For a hundred years the cafés have been the Forum of France. The
Lion d'Or had for that entire period been the scene of fierce verbal
encounters between members of more political and religious faiths than
exist in any other nation of the world. Every Frenchman, no matter how
humble in position or purse has decided opinions about something. But
now the voices in the Lion d'Or arose only in appellations concerning
_les Boches_. There was unanimity of opinion on the absorbing subject
of the war.
The members of the American ambulance column sat at a table near the
door. Our khaki always brought looks of friendly interest. Almost every
one took us to be English, and even those who learned the truth were
equally pleased. We finished the _apéritif_ and consulted about dinner.
We were off duty--we might either return for the army mess or buy our
own meal at the restaurant. We paid the garçon and decided upon the
restaurant a few doors away. Several of the men were struggling into
their rubber coats. I told them that I would follow shortly. I had
just caught a sentence from across the room that thrilled me. It held
a note of mystery--or tragedy. It brought life out of the commonplace
normality of _apéritif_ hour at the Lion d'Or.
The speakers were two Frenchmen of middle age--fat and bearded.
They were dressed in ordinary black, but wore it with a ceremonial
rather than conventional manner. The atmosphere of the city did not
seem upon them. They might rather be the butcher and the grocer of a
small town. One of the pair had sat alone for some time before the
second arrived. I had noticed him. He seemed to have no acquaintances
in the place--which was unusual. He drank two cognacs in rapid
succession--which was still more unusual. One drink always satisfies a
Frenchman at _apéritif_ hour--and it is very seldom cognac.
When the second man entered the other started from his seat and held
out both hands eagerly. "So you got out safe!" were the words I heard;
but our crowd was hurrying toward the door, and I lost the actual
greeting. I ordered another vermouth and waited.
The two men were seated opposite each other. The first man nervously
motioned to the waiter and the newcomer gave his order. It was plain
that they were both excited, but the table adjoining was unoccupied, so
they attracted no attention. The noisy waiter, banging bottles on the
table, drowned out the next few sentences. Then I heard the second man:
"So I got out first, but you managed to get here yesterday--a day in
advance."
The other replied: "I was lucky enough to get a horse. They were
shelling the market place when I left."
The second man gulped his drink and plucked nervously at the other's
sleeve. "My wife is at the hotel," he almost mumbled the words, "I
must tell her--you said the market place. But how about the Rue Jeanne
d'Arc?--her sister lived there. She remained."
"How about the Rue Jeanne d'Arc?" the other repeated. He clucked his
tongue sympathetically. "That was all destroyed in the morning."
The second man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat
from his forehead.