After the convoy's departure Morny was empty. The only Prussians left
were those who held the lines of communication and a few soldiers at the
sugar factory. We walked abroad without meeting the enemy at every turn;
in brief, we felt at home again. We were all like people crushed by a
landslip, who recover their breath, and take on again their former shape
as the earth disappears which overwhelmed them. But, alas, it was out of
the question to forget the past! Empty barns, stables, and poultry-yards
deprived of their inhabitants bore witness to the passage of the
scourge.
Other things also proved that the wind was blowing from the east, whence
came the all-devouring grasshoppers.
One morning, as I came back from a quest after milk, I stood still,
struck with amazement, and followed the example of the dairy-woman in
the fable. I looked at the village steeple, and could make nothing of
the time it proclaimed to the four points of the compass. Old Tassin
happened to pass by.
"Well, Mme. Valaine," said he, "what do you make of this? It is German
time up there. We are Prussians now!"
I lifted up my eyes to the sky, and, seeing the sun, felt easier in my
mind. No change there; it was eight, not nine o'clock. Yet they had made
fruitless attempts to set the sun by the German time I was sure. That is
why I saw officers cast reproachful looks at the sun, which dared tell
the French time in a territory occupied by Germans! That was playing
them false. That was treason, and the sun would rue it bitterly.
A certain regiment, passing through Morny, chanced to trust to the
village clock, and did not reach its goal at the appointed time. The
delay was the cause of a failure, which put some big-wigs with helmets
on into a rage. In short, the village constable was ordered to put the
machine right, the German time being the only right time under the sun.
However, the departure of our guests set us at ease, and the whole
village along with us. As the village might not revictual itself
officially, it revictualled itself by fraud, and as much as possible.
Now there lives in Morny a sympathetic drunkard named Durand. Fond of
quarrelling as he is in his cups, when in a sober state he is a good,
kindly soul. He had been invalided, because his hands were twisted by
gout, and this infirmity rendered him equally unfit for the work of the
fields; so he became a tradesman. He deals usually in rabbit-skins,
scrap-iron, and rags. His business and stock-in-trade consist of a box
set up on two wheels, and drawn by a good-natured yellow dog. Scrap-iron
may hide a good many things, and with a view to present circumstances
our friend contrived to extend his import trade. Far from me to hint
that Durand, in ordinary times, snaps his fingers at the gendarmes and
laughs at the laws, practices as common in our border departments as
unseemly everywhere. But he improvised with the war a wonderful cunning,
thanks to which he smuggled all sorts of necessary things into Morny,
under the Germans' very eyes. In his surprise packet were concealed
butter, grease, chocolate, sugar, to say nothing of candles. The
housewives scrambled for the provisions, which rose almost to the usual
level. The weary dog put out his tongue and laughed, for he knew well
that we were getting the better of the Germans.
He was not the only one to laugh. The peasants, too, laughed in their
sleeves when they saw the Germans stock still in "the mountains." At the
first moment of invasion, the people were struck with dismay. The
arrogant enemy, sure of victory, seemed to meet with no obstacles.
"Handsome men, well armed and equipped. Ah, there is no reason to laugh
at them!" said the old women. They thought the situation hopeless. But
now it was whispered about, "They won't pass 'the mountains'; they won't
cross the Aisne." At this conviction their hearts rose, which yesterday
had been filled with bitterness. Evidently the invaders had been
stopped; they knew not how, but the fact remained.
One morning I encountered a knot of gossips in the street. They talked
of a new attack on Soissons. Mme. Tassin assured us that William had
said they must pass, and pass they must. Without stopping in my walk, I
interjected: "And General Pau said that they won't pass, and pass they
won't." It was reported that a French prisoner had spoken these words in
Laon. Whether General Pau had really expressed himself thus I don't
know. But the Germans gained no more ground; we were sure of that; but
it was no less certain that we were caught in a trap, that we could not
stir a limb. We had good hopes the trial would not last long. All the
same the situation could not be helped, and we resolved to accept it.
In the village, things were going tolerably. While the baker's wife,
gallant soul, made her bread, the work of the fields progressed slowly.
They left the beetroots as long as possible in the earth, expecting that
"our French" would come back before the harvest, which was superb. At
length they had to submit to fate and bury the precious roots in vast
silos. With us the days crawled by like centuries. It is true that the
housekeeping entirely rested with us; it was no use looking for help in
the village; women who had not a good many children to look after were
working out in the fields. Only Mme. Tassin consented from time to time
to come and help us. But how many hours, what long evenings, remained to
fill for six women shut up in a house! What, indeed, can you do at home
but dream if you are a hare, and sew if you are a woman? We sewed.
After Barbu's stay a little petroleum was left, which we used with
miserly care. At dinner we contented ourselves with a night-light, and
when we worked only our heads were allowed to come within the circuit of
the lamp.
We made sets of baby-linen for poor little ones who took it into their
heads to be born into the world, when their fathers had gone off to the
war, and had left larder and purse at home empty. We competed with one
another in the making of caps and shirts. Yvonne is amazingly clever,
and when she has a mind to sew works no end of wonders in a trice. Our
ambition increased with success. We fashioned web-like laces, and our
embroidery might have aroused the jealousy of the fairies. Generally we
kept silence. Sighs frequently answered the guns, and if we talked we
poured out plaints of pity for those who fought, or called up
remembrances of happier days.
"Just think, there are people who get letters!"
We moaned at the thought of our deprivation.
"Lucky people! They know if their relations are dead or alive."
"At this very moment there are some who read the papers!"
"Oh, rage! oh, despair! oh, hostile blockade!"
"And there are some people who know the truth! When shall we see a
newspaper again?"
"At this very moment some are enjoying ... nice things to eat!"
"Oh, for a tea at Rumpelmayer's!"
"Oh, for chocolates from Pihan!"
Such memories did but sharpen the thorn of our hunger. And yet we had
not lost all the pleasures of life. For instance, do you suppose we had
given up having tea in the afternoon? By no means. It is highly
important that women should swallow something good and hot about five
o'clock. Simple toast was the only dainty we allowed ourselves.
Well-buttered toast with a well-sugared cup of tea is not to be
despised. Hold! Toast, yes, but no butter! The little we had was
jealously salted and reserved for cooking. And tea? Do you think tea a
native of the department of the Aisne? Tea was no more to be had. Sugar
was so scarce that we never ate a single lump without a family council
to decide whether it was the proper moment. Fortunately I found a recipe
of my grandmother's at the bottom of my reticule. I requisitioned all
the licorice in Morny. Mme. Lantois' walnut-tree provided us at little
cost with a basketful of green shining leaves. Walnut leaves are like
good women: in the long run they may lose their beauty, but they retain
their virtue. These leaves then, boiled with licorice, gave us a
delicious drink all the winter, which had nothing in common with the
pale decoctions we nowadays moisten our throats with at the end of a
dinner-party. I had been careful to say negligently: "This tea is
excellent for the complexion. Regularly taken, it would greatly improve
the skin, and give it a matchless bloom."
No one ever missed the afternoon tea. This ceremony, indeed, was often
transformed into a great patriotic meeting, vibrating with despair and
lamentations, or with enthusiasm and hope, according to the news of the
day. For news we had, though I said we got none, and it was commented
upon with passion. Our news of course was all unofficial, and evil or
good rode fast. It spread throughout the country; it floated in the air;
it came from every quarter. When I left Mme. Lantois' dairy with a can
full of milk, my pocket was also full of news; likewise if we went to
the baker, or if we called on M. Lonet.
The initiated came back in a hurry, called the whole family to gather
round, and feverishly told the news. We ended by putting a bell in the
dining-room, known as "the war bell." If one of us heard anything fresh,
she rushed into the room and frantically rang the bell. From the garden,
the attic, the bedrooms we flocked, allured by the hope of good tidings.
"What has happened? What is going on?"
Marvellous things always happened.
Periodically--at least twice a month--neighbouring towns were retaken by
the French.
"You know, that cannonade ... so violent ... simply meant that our
soldiers recovered St. Quentin."
Noyon also was reconquered I do not know how many times, and La Fere
retaken with bayonets. Once the news really seemed worthy of belief. The
Germans had put it up in Laon: "La Fere has been in a cowardly manner
retaken by the French." We thought it true. Really, now, who would make
up such an adjective? The Germans had certainly used it. On inquiry it
was found that the adjective, like the news, had been invented, and the
bill had never existed at all. Glorious feats were just as frequent on
the front near us.
"The Route des Dames ... you know?... The French have held it since
yesterday. And to-night they have carried the village of Ailles."
"Really, I thought they took it last week."
"Last week it was a false report; to-day the thing is certain."
And the Allies! Think how they worked!
"Seventy thousand Russians have just landed at Antwerp. The English are
shelling Hamburg. Our Northern army is advancing, yes, it is...;
deliverance will come from the North."
Ah, the secret of making legends is not lost! Popular imagination
invents hundreds of them. But nowadays they cannot live long. Books and
newspapers cut their wings as soon as they are hatched, and the poor
things flutter an instant, and then die. But imagine a corner of a
country like ours, perfectly isolated from the rest of the world for
some ten years, and deprived of all news, all writings; suppose the
peasants should be questioned long after upon the events of the present
war, from their statements you might compose the most beautiful epic
poem ever heard. As in the good old time, its title would be, "The
Gestes of the French by the Grace of God."
Frenchmen, my brothers, I know you were splendid. You fought like lions,
like the heroes that you are. Your glorious feats are too numerous to be
counted. It was our despair not to know them. But, in revenge, we
invented feats for you, fresh ones every day. Once, for instance, the
French, masters of the stone-quarries of Paissy, made good use of a
secret passage, and leaping unexpectedly from out of the ground, flick,
flack, flick, spread death and dismay among the Germans; then, like
jacks-in-the-box, they disappeared as if by magic. Struck with
consternation, the Germans would have thought themselves dreaming had
not too many proofs testified to the reality of the brief apparition.
And what do you think of the _chasseurs a pied_ who, behind a hedge at
Malva, planted a forest of poles with a cap on the top of every one, and
then, when the enemy with loud cries were in the very act of rushing
upon this trap, shot them down to the very last man?
And don't let us forget the Africans. Ten negroes from Senegal--you
understand, ten--sprang out of their trenches on a night as black as
ink--of course we did not know whether negroes were or were not in the
trenches--noiselessly crept along the ground through brushwood and
darkness, and shouting their war-cry bounded forward into the village of
Chamouille. Panic-stricken, the German soldiers fled, while the
officers--seventeen in number--not one more, not one less--let the
Africans cut their throats like so many lambs. The ten negroes lay down
once more, flat on their faces, and crawling along on their hands and
knees, went back to their trenches without a tassel missing from their
caps, without a rent dishonouring their large breeches. These anecdotes
were our daily bread. Innumerable were the villages taken by surprise,
the convoys seized, the batteries triumphantly brought in. We were
always breathless; every one of us lent a half-sceptical ear to
everything that was said, and tried to detect a little truth among all
this fiction. Who invented or transformed the news? It was difficult to
know. Many a time Mr. Nobody-knows-who had confided it to Mrs.
So-and-So, who told it to Mr. Everybody. But generally the information
came from the best sources. If M. H., the Mayor of Laon, had really said
all that was ascribed to him, he had done nothing else but commit the
secrets of our army to the office-porter or the fruiterer over the way.
On the other hand, it is hard to conceive how many secrets our
countrymen extracted from their German guests. Speaking of the officers
to whom they gave hospitality they assumed a mysterious air, and hinted
that, walking delicately, they had elicited from them avowals as
mortifying for their pride as encouraging for us.
But there was another origin, quite modern, for the news no one wanted
to take upon himself. It was no difficult riddle. The news came from
Heaven. Aviators dropped it. Letters had been picked up here and there,
said rumour; some of them were evidently home-made, and were but laughed
at--this one, for instance: "Friends, take courage; reinforcements are
coming." A touching contrivance of some ingenious liar to cheer up his
neighbours!
Other messages, written in a kind of official style, were so precise
that they seemed worthy of attention; and one of them, known throughout
the country as the message of Magny, was for a long time looked upon as
authentic by the most competent judges. Oh, we were very credulous, and
you laugh at us, all of you, who read the papers every morning at your
breakfast. We were so cruelly crushed by the invaders, so uneasy at
hearing nothing, so eager for news which might have been bones for our
anxiety to gnaw that we greedily snatched at all the falsehoods we came
across, and found our mouths a minute after full of sand.
Was there no means of encouraging us? Floods of sentimental ink were
wasted elsewhere upon our fate, but the smallest drop spilt in the
Vernandois or the Laonnois would have done us more good.
We had not deserved thus to be forsaken, for we were admirable. I
maintain, laying aside all useless modesty, I maintain that we were
admirable. Our persons and properties had been given up as hostages. A
line was chalked out on the map; it was the part to be sacrificed. In
this part we were shut up, bodies and souls, with no possibility of
shaking ourselves free. We not only suffered it to be so; we agreed to
the bargain; we resigned ourselves to hunger, misfortune, oppression. We
submitted to see our houses plundered, our forests levelled with the
ground, our lands destroyed, so that the rest of the country might be
safe, the metropolis undamaged, that France herself might be free to
recover her power and to prepare her vengeance. Exposed to violence,
requisitions, even to reprisals, we did not give way; we wished for
victory, never for peace; we thought of France, not of ourselves. But
what unbearable pangs did we bear! We laboured under "the hope deferred
that maketh the heart sick," as the Bible says. Sometimes we seemed to
think the burden too heavy for our strength and impossible to be borne
any longer. What became of us when, in the last days of October, the
Germans arrogantly announced that they had won a victory at Soissons,
that they had broken through, and that they were going on to Paris...?
"Parisse!... Parisse!..."
We were heart-broken by it, sunk in desolation, and when thereupon came
the welcome message of Magny, full of excellent things, although
scandalously false, should we not have believed it true? Rather than not
to have believed it, we should have framed and hung a copy in every
house!
The message of Magny made its appearance on All Saints' Day. On coming
back from the cemetery we watched the shelling of a French aeroplane,
which laughed at its assailant, and the smoke of the shells was like
small round balls gilt by the sun. The cannon rolled furiously in the
direction of Noyon, and we thought: "If they have passed, it is not over
there."
In the village we heard the good news that every one whispered in his
neighbour's ear: "They haven't passed; on the contrary, they have been
soundly beaten at Vailly. Besides, aviators have dropped a letter near
Magny, copies of which are passing from hand to hand."
They have not passed! They have been beaten! Oh, joy! how lovely is the
day! And how near is the Capitol to the Tarpeian Rock! Yesterday we lay
on the ground broken with the shock; to-day, lively and drunk with joy,
we rush with a bound towards the regions of trust and hope!
Our best source of news was Mme. Lantois'. The kitchen of the farm is a
large, gay, bright room, whose painted walls, black and white flags,
glittering copper saucepans, and cages full of song-birds, are pleasant
to the eye. A select society was to be met there about five in the
evening. To find a seat you had to disturb one of the cats which lay
enthroned on all free chairs. To upset a cat is high treason. To remain
standing would have looked uncivil. I used to get out of the scrape by
taking on my lap Gros-Blanc, Ye-Ye, or Belle-Limace, who seemed to
approve of this arrangement.
All tongues were let loose.
First, we exchanged and commented upon the news of the day. What
troops--infantry, cavalry, artillery--had been seen in Morny and its
neighbourhood, whether there were many of them and which direction they
took, whether the trains were loaded with soldiers or ammunition--these
were the questions asked and answered. Then we were told what wounded
soldiers and prisoners had been brought to Laon, and heard what
motor-cars had traversed the village. Twice the Emperor himself was seen
within our gates in an iron-plated car, preceded and followed by two
cars occupied by soldiers armed to the teeth. Upon this occasion the
Prussians of the village posted on both sides of the road had bawled
themselves hoarse to such a degree that they had been obliged to run to
the next cellar in order to moisten their gullets. Hundreds of pairs of
eyes, moreover, had watched the sky and discovered aeroplanes--English
or French--which had been fired at by such and such a battery. The
German flying machines had been disporting themselves here or there. The
captive balloon--"William's sausage"--had perched above certain points.
How many of us had, the night before, observed the signals that came
from Laon or glittered in the "mountains"?
The ears had just as much to do as the eyes. Guns had been fired from
this quarter and that, German cannon or French, ordnance or fieldpiece.
In one direction a mine had been fired. In fine weather we heard the
sound of rifles or the crackling of mitrailleuses. One stormy day the
workmen declared that they had heard the French bugles sound for a
charge. What a fine harvest of news we gathered every evening! What
would we not have given to be able to hand it on to those who might have
turned it to good account! When we had gone all over it again there
followed a warmly conducted debate; we drew conclusions as to the
successes or reverses each side had met with, or as to the positions
they occupied.
But as it is impossible always to be discussing strategy, and as we
could talk only of the war, we fell to telling stories. And many of them
touched upon our general flight before the Germans and its failure.
M. and Mme. Lantois, with their son Rene, a big lad of eighteen, had
tried to run away too--not, like ourselves, on foot, but in a cart drawn
by two stout horses. The prudent hands of the farmer's wife had heaped
up in the bottom of the vehicle two sacks of flour, a keg of wine, a
barrel of salt pork, two hundred eggs, and even thirty bottles of
petroleum. No matter whither they would have to go, they were thus
prepared for any events. The first hours all went well, but near
Nouvion-le-Vineux the fugitives were overtaken by the French army. They
were ordered to draw up on the roadside and wait. Night fell. The
soldiers kept on advancing. A cannon happened to break down and got
somewhat injured. So the weary farmer went to sleep leaning against a
post, while his wife, lantern in hand, gave a light to the poor gunners,
who, cursing and swearing, did their best to mend the damaged wheel. The
stream of men flowed on uninterruptedly till the morning. The good
people, who had kept out of the way all this time, thought the moment
propitious to resume their journey. They put the horses to, and were
about to move forward, when they were startled by a loud shout. Fresh
soldiers were advancing, and ... they were Prussians.
"I am sure," Mme. Lantois said, "that at this point they were not three
miles away from our rearguard."
Horses, cart, provisions, and even petroleum--ogres turn up their noses
at nothing--were swallowed in a mouthful. The three fugitives, despoiled
and abashed, came back on foot to Morny, all whose inhabitants returned
to their houses sheepish and downcast.
In other places the Germans were not even put to the trouble of
despoiling the people, who of their own free will sacrificed to the
new-comers. They mistook them for English soldiers. In Festieux, for
instance, not far from us, the urchins of the village cried out:
"The English are coming!"
And the peasants crowded about them. They had already stripped
themselves for the French, but all the same they were eager to welcome
the Allies. And they poured out wine and coffee, they offered fruit and
biscuits. The woman who told us this story, after she had shared a whole
pail of lemonade among "those poor boys who were so hot," went to the
tallest of the band, a man with gold lace, and, in a very loud voice so
that he might understand French the better, said to him:
"Well, as a reward, you will bring us William's head!"
The man spread out his face in a broad grin, and, wiping his mouth with
the back of his hand, answered:
"We no English, we Germans...."
Tableau!
This comical scene had its tragic side. In the same village were still
two French foot soldiers. A kindly soul ran to call them.
"Come quick, there are English soldiers here! We are all brothers."
Smiling, the soldiers came up.
"You idiots!" they cried, "they are Prussians!"
And, climbing upon a carriage which happened to stand there, they opened
fire upon the invaders.
The Germans replied, a refugee was wounded, the women screamed, all fled
and hid themselves. Of the two courageous soldiers, one, alas, was
killed, and the other taken prisoner.
More than once we heard accounts of the fighting from eye-witnesses.
M. and Mme. Robert, large landowners of Ailles, told us how their
village had been occupied by the enemy. Every day German patrols had
been seen in the place; but one morning the French came back. All fell
into raptures, kissed one another, marvelled at the return, dug up their
treasures, and kept the day as a feast. In the evening the youths of the
village went for a walk with the Zouaves, listening to the warriors'
tales, and the fiddler of the village played madly the sole tune that he
knew.
The next morning, about half-past five, Mme. Robert, looking out of the
window, said to her husband:
"Look, some one is trying to get in through the orchard gate."
In truth, some one was coming in. The Germans had arrived in great
numbers; they sprang up from all sides.
Our soldiers were ready. A close fight took place in the orchards, in
the gardens, in the barns, and chiefly in the big yard of the farm. At
the outset of the skirmish an officer had pushed the inhabitants into
the kitchen:
"Stay there, don't go out."
The defenders of the village had to fight against fearful odds, and yet
many Germans seemed to play their part reluctantly. Some of them took
refuge in the barns, and hid themselves to avoid the scuffle. Then a
captain came up, armed with a kind of whip, the leather thongs of which
were weighted with tiny leaden balls, and with this he vigorously lashed
his soldiers until they returned to the hottest of the fight. The
Zouaves fought like lions, but they were only 250 against an enemy ten
times superior in number, and in spite of their efforts at last gave
way. Another German officer, noticing civilians in a room, cried aloud
with anger, and shut them up in an empty cellar. For a long time the
prisoners heard the noise of the fight going on above their heads, and
little by little it became less violent, and then ceased completely.
Only the third day, in the morning, were the poor people taken out of
the cellar, half-dead with hunger and cold. M. and Mme. Robert were
still dressed as at the moment of the surprise, their naked feet light
slippered, he with a night-cap and white ducks on, she in a
morning-jacket and short petticoats. They were not even allowed to go in
for a minute to eat a bit of food and take clothes and money. It may be
supposed that the German soldiers, always thrifty, had safely put into
their pockets all that was worth stealing. Accompanied by soldiers, the
poor people had to go on foot to Laon, half-naked and starved.
"Going through Chamouille," said Mme. Robert, "I was so hungry that I
ate the potato peelings I found in the street."
In Laon, the prisoners were set at liberty, and they went to relations
of theirs, who did their best to comfort and clothe them.
"Such rich people, too!" concluded the scandalised narrator.
Discussions and stories were not the only things that allured me to the
farm. I had a secret there, the mystery of my life. I realised a dream
cherished since my girlhood--I learned to milk the cows. At nightfall I
jumped out of my window, fled to the warm stable, and there strove hard
to draw milk from Lolotte's distended udders. She was a splendid
large-horned cow, which has since been requisitioned so that her milk
might be reserved for his Excellency the General So-and-So. The good
animal mistook me for an awkward calf, and, looking at me with
commiseration, endeavoured to lick me tenderly. Oh, we acquired many
talents we never had dared to aspire to before the war. We sawed wood,
we dug in the garden. And everywhere it was the same; all tried to make
up with their imagination and their work for the many things that were
wanting. Rene Lantois contrived an excellent blacking with soot and wax.
Our neighbours grated and boiled their beetroots and so made treacle
that they used instead of sugar, while a grocer manufactured sweets
which were a great success among the urchins of the place. And the
forest saw more women cutting wood than ever it had seen men.
When we were dissatisfied with the local products, we went off to Laon.
I think that a longing for movement peculiar to all captive animals
chiefly drew us to such adventures.
Laon may be small and provincial, but while you are there it gives you
the impression of a town. You see tall houses, narrow streets, and
policemen just as you see them in a capital. Booksellers, chemists, and
dentists smile at you at every corner of the streets. These
institutions, which civilised people cannot do without, are scarcely to
be met in Morny. Therefore, and despite the uncertain times we lived in,
we rarely let a fortnight pass without organising an expedition to our
county town. Two or three of us went off, accompanied by the anxiety and
good wishes of the family, and returned home in triumph, bringing back
good news, balls of thread and worsted for our needles, and on lucky
days a few pounds of provisions.
Thus it was that Yvonne and I went once to Laon on foot--the only method
of travelling at our disposal--with our neighbour Mme. Lantois. Our
shopping done, we could not help going in the direction of the "Agence,"
a big building, a sort of agricultural Exchange, in which French
soldiers were being nursed. Of course we were forbidden to visit the
prisoners. But by good luck, two hundred and fifty of them were just
starting for Germany, and we had but to wait a moment for them. We saw
them go down the flight of steps, limping and looking piteous and ill.
They fell into line on the foot pavement. Oh, what sad happiness it was
to see once more their dear caps, their red trousers, their lively
faces, when we had met only wooden heads for nearly two months. Many
were too weak to stand, and they dropped on benches, or on the steps of
the staircase. A Turco sat down on the pavement with a far-away air.
"Mektoub!" As they were going away we wanted to get something to give
them. Not a shop was open save the chemist's over the way. We went in to
buy cough lozenges of all kinds. Owing to the circumstance the chemist
let his whole stock go at the lowest possible price, and his wife loaded
us with piles of handkerchiefs. So we divided our poor gifts right and
left. A big dark-haired lad felt the fine linen with pleasure.
"A handkerchief! Think, these last two months I never had one!"
Their guardians did not prevent us from talking to the prisoners, but
when they caught sight of an officer they sent us rudely away. Most of
the captives had been wounded and taken in the neighbourhood of Craonne,
Berry-au-Bac, and La Ville au Bois. They did not complain, said they had
been pretty well treated, but they were unanimous in adding:
"The English are most wretched; they are tormented in every possible
way."
Presently we saw the English prisoners get down the steps in their turn,
half a dozen big, thin men with worn countenances that moved our pity.
A stout German under-officer thought well to give us his opinion: "Here
are the English!" said he. "Look at their pigs' heads. They ought all to
be shot; not the French," he added, to be agreeable, "only the English."
We wanted the poor Tommies to have their share too. As I was threading
my way through the crowd and they were stretching out their hands, their
guardian, with a blow of his large claws, swept away the boxes of sweets
and put them into his pocket, amid the laughs of his comrades. It was
too late to make good the German's mischief, for the soldiers were
already moving forward. The less injured limped quickly away, a car
drove the others to the station, into which no civilian was allowed to
penetrate, and after many salutations we watched them go to captivity
with a sad heart.
Our visits to the county town were not all marked by such incidents. One
day, Yvonne was copying--in order not to lose a word--the official
reports, in which we read: German victory here, Prussian success there,
Austrian army advancing this way, English forces retreating in that one,
and, believing nothing of it, she burst out laughing as she traced the
news with her ironical pencil. A stern-looking sergeant came up and
announced:
"You not laugh, townspeople, all that true."
But we laughed all the same. Every one laughed at those reports, the
sincerity of which was doubtful, which appeared to us still more false
than they were, and which yet were the only threads which connected us
with the rest of the world.
Fortunately, the benevolent Germans resolved to keep us informed of
what going on, and published a weekly paper at Laon, the _Journal
de was Guerre_, which appeared for the first time in November. The
purpose of this publication, we were told, was to let the invaded
know the truth about the war. Oh! a German truth, of course, carefully
dressed up, for their self-respect prevents our enemy from showing
us unveiled so indiscreet a person as Truth. And the people laughed
more than ever. They laughed from Sissonne to La Fere, from Anizy
to Marle. I must say that the newspaper was--according to us, if not
to the authors--ludicrous both in matter and manner. It was written
in a language closely connected with the French. With a knowledge of
philology and some application you managed to make out even the
obscurest sentences. Thus, after a little practice, we succeeded in
reading the new idiom quite fluently, if we were still unable to
appreciate its niceties.
The first number of this precious periodical was a real poem. It was
addressed to "the high and chivalrous sentiments of the true French
nation." Its authors did not despair of explaining to the French nation
that its Government and its Allies had shamefully deceived it, and hoped
that it would soon see who was really responsible for the war, what
humane and disinterested part Germany had borne in the whole affair. In
another article peace was openly hinted at, and the author set forth the
advantages which France would get if she listened to reason, that is, if
she abandoned the Allies and sided with gentle Germany. And then,
forgetful of all reserve, the Germans added that, in case of peace, the
Government, far from requiring a contribution of war, would probably be
inclined to "build a bridge of gold to France"--what a good promise we
had there!--as Bismarck did in '66 to Austria. "It seemed weakness," the
profound politician added; "it was strength." If the learned members of
the German Universities had but attended a common school in France, they
would have learned that which our La Fontaine wrote: "If we force our
talent, we shall do nothing with grace." Maybe they had understood that
sweet manners are not congenial to their nature, that the voice of the
cannon alone suits their temper. We should not see them propose to
France with bows and smiles the fate of vassal that Austria had
accepted in '66. On the second page, the _Journal de Guerre_ magnified
the capture of Antwerp, and described its consequences in pompous
phrases. Then the author of a small and acid article concerning the
relations of France and Russia concluded with this sentence, as witty as
it is nicely turned:
"Varus, Varus, give me back my millions and my billions! If Russia
listens to that! It is very doubtful!" This is a literal translation.
Indeed, we laughed. Not a Homeric laugh, of course, stifled laughter
maybe, a tittering rather than a hearty laugh, a catching laugh which
the enemy might have happened to overhear, a real laugh all the same. We
should have felt doubly prisoners if we had not made fun of our jailers,
and to be prisoners only once was quite sufficient.
As we knew German, we fell upon the papers we came across and bitterly
enjoyed the high praises they bestowed on their high deeds. They
pleasantly jeered at the "parti-coloured army" of the Allies, at the
negroes who, according to them, "tremble with cold like a leaf tossed by
the wind," which, the Prussian libellers added, must produce a bad
effect in a battle.
A number of _Simplicissimus_ completed our edification. The proud
German Michael was represented spitting his seven foes on his mighty
sword. The Cossacks, bullying women and children, turn up the whites of
their eyes at the sight of a single Uhlan, and fall on their knees. In
Lorraine the German soldiers, by way of a change, leave off firing at
the French: "Let us keep a few of them to kill with bayonets," they say.
In conclusion, an Englishman helps his little Japanese monkey up the
noble oak-tree where the German eagle is perched: "Go on," he says, "try
to pluck some feathers from his tail."