto which all the compartment listened religiously while slowly thetrain rolled along through the smiling, undulating Norman country. 

Each one did what he could to buoy up the mother's hopes. 

The little Southerner seemed to possess a countless number of storiesabout prisoners, and he presently proceeded to go into minute detailabout the parcels he sent to his own son, explaining the regulation asto contents, measures and weights, with so much volubility that thegood soul already saw herself preparing a package to be forwarded toher long lost darling. 

"You can just believe that he'll never want for anything--if clothesand food will do him any good. There's nothing on earth he can't haveif only we can find him, if only he comes back to us. "

And growing bolder as she felt the wealth of sympathy surrounding her, she looked over and addressed the woman in mourning, who at that momentsmiled gently at her. 

"We thought we knew how much we loved them, didn't we, Madame? Butwe'd never have realised how really deep it was if it hadn't been forthis war, would we?"

The woman continued to smile sadly. 

"More than likely you've got somebody in it too, " persisted the stoutAuvergnate, whose voice suddenly became very gentle and trembled atrifle. 

"I _had_ three sons. We have just buried the last one this morning. "

All the faces dropped and a ghastly silence fell upon the group. Eachone looked straight into the distance ahead of him, but the bond ofsympathy was drawn still tighter, and in the moment of stillness thatensued I felt that all of us were communing with Sorrow. 

Between Folligny and Lamballe, we were quite as closely huddled betweenthree soldiers on furlough, a stout old priest, a travelling salesman, and a short gentleman with a pointed beard, a pair of eyeglasses and anupturned nose. 

At one moment our train halted and waited an incredible length of timevainly whistling for the tower-man to lift the signal which impeded ourprogress. 

The travelling salesman who was cross and weary finally left his seat, grumbling audibly. 

"We'll never in the world get there on time. It's certain I shall missmy connection! What a rotten road! What management!"

"It's the war, " murmered the priest pulling out a red checkedhandkerchief in which he buried his nose. 

"You don't have to look far to see that, " responded the other, stillgrumbling. 

"Oh, it's plain enough for us all right. Those who are handlinggovernment jobs are the only fellows who don't know it, I should say. "

"Bah! each of us has his troubles--each of us has his Cross to bear, "murmured the Father by way of conciliation, casting his eyes around thecompartment, much as he would have done upon the faithful assembled tohear him hold forth. 

"Pooh! it's you priests who are the cause of all the trouble. It wasyou who preached and got the three year service law voted. "

The poor Curate was fairly suffocated with surprise and indignation. He was so ruffled he could hardly find a word. In the meantime thetravelling salesman taking advantage of his silence, continued:

"Yes, it was you and the financiers, and it's nothing to brag abouteither!"

The man with the upturned nose now wheeled about sharply. His bloodwas up and he strangely resembled a little bantam cockerel. 

"Monsieur, " he snapped, and his voice was clear and cutting, "if anyone had a right to express a complaint on any subject whatsoever, itwould certainly be the soldiers who are seated in this compartment. Now as they have said nothing, I cannot admit that you, a civilian, should take such liberties. "

"But, Monsieur----"

"Yes, Monsieur, that's exactly what I mean, and as to the sentiments towhich you have given voice they are as stupid as they are odious. Weall know now that war was inevitable. The Germans have been preparingit for forty years. "

"Monsieur!"

"Monsieur!"

The two glared fixedly at each other for an instant; the one was veryred, the other extremely pale. Then they turned about and resumedtheir places in each corner. The priest produced his breviary, thesoldiers finished a light repast composed of bread and cheese. 

They were all three peasants, easily discernible from the way theyslowly chewed and swallowed, or caught up a crumb of cheese on thepoint of their knives. They had sat silent and listened to theoutbursts without turning an eyelash. Then presently one of themlifted his head and addressing his companions in a deep bass voice:

"Well, " said he, "this makes almost two days now that we've been on theway!"

"What have you got to kick about?" retaliated the other, shutting hisknife and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're as welloff here as you were in the trenches of Bois Le Pretre, aren't you?"

The third one said nothing, but recommenced carving a cane which he hadabandoned for an instant, and which he was terminating with morepatience than art, though the accomplishment of his task seemed to givehim infinite pleasure. 

As the commercial traveller had predicted, we were hours late and inconsequence missed our connection, but the platform of a station wheretwo lines meet, offers, under such circumstances, so diverse anddiverting a spectacle that we hardly regretted the delay. It is herethat any one interested in physiognomy can best study and judge themasses, for it is as though the very texture from which France is wovenwere laid bare before him. This spectacle is constantly changing, constantly renewed, at times deeply moving. No face can be, or is, indifferent, in these days and one no longer feels himself a detachedindividual observer; one becomes an atom of the crowd, sharing theanxiety of certain women that one knows are on their way to a hospitaland who half mad with impatience are clutching the fatal telegram inone hand, while with the fingers of the other they thrum on one cheekor nervously catch at a button or ornament of their clothing. 

Or again one may participate in the hilarious joy of the men onfurlough, who having discovered the pump, stand stripped to the waist, making a most meticulous toilet, all the while teasing a fat, bald-headed chap to whom they continuously pass their pocket combs withaudible instructions to be sure to put his part on the left side. 

The waiting-rooms literally overflow with soldiers--some stretched outon the benches, some on the floor; certain lying on their faces, otherson their backs, and still others pillowing their heads on theirknapsacks. 

One feels their overpowering weariness, their leaden sleep after somany nights of vigil; their absolute relaxation after so manyconsecutive days in which all the vital forces have been stretched tothe breaking point. 

From time to time an employé opens the door and shouts the departure ofa train. The soldiers rouse themselves, accustomed to being thusdisturbed in the midst of their slumber. One or two get up, stareabout them, collect their belongings and start for the platform, noiselessly stepping over their sleeping companions. At the same timenewcomers, creeping in behind them, sink down into the places whichthey have just forsaken, while they are still warm. 

On a number of baggage trucks ten or a dozen Moroccan soldiers haveseated themselves, crosslegged, and draped in their noble burnous, theygently puff smoke into the air, without a movement, without a gesture, without a sound, apparently utterly oblivious to the noisy employés, orthe thundering of the passing trains. 

On the platform people walk up and down, up and down; certain amongthem taking a marked interest in the old-fashioned, wheezinglocomotives which seem fairly to stagger beneath the long train ofantiquated coaches hitched behind them. 

Here, of course, are to be found the traditional groups in evidence atevery station; a handful of people in deep mourning on their way to afuneral; a little knot of Sisters of Charity, huddled together in anobscure corner reciting their rosary; families of refugees whom thetempest has driven from their homes--whole tribes dragging with themtheir old people and their children who moan and weep incessantly. Their servants loaded down with relics saved from the disaster inheavy, clumsy, ill-tied bundles, are infinitely pitiable to behold. They are all travelling straight ahead of them with no determined endin view. They seem to have been on the way so long, and yet they arein no haste to arrive. Hunger gnawing them, they produce theirprovisions, and having seated themselves on their luggage, commence arepast, eating most slowly, the better to kill time while waiting for atrain that refuses to put in an appearance. 

The _buffet_ is so full of noise, smoke and various other odours, thathaving opened the door one hesitates before entering. There is a longcounter where everything is sold; bread, wine, cider, beer andlemonade; sandwiches, patés, fruit and sweetmeats. One makes hischoice and pays in consequence. At the side tables the civilians arelost mid the mass of blue uniforms. 

[Illustration: MONSIEUR AMÉDÉ]

This is a station in Normandy, and for the boys of this region nothingcan substitute a good big bowl of hot vegetable soup, seasoned with thefamous _graisse normande_ and poured over thin slices of bread, thewhole topped off with a glass of cider or "pure juice" as they call it. It is a joy to see them seated about the board, their elbows on thetable, their heads bent forward over the steaming bowl, whose savouryperfume as it rises to their nostrils seems to carry with it averitable ecstasy, if one were to judge by the beatific expression onevery countenance. 

"That goes right to the spot, doesn't it?"

From another table a voice responds:

"Yes, fellows, it's better than a kick in the shins, every time!"

The last mouthful gone, the cider bottles empty, they tighten thestraps of their kit bags and rise regretfully from their seats. 

"_Allez_. Off again, boys! _C'est la guerre_!" and they shuffle awayhumming and filling their pipes. 

From the direction of the _buvette_, or bar comes noisy laughterfollowed by oaths. The uncertain voice of a seemingly intoxicatedindividual dominates all others. Yet nothing but soft drinks are sold. 

"As the Colonel of the 243rd used to say, " it continues, "'Soldiers ofmy regiment, repose upon your arms!' My arms are the bottle! Mybottle and my wife are the only things worth while when I'm onfurlough. I----"

His voice disappeared an instant, dimmed by the rising tumult. Thensuddenly it broke forth anew--

"Attention! Present arms, here comes a coal scuttle. Nowthen, --flatten out on the back of your stomach!"

An instant later the man appeared at the threshold of the dining room. 

He was a heavily built, big jointed, husky Norman farmer-soldier, withhis helmet pulled down low over his eyes, so that the upper part of hisface was completely hidden from view. 

Suddenly he pushed it far back on his head, and casting a sweepingglance over the assembled diners, he called forth in stentorian tonesthat made every one turn around:

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!"

The cashier behind the counter, who evidently foresaw trouble, calledout to him in shrill tones:

"You've made a mistake, go back to the _buvette_. You've nothing to doout here!"

Removing his helmet, the gallant knight made the lady a sweeping bow. 

"Your servant, Madame. Your humble servant, " he continued. "CyprienFremont, called Cyp for short. "

"Did you hear what I said? Now then, take yourself off, " cried theungracious adored one. 

But the _poilu_ was not to be so silenced. 

Putting his hand to his heart and addressing the assembly:

"Ungrateful country!" he cried, "is it thus that you receive your sonswho shed their blood for you?"

"That's all right, but go and tell it elsewhere. Go on, I say!"

"I've only got one more word to say and then it will be over. "

But before he could utter that word his companions seized him anddragged him back from whence he came. As he disappeared from view, weheard him announce his intention of "doing some stunts"--which offerwas apparently joyously accepted, followed by more laughter and several"dares. "

Suddenly the most terrific noise of falling and breaking glass andchina brought every one to his feet. Excited voices could be heardfrom the direction in which Cyprien had vanished. The army policedashed in, followed by the station master and all the employés. Alengthy discussion was begun, and having finished our dinner we leftmatters to adjust themselves and sauntered forth onto the platform. 

Here we found our Cyprien surrounded by his companions, who were busydisinfecting and binding up the wounds that he had received when thechina cabinet had collapsed upon him. One of the men poured thetincture of iodine onto a hand held fast by a friend. Two others wererolling a bandage about his head, while the patient, far from subdued, waved the only free but much enveloped hand that he possessed, beatingtime to the air that he was literally shouting and in whose rather baldverse the station master's wife was accused of the grossest infidelity. 

"Shh! Cyprien, " his friends enjoined; "shut up a bit, can't you?"

But it was no easy thing to impose silence upon Cyprien when he hadmade up his mind to manifest a thought or an opinion. 

"You'll get us all into trouble, old man, see if you don't. Cut itout, won't you? See, here comes an officer. "

The officer approached them. 

"It's not his fault, sir, " began one of the fellows, before hissuperior had time to ask a question. "I assure you, it's not hisfault. He's just back from Saloniki--his first furlough in a year, sir. It must have gone to his head. I swear he hasn't had anythingbut cider to drink, sir. "

"But that's no excuse for making all this noise. Show me his militarybook!"

The officer took it, ran through the pages, and then approached Cyprien. 

At the sight of the gold braid Cyprien stood up and saluted. 

"Before you went to Saloniki, I see you fought at Verdun. "

"Yes, sir. "

"And at Beausejour?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And Vauquois?"

"Yes, sir. "

The eyes of the two veterans met; the officer's glance seeking topierce that of the soldier in front of him. Then suddenly, in anirresistible burst of sympathy and respect, he thrust out his hand andcaught up one of Cyprien's bandaged pair. 

"I was there, too, " was all he said. 

Instantly sobered, our hero straightened up and literally crushed hissuperior's fingers in his mighty fist. 

"Come with me, " said the officer; "I know a place where you can restuntil it's time to leave. And you boys here, " said he turning towardsthem, "you'll see to it that he doesn't miss his train. "

Night, inky black, fathomless night, had now settled about us. In thedistance one could just discern the red and green signal lamps--atcloser range the burning tip of a cigar or cigarette. The soldiersturned up their collars. The wind shifting to the north was piercingcold. One had to walk briskly up and down to avoid becoming chilled. Way at the other end of the platform the flare of fugitive matchesrevealed shadows moving about as though searching for something uponthe ground. 

"What are you looking for?"

"A third-class return ticket for Royan. That old lady over there haslost hers. "

We turned about to see a poor old wrinkled soul, in her native Normancostume, wringing her hands in distress. 

"What a misfortune! Oh dear, oh dear, what a misfortune! What willbecome of me now? What shall I do?"

And to each inquisitive newcomer she babbled forth her story of awounded grandson whom she was on her way to visit. The curate andanother man of her village had seen to her expenses. They hadpurchased her ticket and handed it to her with strict instructions notto lose it. For safety's sake she had knotted it in the corner of herhandkerchief--and now it wasn't there!

The inquirer then examined her handkerchief, made her stand up andshake her clothing, turn her pockets inside out, empty her baskets andher handbag; and still not willing to trust the thoroughness of hispredecessors he would begin looking all over the immediate vicinity, match in hand. So presently nearly two hundred men, forgetting theirsoreness and fatigue, were down on their knees scouring every nook andcranny. The sleepers were awakened, the drinkers routed out and put towork, scanning every inch of ground. 

A loud and persistent ringing of an electric bell sounded on the air. 

"Hey there, fellows!" called a tall Zouave. "Get together, the trainis announced, and since we can't find grandma's ticket we can't leavethe old girl alone in the dark, so come on, chip in--we'll make it upto her. She says it cost forty-two francs and ten centimes. Are youready?"

And removing his helmet he started to make the rounds. In an instantcoppers and silver rang in the steel recipient. 

"Stop! that's enough. "

They retired to count. 

"Chic--there's some left over!"

"Never mind, she'll buy something for the kid with it. "

Some one purchased the ticket. 

"There now, grandma, a new ticket and enough to buy your boy a cakewith, so you should worry! But as you're too young to travel alone, we're going to take you in with us. We just happen to be going yourway. Here Ballut, Langlois! Quick there--take her baskets. Now then, don't let go my arm--here comes the train. Sh! don't cry, there'snothing to bawl about, we're all good fellows--all of us got grandmaswho'd make just as big fools of themselves if they had to travel. "

And with infinite care and tenderness a dozen hands hoisted theirprecious burden into the dimly lighted wooden-benched compartment. 

Yes, travelling in France under such circumstances is to me moreinteresting than ever, for when it is not one's fellow passengers whohold the attention, there are always those thousand and one outsideincidents which the eye retains involuntarily. War factories andmunition plants sprung from the ground as though by magic; immensetraining camps in course of construction, aviation fields over which socleverly hover those gigantic, graceful war birds, who on catchingsight of the train fly low and delight the astonished passengers bythrowing them a greeting, or, challenging the engineer, enter into arace. 

But above all, there is the natural panorama; that marvelloussuccession of hills and vales, hamlets and rivers, fields and gardens, so wonderfully harmonious beneath the pearl tinted sky. How it allcharms and thrills, and how near the surface is one's emotion onhearing a soldier voice exclaim:

"What a country to die for!"

So the hours sped by, and at length we reached our destination. P----is a flourishing little city, perched on the side of a rocky hill, witha broad landscape spreading out at its feet. 

The best hotel is called "L'hotel des Hommes Illustres"--and its façadeis adorned with the statues of the above mentioned gentlemen carved instone. The proprietor, who built the edifice and paid the bill, havingbeen sole judge in the choice of celebrities, the result is asastonishing as it is eclectic, and though absolutely devoid of beauty, thoroughly imposing. 

We arrived before our luggage, which was conveyed by so old and puffy ahorse that we considered it criminal not to leave our cab and finishthe hill on foot. At the top of a monumental staircase we entered thehotel office, behind whose desk were enthroned two persons of mostserious aspect; the one, stout and florid of complexion with a longnose and an allure worthy of Louis XIV, proudly bore upon her head suchan extraordinary quantity of blond hair arranged in so complicated afashion that I trembled to think of the time required to dress it. Theother, sallow faced, with a long curved chin, might have been taken fora Spanish Infanta, pickled in vinegar and allspice. 

The formality of greetings accomplished, princess number one produced abook in which we were to sign our names. The dignity and importanceshe attached to this ceremony would certainly not have been misplacedin a Grand Chamberlain preparing the official register for thesignature of Peace preliminaries. 

This, together with the manner in which she took note of our names, drying them with a spoonful of gold sand, gave me the illusion that Ihad just performed some important rite. 

"One or two rooms?" she queried. 

"One big room, Madame. "

"With or without bath?" demanded the co-adjutor, whose voice possesseda contralto quality utterly out of keeping with her pale blond hair andcomplexion. 

"With bath, please. "

A new register was opened. Both bent over it closely, each showing theother a different paragraph with her fore finger. Finally theymurmured a few inaudible syllables and then shook their heads. 

"Would you prefer number six or number fourteen?" finally asked theInfanta. 

We looked at each other in astonishment, neither being superstitiousabout numbers, but it would have been painful to announce to theseladies that the matter was totally indifferent to us. They had been socondescending as to allow us a choice. 

"Number six has a balcony and two windows. Number fourteen has onewindow and a bathroom, " the princess informed us. 

"But, " continued the Infanta, "it is our duty to inform you that hotwater has been forbidden by the municipal authorities, and that coldwater is limited to two pitchers per person, per room. "

I said I would take number six, which arrangement terminated theladies' mental indecision, and seemed to please them greatly. Theysmiled benignly upon us. 

The smaller one, whom I have called the coadjutor, because her thronewas less elevated than the princess', put her finger on a button and aviolent ringing broke the silence of the vast hallway. No one answered. 

Three times she repeated the rings, with an imperious movement. 

"Be kind enough to go and call Monsieur Amédé, Mademoiselle Laure. "

On her feet, Mademoiselle Laure was even smaller than when seated. Shecrossed the vestibule, opened a door, and her strong voice resoundedalong an empty corridor from which issued the odour of boilingcauliflower. 

"Monsieur Amédé!" she shouted anew, but not even an echo responded. 

"Mademoiselle Laure, ask for the head waiter. "

Mademoiselle Laure recrossed the vestibule and opening a doordiametrically opposed to the other, called:

"Monsieur Balthazard!"

Monsieur Balthazard appeared, his shirt sleeves rolled up beyond hiselbow, wiping his hands on a blue gingham apron. He was a little slimman who may have been sixty years old. A glass eye gave him asardonic, comic or astonished air, according to the way he used hisgood one, which was constantly moving, at the same time that it wasclear and piercing. 

"Monsieur Balthazard--what an attire for a head waiter!"

"Madame, I was just rinsing the wine barrels. "

"And how about the errands for the people in rooms twenty-four andtwenty-seven. "

A noise at the hall door attracted our attention. It was as thoughsome one were making desperate and fruitless attempts to open it. 

"There he is now, " exclaimed Monsieur Balthazard. "I'll go and let himin. He's probably got his hands full. "

Monsieur Amédé, literally swamped beneath his bundles, staggered intothe vestibule. To the different errands confided to his charge by thehotel's guests had undoubtedly been added the cook's list, for anenormous cabbage and a bunch of leeks completely hid his face, whichwas uncovered only as he let them fall to the ground. 

When he had finally deposited his treasures, we discovered a small ladabout fourteen or fifteen years of age, dressed in a bellboy's uniformwhich had been made for some one far more corpulent of stature. Thesleeves reached far down over his hands, the tight fitting, goldbuttoned jacket strangely resembled a cross between a bag and anovercoat, and though a serious reef had been taken in the trousers atthe waist line, the legs would twist and sway--at times being almost asample as those worn by the Turkish sultanas. 

Our coachman now arrived with our luggage. 

"Monsieur Amédé, take this luggage and accompany Monsieur and Madame tonumber six. "

The child gathered up his new burden and started upstairs. 

We followed, helping him pick up the various objects which successivelyescaped his grasp. 

"Goodness, it seems to me you're awfully young to be doing such heavywork!"

"Oh, " said he, wiping his brow, "I'm very lucky. My mother is cookhere, and Monsieur Balthazard is my uncle. With old fat Julia, themaid, and Mathilde, the linen woman, we're all that's left. All themen have gone to war, and the women into the powder mills. We keep thehotel going, we do. "

Monsieur Amédé was full of good will, and a desire to help me all hecould. He explained to us that he was now building the solidfoundation of a future whose glories he hardly dare think, so numerousand unfathomable did they seem. Unfortunately, however, we wereobliged to note that he seemed little gifted for the variousoccupations to which he had consecrated his youth--and his gloriousfuture--for in less than five minutes he had dropped a heavy valise onmy toes, and upset an ink-well, whose contents dripped not only ontothe carpet but onto one of my new bags. In trying to repair damages, Monsieur Amédé spoiled my motor veil and got several large spots on theimmaculate counterpane, after which he bowed himself out, wiping hishands on the back of his jacket, assuring us that there was no harmdone, that no one would scold us, nor think of asking us for damages. 

We saw him again at dinner time, when disguised as a waiter he passedthe different dishes, spilling sauce down people's necks, tripping onhis apron and scattering the handsome pyramids of fruit hither and yon. Lastly he took a plunge while carrying out an over-loaded tray, butbefore any one could reach him he was on his feet, bright and smiling, exclaiming:

"I'm not hurt. No harm done. I'll just sweep it up. It won't stain. "

In the meantime quiet, skilful Uncle Balthazard strained every nerve ina herculean effort to keep his temper and serve thirty persons all atonce. 

It was touching to hear the old man murmur, "Gently, boy--go gently, "as his youthful protégé stumbled from one blunder to another. "Gogently, you can be so clever when you're not in a hurry!"

Monsieur Amédé almost caused us to miss the train next evening in spiteof the numerous warnings from the princess behind the desk, who hadarranged the hour of our departure. That brilliant young man who hadbeen sent ahead with our luggage was nowhere to be found when our trainwas announced. My husband, a woman porter, a soldier on furlough whoknew him, started out to scour the immediate surroundings of thestation, finally locating him in a backyard near the freight depot, hishands in his pockets, excitedly following a game of nine-pins at whicha group of convalescent African soldiers was playing. 

Of course he immediately explained that there was no harm done sincethe train was twenty minutes late, and when finally it arrived and hehanded our baggage into the compartment, he accidentally let slip alittle wooden box containing an old Sevres vase, which I had purchasedat an antiquity dealer's that very morning. 

He picked it up, exclaiming:

"Lucky it's not fragile. "

And lifting his cap, on whose visor one might read "Hotel des HominesIllustres, " he cheerfully wished us a _Bon voyage_. 

IX

Before the war it used to be Aunt Rose's victoria that met us at thestation; a victoria drawn by a shiny span and driven by pompous oldJoseph, the coachman, clad in a dark green, gold-buttoned livery andwearing a cockade on his hat. Aunt Rose's coachman, and the Swiss atNotre Dame were classed among the curiosities of the city, as could beattested by the numerous persons who hastened to their doorstep to seethe brilliant equipage pass by. 

But this time we found the victoria relegated beside the old "Berline"which Aunt Rose's great-grandmother had used to make a journey toItaly; the horses had been sent out to the farm, where they wereneeded, and Joseph, fallen from the glory of his box, attired in astriped alpaca vest, and wearing a straw hat, half civilian, halfservant, seemed a decidedly puffy old man, much aged since our lastvisit. 

"Monsieur and Madame will be obliged to take the omnibus. WillMonsieur kindly give me the baggage check?"

Then as I fumbled in my purse--

"Monsieur and Madame will find many changes, I fear. "

But in spite of his prophecy to us there seemed little difference. Therickety old omnibus rattled and bumped noisily over the pointed cobblepavements, the tiny city merely seemed asleep behind its drawn blindsand its closed shutters. At the corner of the square in front of thechâteau the old vegetable vendor still sold her products seated beneathher patched red cotton parasol; the Great Dane watchdog lay in exactlythe same place on the tinker's doorstep. Around the high church towerthe crows circled and cawed as usual, while the bell of its clockwhich, as we passed, slowly struck three, was echoed by the distanthills with the same familiar sound. 

The omnibus deposited us at the entrance to the big roomy edifice whichAunt Rose called "home. "

The broad façade, evenly pierced by its eighteen long French windows, had a genial, inviting appearance, while the soft rose colour of thebricks, the white stone trimming, the iron balconies, mingled here andthere with bas-reliefs and sculptures, were in perfect harmony with thetall slanting slate roof and majestic chimneys, the whole forming oneof those delightful ensembles constructed by local architects duringthe 17th century for the pleasure and comfort of a large Frenchbourgeois family. 

Aunt Rose herself, leaning upon an ivory-headed cane, but bright eyedand alert as ever, awaited us at the top of the steps. From her wesoon learned that we had missed our friends the M. 's by but a day, andthat little André, son of our cousins in Flers, had announced his visitfor the following Monday. 

At this point Friquet, her old Pomeranian favourite, crept down fromhis cushion and approached us. 

"He doesn't bark any more, so you know he must be getting old, " smiledAunt Rose, caressing her pet. 

"My poor Victoire is getting on, too, I fear. Her nephew is stoneblind since the battle of the Marne. Joseph has lost two of hisgrandsons; of course, he didn't tell you--he doesn't want any one tospeak of it--but he's very much upset by it. Nicholas and Armandine donothing but worry about their poor little Pierre, who hasn't given asign of life for three months now--so I fear you will have to be verypatient and very indulgent guests. "

The delightful old lady led us to our room, "the psyche room" we, theyoungsters, used to call it on account of the charming grisaille wallpaper, dating from the end of the Empire period, and representing insomewhat stiff but none the less enchanting manner the amorousadventures of that goddess. 

I have always had a secret feeling that many a time, urged by herconfessor, Madame de C. Had been upon the point of obliterating orremoving those extremely chaste nude images. But at the last momentrose up the horror of voluntarily changing anything in the homestead, transforming a whole room that she always had known thus, and perhapsthe unavowed fear of our ridicule and reproach, had made her renounceher project. 

"Brush up quickly, and come right down to tea. We've got so manythings to talk over. You've so much to tell me!"

So a quarter of an hour later, tea-cup in hand, we must needs go intothe details of our trips, inform her of our hopes and fears, tell ofall the different things we had seen--what America was going todo--what it had already accomplished. And with her marvellously quickunderstanding, her vivacious intelligence, the old lady classified thefacts and the anecdotes, asked us to repeat dates and numbers, that shemight the better retain them in her splendid memory. 

All through dinner and the long evening she plied us with questions, kept the conversation running along the same lines, returning now andthen to a certain theme, or certain figures, and asking us to go intoeven more detail. 

"I know I'm an abominable old egoist, " at length she apologised. "Butyou'd forgive me if only you realised how much happiness your storieswill bring, and to how many people. I imagine that you haven't hadmuch time for correspondence with our family--but that's all an oldwoman like myself is good for these days. "

"Our family" consisted in relationship to the 'nth degree of all theH's, de C's, B's and F's that were then in existence, some of them suchdistant cousins that Aunt Rose herself would never have recognised themhad they met. And besides these people there were her friends, herservants, her farmers, possibly a group of three hundred persons withwhom the good soul corresponded, giving news of the ones to the others, announcing misfortunes or joys--a living link between us all. 

Left a widow when still quite young, Aunt Rose had lived with andrespected the memory of her husband. Though she had had many an offer, she had never cared to remarry. But unable to stand the damp climateof Normandy, she had returned to her family homestead in this littlecity of the Bourbonnais, in whose suburbs she possessed quite a fortunein farm lands. Alone in the world, with no immediate family, she haddevoted herself not only to her own, but to her husband's relatives. Her home had always been the _havre de grace_, known and venerated bythem all; a meeting place for reconciliation between persons whoseself-control had escaped them; the shelter for prodigal and repentantsons who awaited the forgiveness of their justly wrathful sires; thecomforting haven that seemed to assuage the pangs of departure andbereavement. But above all it was the one spot for properlycelebrating family anniversaries, announcing engagements, and spendingjoyous vacations. 

The war had been the cause of a great deal of hard work in this respect. 

"Why, I receive more letters than a State functionary, " Aunt Roseinformed me when I came upon her early the next morning, alreadyinstalled behind her huge flat-topped desk, her tortoise-shellspectacles tipped down towards the end of her very prominent nose. 

"For nearly four years I've been writing on the average of twentyletters a day and I never seem to catch up with my correspondence. Why, I need a secretary just to sort out and classify it. You haven'tan idea the different places that I hear from. See, here are yourletters from the United States. Léon is in the Indo-Chinese Bank inOceania. Albert is mobilised at Laos, Quentin in Morocco. Jean-Pauland Marcel are fighting at Saloniki; Emilien in Italy. Marie isSuperior in a convent at Madrid; Madeline, Sister of Charity at Cairo. You see I've a world-wide correspondence. 

"Look, " she continued, opening a deep drawer in one side of her desk, "here are the letters from my _poilus_ and, of course, these are onlythe answered ones. The dear boys just love to write and not one ofthem misses a week without doing so. I'm going to keep them all. Their children may love to have them some day. "

Then she opened a smaller drawer, and my eye fell upon a dozen orfifteen packages, all different in size and each one enveloped in whitetissue paper, carefully tied about with grey silk ribbon. 

"These were written by our dear departed, " she said simply. 

In an instant they passed before my eyes, those "dear departed. " Big, tall William, so gay and so childish, he who used to play the ogre orthe horse, or anything one wished: a person so absolutely indispensableto their games that all the little folk used to gather beneath hiswindow early in the morning, crying in chorus: "Uncle William! UncleWilliam! do wake up and come down and play!"

[Illustration: FLOCKING TO READ THE COMING COMMUNIQUÉ IN A LITTLEFRENCH CITY]

Jean-François, the engineer; Philippe, the architect; Honoré, whom wedubbed "Deshonoré, " because he used always to return empty-handed whenwe went hunting together. Gone, gone forever!

Aunt Rose picked up one of the smaller packages. 

"These were from little Jacques. " And two bright tears trembled on herlashes. 

"You remember him, of course, my dear. He was an orphan, he never knewhis mother. I always supposed that is what made him so distant andreserved. Jean, his guardian, who is very severe, used to treat him ashe did his own children--scolding him often about his indolence, hislack of application to his studies. 

"I used to have him here with me during his vacations. He loved thisold house--and I knew it. Sometimes when you would all start out forsome excursion I'd see him coming back towards the gate:

"'You're not going with them then, Jacques?'

"'No, thank you, Aunt Rose, it's so nice in your drawing-room. '

"When he was just a little baby I often wanted to take him onto my lapand laugh and play with him. But he was so cold and distant! A funnylittle mite, even with boys of his own age. Nobody seemed tounderstand him exactly; certain people even thought that his was asurly nature. 

"He spent his last furlough here, and I found quite a change in him. He was more robust and tanned. A splendid looking fellow, and I was soproud of him. 

"'Aunt Rose, ' he asked even before we embraced, 'is there any one elsestopping with you?'

"'Why no, child, and I'm afraid you'll find the house very empty. Ifonly I'd known you were coming I most certainly should have invitedyour cousins. '

"'Oh, I'm so glad you didn't! I much prefer being alone with you. '

"He came and went in the house, but never could be persuaded to gooutside the yard. I should have loved to have taken him with me andshown his War Cross to some of my old friends. But he wouldn't hear ofit. 

"'Pooh!' he would laugh when I would suggest such a thing. 'If everthey come near me I'll tell them I've got "trench pest"--and thenyou'll see them clear out. '

"He went down in the kitchen and I'd hear him pottering around. Inever knew him so gay and happy. 

"'Tante Rose, I'm going to sing you "La Madelon" and the "Refrain de laMitraille. " It was Planchet, the tinsmith, who composed it!'

"He'd sit for hours in that big blue armchair, blinking at the fire, and then suddenly he'd come to earth and explain:

"'Aunt Rose, what a pleasure to be here. '

"When finally he had to go back, he caught me and whispered in my ear, as I kissed him:

"'Next time, Tante, you promise me not to invite any one, won't you?'

"Poor child, he will never come back, and his friend Planchet, thetinsmith, saw him fall with a bullet through his heart. It was he whowrote me the sad news. 

"Well, my dear, what mystery the soul hides within itself! In one ofthe cupboards of the room he occupied I found two note books and adiary filled with verses he had never shown to any one, never admittedhaving written. How little we guessed what he was about when wescolded him for his indolence and inattention. If you only knew whataccents, what harmonious phrases he found to depict the shades of ourtrees, the rippling of the river, the perfume of the flowers and hislove for us all. 

"There is a whole chapter devoted to the old homestead. He seemed tofeel everything, divine everything, explain everything. None of usunderstood him. There is no use pretending we did. Not one among uswould ever have guessed that so splendid and delicate a master of thepen lived and moved amongst us. "

Aunt Rose looked straight out onto the sun-lit court, the great tearstrickling down her cheeks. 

For a long time neither of us spoke. 

Like its mistress, Aunt Rose's home lives to serve the war. Theculinary realm is always busily engaged preparing _patés_ and_galantines_, _rillettes_ and sausages. "For our boys, " is the answeralmost before the question is put. "They're so glad to get home-madedainties, and are always clamouring for more--no matter how much yousend!

"Since they must eat preserved food, we might as well send themsomething we make ourselves, then we're sure it's the best. Why, I'dbe ashamed to go out and buy something and send it off without knowingwho had handled it. " This was the cook's idea of patriotism, which Ishared most heartily, having at one time had nothing but "bully beef"and dried beans as constant diet for nearly a fortnight. 

The coachman and inside man sealed the crocks and tins, prepared andforwarded the packages. 

"Oh, there's one for everybody! Even the boys of the city who haven'tgot a family to look after them. They must be mighty glad Madame'salive. We put in one or two post cards, views of the town. Thatcheers them up and makes them feel they're not forgotten here in R----. "

One afternoon on descending into the kitchen we beheld two sturdylooking fellows seated at table and eating with ravenous appetite. Onewas an artilleryman who had but a single arm, the other a _chasseur_, whose much bandaged leg was reposing upon a stool. 

"They are wounded men on convalescent leave, " explained Armandine. "The poor fellows need a little humouring so that they'll build up thequicker, and an extra meal surely can't hurt!"

This was certainly the opinion of the two invalids who had justdisposed of a most generous bacon omelet, and were about to dig into ajar of _paté_. 

Armandine and Nicholas watched them eat with evident admiration, fairlydrinking up their words when between mouthsful they would stop forbreath and deign to speak. Their rustic eloquence was like magic balmpoured onto a constantly burning, ulcerated sore. 

"Your son? Why, of course, he'll turn up!" the artilleryman assuredthem. 

"But he hasn't written a line!"

"That's nothing. Now just suppose that correspondence is forbidden inhis sector for the time being. "

"I know, but it's three months since we heard from him. We've writteneverywhere, to all the authorities, and never get any returns--exceptnow and then a card saying that they're giving the matter theirattention. That's an awfully bad sign, isn't it?"

"Not at all, not at all, " chimed in the _chasseur_. "Why, some of themissing have been found in other regiments, or even in the depots, andnobody knows how they got there. 

"Three months? Why, that's not long. After the battle of the Marne mypoor old mother had them say Heaven knows how many masses for therepose of my soul; for four months and three days she never heard athing of me, and I'd written her regularly every week. 

"Yes, and what are you going to do if the letter carrier gets killed, or the Boche locate the mail waggon on the road every other delivery?Nobody's going to inform you of the accident. "

"And that does happen often?"

"Almost every day. "

"Quite a common occurrence; there's nothing for you to worry about yet, really now. "

So "hope springs eternal" in the breasts of the bereaved parents, whosesmile gradually broadens out into a laugh when the artillery-manrecounts some grotesque tale, and gives his joyous nature free rein. 

The convalescents who came to this particular city must haverecuperated in the minimum of time, if _régime_ had anything to do withthe re-establishment. In every house the cloth was always on thetable, the door open in sign of welcome. 

"Come in and have a bite with us, " people would call to them as theypassed by. 

Certain among them were being treated for severe cases and had been inthe city a long time. The townspeople were proud of their progress andtheir cure, almost as proud as of their notary, who on leaving for thefront was only a second lieutenant, but now had command of a battalionof _chasseurs_. Nor must one forget Monsieur de P. 's son, cited forbravery among the aces, and least of all ignore Monsieur Dubois, whohaving lost both sons, shut up his house, settled his business andwithout telling any one went off and enlisted as a simple private atsixty-two years of age. 

In coming to this distant little city I had sought to find repose formy somewhat shattered nerves; dared hope for complete rest beneath thishospitable, sympathetic roof. But the war was everywhere. Yes, farfrom the sound of the guns one's eyes are spared the spectacles ofhorror and desolation, but there is not a soul who for a single instantreally escapes the gigantic shiver that has crept over all the world. Out here, far removed from the seat of events, life necessarily becomesserious and mournful. The seemingly interminable hours lend themselvesmost propitiously to reflections, foster distress and misgivings, andone therefore feels all the more keenly the absence of the dear ones, the emptiness due to the lack of news. 

There are but two moments when real excitement ripples the apparentcalm of the little city; one in the morning when the paper boyannouncing his approach by blowing his brass horn, runs from door todoor distributing the dailies, while people rush forth and wait theirturns impatiently. 

The evening _communiqué_ arrives at 8 P. M. An old white-hairedpostman pastes it upon the bulletin board outside the post office. Long before the hour one can hear steps echoing on the pavement, asmen, women and children, old people on crutches, cripples leaning ontheir nurses' arms, hasten in the same direction, moved by the sameanxious curiosity. When the weather is inclement one turns up histrousers, or removes her best skirt. It is no uncommon sight to seewomen in woollen petticoats with a handkerchief knotted about theirheads standing there umbrella in hand, patiently awaiting the news. 

A line forms and each one passes in front of the little square piece ofpaper, whose portent may be so exhilarating or tragic. Then some oneclears his throat, and to save time reads the bulletin for the benefitof the assembled group. 

Here again the strategists are in evidence. 

Monsieur Paquet, the jeweller, having served his three years some threedecades ago at Rheims, has a wonderfully lucid way of explaining allthe operations that may be made in that region, while Monsieur Morin, the grocer, whose wife comes from Amiens, yields the palm to no onewhen that sector is mentioned. 

Each one of these gentlemen has a special view on the subject, eachfavours a special mode of combat, and each, of course, has hisfollowing among the townspeople. But the masses give them little heed. 

Monsieur Paquet's persistent optimism or Monsieur Morin's equallysystematic pessimism do not touch them in the least. The French soulhas long since known how to resist emotions. Sinister rumours shake itno more than do insane hopes and desires. 

"All we know is that there's a war, " exclaimed a sturdy housewifesumming up her impressions, "and we've got to have victory so it willstop!"

"Amen, " laughs an impudent street gamin. 

Slowly the crowd disperses, and presently when the gathering isconsiderably diminished a group steps forward, presses around thebulletin board and comments on the _communiqué_ in an incomprehensibletongue. 

By their round, open faces, their blond hair and that unspeakable airof honesty and calm resolution, one instantly recognises the Belgians. Yes, the Belgians, come here in 1914, the Belgians who have taken uptheir abode, working anywhere and everywhere, with an incomparablegood-will and energy. But they have never taken root, patientlywaiting for the day when once again they may pull out their heavy draysthat brought them down here, whose axles they have never ceased togrease, just as they have always kept their magnificent horses shod andready to harness, that at a moment's notice old women and children maybe hoisted into the straw and the whole caravan thread its waynorthward towards the native village; that village of which they havenever ceased to talk, about which they tell the youngsters, whoscarcely remember it now. 

"Ah, Madame, " exclaimed one poor old soul in a phrase that might haveseemed comic if it hadn't been so infinitely profound and touching. "Ah, Madame, even if there isn't anything left, it will be our villagejust the same!"

Alas! I know but too well the fate of such villages at the front, occupied by the enemy, crushed beneath his iron heel, or subjected tohis gun fire. 

X

It was Aunt Rose's custom to spend one week out of every four at hercountry seat. With the war had come the shortage of labour, and nowthat her head man had been mobilised it was necessary for some one totake direct control, superintend and manage these valuable farm landswhich must do their share towards national support. 

It needed no urging to persuade us to accompany her. 

"My farmers haven't the time to make the trip to town individually, soI get a list of their wants and my coming saves them so much trouble. "

So early one morning a big break was driven up to the door, and in lessthan five minutes it was so full of bundles and packages that I had mydoubts as to our all fitting in, not to mention the word "comfortably. "And when finally we did jog away it took every effort of the broadbacked dray horse, who had been sent from the farm, to pull us up thelong sunny hills, so frequent in this region. 

The village which would be our ultimate destination was twelve milesfrom any station, and the nearest railway a funny little two-foot-gaugeroad, whose locomotives were comic to behold, their vociferous attemptsat whistling not even frightening the baby calves who stood and staredat them indifferently as they passed. Furthermore, the line was nolonger in public service, save on market days at Le Donjon. 

Our route lay through an admirable, undulating country which seemed tobe totally deserted, for not even a stray dog crossed our path. Far inthe distance, however, from time to time one might hear the throb of amotor. 

"They are winnowing almost everywhere today, " explained Aunt Rose, "taking advantage of the good weather. We shall doubtless find everyone very busy at Neuilly. "

The thrashing machine had been set up on the public square, and allalong the last mile before entering the village we met great loads ofwheat and oats, drawn by huge white oxen, who in turn were led by whatseemed to me to be very small boys. The latter, stick in hand, walkedin front of their beasts, and swelling their youthful voices wouldintone a kind of litany which the animals apparently understood andobeyed. 

The brilliant noonday sun shone down and bathed everything in gold. 

In the shadow of the little church the engine, attended by twowhite-bearded men, churned along, from time to time sending forth ashrill whistle. Women with bandana handkerchiefs tied down closelyabout their heads, unloaded the carts, and lifting the heavy sheaves intheir brawny arms, would carry them to the machine, where others, relieving them, would spread them out and guide them into the aperture. 

Two handsome girls that might have served as models for goddessesstood, pitch-fork in hand, removing the chaff. The breeze blowingthrough it would catch the wisps and send them dancing in the air, while the great generous streams of golden grain flowing from themachine seemed like rivers of moulten metal. 

The children and tiny babies lay tucked away in the straw, sound asleepbeneath a giant elm that shaded one corner of the square. Now andagain a woman would leave her companions and wiping the perspirationfrom her brow, approach this humble cradle, lift her infant in herarms, and seeking a secluded spot, give it suckle. 

I cannot tell how long I stood watching this wonderful rusticspectacle, so rich in tone and colouring, so magnificent in itssimplicity, so harmonious in movement. There was no undue noise--everymotion seemed regulated, the work accomplished without haste but withan impressive thoroughness. Here then was the very source of thecountry's vitality. Elsewhere the war might crush and destroy lives, cities and possessions, but this was the bubbling spring-head fromwhence gushed forth, unrestrained, the generative forces; stronger thanwar, stronger than death, life defiantly persistent. And I was seizedwith an immense pride, an unlimited admiration for these noble, simplewomen of France who had had the courage to set forth such a challenge!

For it is the women who have done it, of that there can be no doubt. 

[Illustration: MAXENCE]

The census indicates that in 1914 the total number of inhabitantswithin this little village was seven hundred and fifty. Of these, onehundred and forty men were mobilised, and forty-five have already beenkilled. The masculine element, therefore, has been reduced to aminimum. 

Thevenet, the carpenter, grocery man and choir leader, gifted with astrong voice and a shock of curly black hair, but lame in both legs, iscertainly, when seated behind his counter, the noblest specimen of thestronger sex that the village possesses. 

His pupil, disciple and companion, called Criquet, is, as his pseudonymindicates, extremely small of stature, and though he regularly presentshimself before the draft boards, he has invariably been refused as fartoo small to serve his country in the ranks. 

Of course, there are quite a number of sturdy old men, who have hadample occasion to do their bit by helping their daughters or theirsons' wives on their farms. So in the village itself there remainshardly any one. 

Old man Magnier is so bent with rheumatism that each movement isaccompanied by an alarming cracking of his bones, and one is tempted toask him not to stir for fear of suddenly seeing him drop to pieces, aswould an antiquated, over-dry grandfather clock, on being removed froma long stay in the garret. 

Monsiau, the inn-keeper, is ready and willing to do almost anything buthe is so terribly stout that the slightest physical effort causes himto turn purple and gasp for breath. He therefore remains seated, nodding like a big Buddha, half dozing over the harangues of his friendChavignon, the tailor, whose first name, by the way, is Pacifique. Butin order to belie this little war-like appellation, Chavignon spendsmost of the time he owes to the trade dreaming of impossible plans andpreparing ghastly tortures, to which the Kaiser shall be submitted whenonce we have caught him. 

Bonnet, the hardware dealer, in spite of his seventy-eight years, comesand goes at a lively pace--coughing, grumbling, mumbling--always in ahurry, though he never has anything special to attend to. 

And finally there is Laigut; Laigut whom one consults when at his wits'end, simply because he knows everything in general, and nothing inparticular, his knowledge covering all the arts and sciences as resumedin the Grand Encyclopedia. He is a little man with spectacles, and ashort grey beard, costumed winter and summer alike in the same suit ofworn brown velvet, a rabbit skin cap on his head, his feet shoved intowooden sabots. 

His reputation before the war was not what one would call spotless. His passion for fowl (other people's on principle) had led to his beingstrongly suspected. He was a poacher, as well, always ready to bringyou the hare or the pike you needed, at a fixed date and hour, moreespecially when the shooting and fishing seasons were closed. 

His was one of those hidden geniuses which the war had revealed. Otherwise we should never on earth have suspected him of being socapable. But be it requested that he repair a sewing machine, abicycle or a watch; sharpen a pair of scissors, put in a pane of glass, make over mattresses, shear a horse, a dog or a human, paint a sign, cover an umbrella, kill a pig or treat a sprain, Laigut neverhesitates, Laigut is always found competent. Add to this his commercein seeds and herbs, his talent for destroying snakes and trappingmoles, the fact that he is municipal bell ringer and choir boy, and youwill have but a feeble idea of the activities of this man whose fieldseems so unlimited. 

In a little old shed behind his house he carefully stores theinnumerable and diverse objects which are confided to his care, andcontrary to what one might suppose, he bears no malice for the lack ofesteem bestowed upon him in times gone by. Not at all. His breadth ofcharacter is equalled only by the diversity of his gifts. From time totime a fowl may still disappear, but none save _Maître Renard_ is nowaccused. In these days there are so many foxes about!

If I may seem to have gone deep into detail concerning these people itis only because I am anxious to make better understood what life meansin a village without men. That is to say without valid men who carefor the cattle, steer the plough, keep the furrows of equal depth andstraight as a die; rake, hoe and sow; reap, harvest and carry the heavyburdens, in fact, perform all the hard, fatiguing labour that theupkeep of the soil requires. 

And yet, in spite of their absence, not a foot of ground has beenneglected. The cattle are robust and well cared for, the harvestsreaped and brought to cover, the taxes and the rents have been paid, and down under the piles of linen in those big oak cupboards lie manyblue bank notes, or several bonds of the National Defense. And Francehas crossed the threshold of her fifth year of war. 

To whom is this due? The women. 

There were no training schools to teach them how to sow or reap--nokindly advisors to take the husbands' places and tell them what animalsto keep and feed, at what time to sell, or at what price. They had tolearn from hard experience, taxing their intuition and great commonsense to the utmost. 

And with it all they are so shy and modest; at heart a little bitashamed when you speak to them in terms of admiration for what theyhave done. 

"We didn't really know what to do at the end of that first year when wefound there wasn't any one to take care of the ground, " explained JulieLaisné, who lives just behind Aunt Rose. 

"I would have tried to plough, been glad to do it, but I was afraid theothers would make fun of me, " said Anna Troussière. 

"That's just the way I felt about it, " exclaimed Julie. "I nearly wentcrazy when I knew time was flying, winter coming, and no wheat in. I've no doubt it was the same with all the others. Then one day thenews ran round like lightning that Anna was out ploughing her fields, with her kid and her grandfather to help her. Nobody took the time togo and see if it was true. Each one got out her plough. Of course, the first furrows were not very straight, but soon we got used to it, and Lord, how we laughed over my first attempts, when my husband camehome the next fall on furlough. "

I wish that some great master of the pen might paint in words as simpleas the Golden Legend, in stanzas as pure as the Litanies of the HolyVirgin, the picture of this little Julie, up and about with the firstrays of dawn, always hard at work, and whom when night has closed in Ihave often come upon, bending over beneath her tallow candle, writingto the dear one at the front. To this task as to all the others sheconcentrates her every effort and attention, anxious that no news beforgotten, --news which is as fresh and naïve as the events and thenature that inspires it. "The sow has had twelve little pigs, thedonkey has a nail in its hoof, little Michel has a cold, and butter nowsells for forty-three sous the pound. "

Her farm is too small and brings in too little for her to dream oftaking on some one to help. But she keeps three cows, and threecalves; a dozen or two pigs, a donkey and all the chickens she canafford to feed. Forty acres is quite a responsibility for so small aperson, and it requires lots of courage to replace the missing muscle, to till the soil, care for the kitchen garden and the animals, and sendthree small children off to school on time, all of them washed andcombed, without a hole in their stockings or a spot on their aprons. It needs something more than courage to be able to sing and dissimulateone's anxieties, to hide in one corner of that envelope that will beopened by him "Out there, " a little favourite flower, tenderly caredfor, nursed to maturity. 

"Bah!" she laughs as I sympathise. "It might be bad if one were allalone in his troubles. But we're all in the same boat, down here!"

Yes, all of them have done their duty--more than their duty, theimpossible. In other villages it is just the same--in other Provinces. From one end to the other of France such marvels have been accomplishedthat the government decided that so much devotion merited recompense. 

So one fine morning a motor was seen to stop in front of the CaféLacroix, a gentleman in uniform (some say it was the Préfet)accompanied by two other men, got down and walked over to the town hallthat is near the church. 

A few moments later Criquet was dispatched on bicycle to AnnaTroussière's and Claudine Charpin's, with orders to bring them backwith him. 

He soon returned accompanied by the two frightened creatures, whofearing ill news had not unrolled their sleeves nor removed thehandkerchief from their heads, but jumped on their bicycles andhastened to the town hall. 

Then suddenly the gentleman in uniform appeared on the steps, made thema little speech, and stepping down pinned a medal on their heavingbreasts. He thrust a diploma which bore their names into theirtrembling fingers, shook hands with them most cordially, and mountingin his car, drove away in a cloud of dust. 

Every one, much excited, gathered around the two women. The medalswere handed about, commented upon. 

"Beautiful, " exclaimed Criquet who is something of a wag. "I thinkthey're made of bronze. Too bad they're not chocolate so you mightgive us all some. "

"Claudine, " said Anna Troussière, "it's time we went home if we don'twant to be teased to death. Goodness, if only we'd known, we mighthave brushed up a bit!"

But the incident did not end there. The government, anxious to showits gratitude, offered to send them help, in the shape of warprisoners. The proposition was tempting. A bourgeois who had severalbig farms said he would accept four. This almost caused a revolution. The four Germans were quartered in a shed and an old territorialmounted guard over them. 

"They were good fellows, " Julie explained when she told me the story. "Hard workers too. Very kind to the animals and understandingeverything about a farm. I don't know--I used to have a funny feelingwhen I saw them. But, poor souls, I don't suppose they wanted the war, they'd probably have much rather been home and yet they were asobliging as could be. Always ready to lend a hand when there was ahard job to be tackled. 

"They made rather a good impression, and two or three of our womenfarmers had almost decided to send for some. Well, this lasted untilthe next Sunday. As they were all catholics, of course they came tochurch, and were seated on the first bench, with their sentinel at theend. Everything went finely until the Curate got up to preach, firstreading the announcements for the week. When he asked that prayers besaid for Jules Lefoulon and Paul Dupont, both from our parish and bothkilled on the Field of Honour, and we looked up we could see the fourBoche sitting calmly in front of us--I can't tell you what it meant!Every one was weeping. Of course, we didn't let them feel it. Theysaluted every one most politely, you could almost see that they weren'tbad men--but every one said, 'No, none of their help needed. We've goton without them up till now. I fancy we can see it through. '"

Even Madame Fusil, the baker, who was in most urgent need ofassistance, resolved to be equal to her task alone. It is her littledaughter who delivers the bread to all the numerous patrons, quite acomplicated undertaking for so young a child, who must drive her poorold nag and his load down many a bumpy side path. One can hear herlittle voice all over the country side. "Here Jupiter--get up, I say. "

I met her one morning in the Chemin du Moulin, whip in hand, pullingold Jupiter by the bridle. But Jupiter had decided to take a rest. Nothing could make him budge, nothing, neither cries nor complaints, sweetmeats nor menaces. Jupiter was as determined as he was obstinate. 

The unfortunate child was red with indignation, almost on the verge oftears. 

"_Oui, oui, _" she fairly sobbed, "he just ought to be sent to thefront. That would teach him a lesson. He does it on purpose, I dobelieve. He knows well enough I'll be late to school! It's alreadyhalf past seven. I've got three more deliveries to make, and must takehim home and unharness him!"

"What time did you start out, child?"

"Why, four o'clock as usual, Madame. But I'm sure to be late thismorning. "

I promised that as I was passing by the school I would step in and tellMadame Dumont, the head mistress, the reason of her tardiness. Shefelt much better after that, and presently our combined efforts gotJupiter to move. 

True to my word I sought out Madame Dumont, and found the good womanalready extremely busy at this early hour. 

A peasant mother and her three children all arrayed in their Sundaybest, were grouped together at one end of the garden, smiling blandlyinto the lens of a camera which the school mistress set up and preparedto operate. 

"There--that's it--smile! Click! It's all over. Now then, Magloire, climb up on a chair. Hold yourself quite straight, dear, so your papawill see how much you've grown. "

Magloire was photographed with her nose in the air, her mouth wideopen, her other features registering the most complete lunacy. Joseph, her brother, at whom they fairly shrieked in order to make him smile, produced the most singular contortion of the mouth that I have everseen, which denoted an extreme gift for mimicry, rare in so young achild. 

Little Marie was taken on her mother's lap, and I thought of theecstasy of the brave fellow to whom one day the postman would bring theenvelope containing the glorious proofs. With what pride he will showthem to his companions, how he will gloat over his Magloire and hisJoseph, his petite Marie and his _bonne femme_. Then, drawing awayfrom the others, he will study them again, each one in turn. Nightswhen on duty, those cold nights of vigil, way out there in Saloniki, when fatigue and homesickness will assail him, he will slip his handdown into his pocket, and his rough fingers will touch the greasestained envelope that contains the cherished faces of his dear ones. 

It all recalled other powder-blackened hands clenched forever aboutsoiled remnants of envelopes, from which protruded the edge of aprecious photograph. A shiver ran down my spine as the brave motherand her three little ones passed by me on their way to change theirclothes--assume their humble dress. 

"_Merci, Madame Dumont. Merci bien. _"

"At your service, Madame Lecourt. " And Madame Dumont turned to examineher mail. Rather voluminous in size, but with the Mayor, hissubstitute, and her husband at the front, she had become town clerk, and the quantity of paper and printed matter a village like this dailyreceives, is quite unbelievable. Quickly the little school mistressran through the envelopes, finally breathing a deep sigh of relief. 

"Ah, nothing this mail, thank Heaven!"

"Why, what were you expecting?"

"Oh, I wasn't expecting anything, but I live in terror of finding thatfatal official bulletin announcing the death of some man in ourcommunity. Each time I leave the house, the eyes of every living soulare fairly glued to me. The women here love me, I know, and yet I feelthat I frighten them. 

"If on going out I start up the road, those who live below here breatheagain, relieved. You cannot imagine the tricks I must resort to inorder not to arouse false suspicions. Then, as soon as I open theirdoor they know the reason of my coming, and what poor miserablecreatures I often take in my arms and try vainly to console. 

"Ah, Madame, the wives you can cope with, say things to, put theirbabies in their arms. But the mothers, Madame, the mothers!"

"And no one complains, Madame Dumont?"

"No one, Madame, they all know that we've got to win this war. "

All along the road home I walked slowly, lost in reverie. But I had notime for musing after my arrival, for Aunt Rose met me at the doorstep, a small boy by her side. 

"Listen, my dear, " she cooed, "I've a great favour to ask you. Wouldyou mind walking around to the farms and telling them that Maxence willbe here to-morrow morning? His little boy has just come over to tellme. "

The coming of Maxence produced an indescribable enthusiasm wherever Iannounced the news. Maxence is the only blacksmith in Neuilly. Ofcourse he's serving in the artillery, but during his quarterly ten-day_permissions_, he tries to cover all the work that is absolutelyindispensable to the welfare of the community. He arrived muchsun-burned and tanned, accompanied by two other chaps who were notexpected, having travelled two days and two nights without stopping. 

They seated themselves before a succulent repast prepared by MadameMaxence, and in the meantime the crowd began gathering in the shop. 

"Get in line! Get in line!" he called to them joyfully. "Give me timeto swallow my coffee and I'll be with you. "

Abandoning his uniform, he put on his old clothes, his sabots and hisleather apron, and for ten long days the hammer beat incessantly uponthe anvil. 

Sometimes between strokes he would look up and smile, calling out:

"Why, they won't even give me time to catch a mess of fish, or go tosee my grandmother at Paray!"

There is always some tool to be repaired, a last horse to be shod. 

"What do you know about this for a furlough! And every time it's thesame old story. "

The others, all those whom I have seen return from the front, doexactly as did Maxence. 

Pushing open the gate, they embrace their pale and trembling wives, cuddle the children in their arms, and then five minutes later one cansee Jean or Pierre, clothed in his working suit, seized and subjectedby the laws of his tradition. 

Sunday though, the whole family must go to Mass. The careful housewifehas brushed and cleaned the faded uniform, burnished the helmet, putnew laces in the great thick-soled shoes. The children cling to theirfather, proud of his warlike appearance. Then afterwards, of course, there are many hands to be shaken, but no extraordinary effusions aremanifested. 

"Ah, home at last, old man!"

"You're looking splendid. When did you get here?"

"Did you come across Lucien, and Bataille's son?"

They hardly mention the war. They talk of the weather, the crops, theprice of cattle, but never of battle. I have even found a certainextraordinary dislike for discussion of the subject. Or when they canbe persuaded to speak, they laugh and tell of some weird feat. 

"There are those who make the shells, those who shoot them, and thosewho catch them. We're doing the catching just at present. Theredoesn't seem to be much choice!"

They return, just as they came, without noise, without tears. 

"Gigot's son's gone back this morning. "

"Is that so? How quickly time flies!"

They take the road with a steady step, loaded down beneath theirbundles. But they never turn their heads for a last good-bye. 

"Aren't you going to mend my pick-axe, Maxence?" queried an oldneighbour. 

"Sorry, mother, but I've got to leave. "

"Well, then, it'll be for next time. "

"If next time there is!"

There is that terrible conditional "If" in all such villageconversations, just the same as in every conversation all over France. 

Two years ago still another "If" hung on every lip. The hope that itentertained seemed so vastly distant that no one dared give it openutterance. But each in his secret soul nurtured and cherished theidea, until at length those whispered longings swelled to a mightynational desire, "If only the Americans . . . "

They have not hoped in vain. The Americans have come. 

FINIS