We were sitting in a café at the _apéritif_ hour--an hour that survives
the war. We were stationed in a city of good size in Northern France, a
city famous for its cathedral and its cheese. Just now it was a haven
of refugees, and an evacuation center for wounded. The Germans had
been there, as the patronne of the Café Lion d'Or narrated at length
to every one who would listen; but now the battle lines were some
distance away. If the wind came from the right direction when the noise
of the city was hushed by military order at nightfall, the haunting
boom-boo-o-m of heavy artillery could be faintly heard. No one who has
heard that sound ever forgets it. Dynamite blasting sounds just about
the same, but in the sound of artillery, when one knows that it is
artillery, there seems the knell of doom.
The café was crowded at the _apéritif_ hour. The fat face of the
patronne was wreathed in smiles. Any one is mistaken who imagines that
all Northern France is lost from human view in a dense rolling cloud
of battle smoke. At any rate, in the Café d'Or one looked upon life
unchanged. True, there were some new clients in the place of old ones.
There were a half dozen soldiers in khaki, and we of the American
ambulance column, dressed in the same cloth. In a corner sat a young
lieutenant in the gorgeous blue of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, drinking
vermouth with a grizzled captain of artillery. Other French uniforms
dotted the place. The "honest bourgeois" were all there--the chief
supports of the establishment in peace or war. They missed the evening
_apéritif_ during the twelve days of German occupation, but now all
were in their accustomed places. For the places of oldtimers are sacred
at the Lion d'Or.
Madame la patronne acted in place of her husband, who was now safely
serving in the cooking department of the army, some kilometers from the
firing line. Madame sat contentedly at the caisse superintending the
activities of two youthful, inexperienced garçons. The old waiters,
Jean and André, vanished into the "zone of military activity" on the
first day of the war. After several post cards, Jean had not been heard
from. André was killed at the battle of the Marne.
We had heard the garrulous tale of the German occupation many times. It
was thrillingly revealed, both at the Restaurant de Commerce and the
Hotel de Soleil. At the Lion d'Or it was Madame's absorbing theme, when
she was not haranguing the new waiters or counting change. Madame had
remained throughout the trouble. "But yes, to be sure." She was not the
woman to flee and leave the Lion d'Or to the invaders. Her ample form
was firmly ensconced behind the caisse when the first of the Uhlans
entered. They were officers, and--wonder of wonders--they spoke French.
The new waiters were hiding in the cellar, so Madame clambered from
her chair with dignity, and placed glasses and drink before them. And
then--would wonders never cease?--these Germans had actually paid--even
overpaid, _ma foi_--for one of them flung a golden half louis on the
counter, and stalked from the place refusing change. Of course at the
Hotel de Ville, the invaders behaved differently. There the Mayor was
called upon for one million francs--war indemnity. But that was a
matter for the city and not for the individual. Madame still had that
golden half louis and would show it if we cared to see. Gold was scarce
and exceedingly precious. The sight of it was good.
Now the Germans were gone--forced out, grace à Dieu, so the good
citizens no longer lived in the cellars. They were again in their
places at the Lion d'Or, sipping vermouth and offering gratitude to the
military régime that had the decency to allow cafés open until eight
o'clock. Outside the night was cold and a fine drizzle beat against
the windows. Several newcomers shivered and remarked that it must be
terrible in the trenches. But the electric lights, the clinking glasses
on the marble tables, the rattling coins, soon brought them into the
general line of speculation on how long it would take to drive the
Germans from France.