It is the eleventh of November, a date future generations will look
back to as the greatest in modern history; a date which marks the end
of the most brutal and aggressive war. The horrible nightmare is over,
and the "superman" vanquished, pray God, for all time.
We who have lived through these long tragic years, who have seen with
what fortitude and patience the darkest hours have been borne, when
storm-clouds blackened the skies and hope hid her face—we tremble with
longing for Peace, can scarcely believe it can be true. The hope has
dwelt so long in our hearts, the realization has seemed so impossible.
All the morning the town was alive with rumors—a word, a suggestion,
a guess, all light as a zephir, but gaining stability as they
spread—until people crowding in the streets with radiant faces and
happy eyes, became aware of the certitude of Victory as yet unannounced:
"Is it true the boches are beaten?"
"Have we the victory?"
"Foch has signed today."
"The Kaiser has fled."
"The Crown Prince is killed."
A hundred such-like reports were tossed about, nothing definite but
a happy expectancy on all the grinning faces. I met the mayor at 11
o'clock.
"Ah, Ah, Monsieur le Maire, voici la Victoire; What? (There is
Victory?)"
"But non, Madame, not yet, it is not official."
"But at least we can pavoise (beflag)?"
"Non, non, Madame, pas encore, but—" with a twinkling eye, "you can
have your flags ready."
All along the streets are little groups of people chattering excitedly,
joined constantly by new-comers; itinerant newsmongers, each with his
own special brand of rumor. At the Place de l'Eglise, a large crowd has
gathered, waiting for the bells, so long silent, now perhaps to ring in
a new era for humanity. The postmaster, a functionary of importance in
our little town, is gesticulating and laughing with the commandant de
place. Peasants, shopkeepers, doughboys, Red Cross nurses, Poilus and
Belgian wounded, priests, children, old and young, are all crowding,
jostling, each with perfect good humor.
Flags spring forth on house-fronts, little fluttering lines of bunting
stretch across from window to window, flowers appear in buttonholes,
out of church-tower windows lean the bell ringers; a little French flag
has been hoisted high on the tower, the first in four years.
"Will the great news never come?"
Presently a loud clattering of sabots; the schools are out, 'round
the corner they stream at full speed, twenty abreast, little chaps
from eight to twelve, their pink faces aglow, their capes streaming
in the wind, a tricolor grasped in red fists, bobbing in front line.
Dear little chaps, each has lost someone—a brother or a father—one's
eyes fill with tears of relief of what they have escaped, these little
citizens of the future, they at least can grow to the fulness of
manhood without a dreadful menace hanging over them. The world is safe
for them.
[Illustration]
The clock points to 3. Suddenly a great peal of bells rings out on the
sunny November air; louder and louder the sound reverberates over the
autumn trees and far out to sea, loud and clear and joyous, carrying
the glorious news over land and water to the hearts of the waiting
people.
Ah! ring, bells of France! Ring out over all this beautiful martyred
land, over towns and villages, over country, river, sea. Messengers
of God, bringing joy and hope. Ring in long, swelling notes, full of
harmony and Peace. Bring to all who listen the certitude of victory;
the knowledge that the vast sacrifices have not been in vain; that
Peace soon will spread her healing breath over this sore-tried nation.
As the carillons ring, a shout bursts out, people weep, laugh, embrace
each other. They sob and cheer in the same breath, all hearts united in
one over-whelming wave of gratitude and thanksgiving.
Then a slow booming from the cannon at Saint-Malo sounds across the
water—only a few days ago what fears it would have caused—but today,
thrice blessed guns!
The doughboys raise a terrific shouting; some whistle, shriek,
cat-call; tin pans are banged as cymbals; a procession is formed,
French and Belgians with their flags in front, singing the
"Marseillaise," then the Yanks, cheering and dancing arm in arm, thirty
abreast, zigzaging down the boulevard. I ran out with some thirty small
national flags, and in a second they were whipped out of my arms and
went careering away over the heads of the shouting men.
The procession swept on, catching up bystanders; infirmières had
flags thrust at them, and joined the ranks, their white veils and
dresses gleaming ahead; some of the Americans picked up the tiny
children, carrying them shoulder high, the kiddies clutching them in
a stranglehold, their necks craning to see their mothers and sisters
running along the sidewalk near them.
The crowd swings on to visit the hospitals, to salute their wounded
comrades, to the mairie, to the commandant de place, singing "Over
There," the "Star-Spangled Banner," the "Marseillaise," and "la
Brabançonne." There was no bed that day for the wounded, operation
or no operation they hung out of the windows and balconies, to the
horror of their nurses, waving handkerchiefs, towels, pillow-slips,
slippers—anything that came to hand. One boy, with the Croix de Guerre
and four other medals, hobbled out on the terrace, waved a crutch, sang
the first verse of the "Marseillaise," and then fainted dead away.
Another hung over a balcony cheering himself hoarse, when remonstrated
with and told to remember his operation of two days ago, declared he
didn't care if he had to spend six more weeks in bed, he had been
wounded five times for his country's good, and now he would have one
for his own pleasure.
All the afternoon, little bands marched up and down, a group of
Belgians with an accordion, the player with an arm in a sling clutching
it somehow, playing the "Brabançonne." Yanks decked out in paper caps
and tricolor ribbons, arm in arm with singing girls, sky-larking
about the town. All the week, festivities have been in full swing, in
the cafes, the hotels, the American Y.M.C.A.—entertainments, flags,
cheering, songs, music, games—the world is alive again, and fear,
death, horror banished.
So it is all over France. Paris is delirious with joy. I quote from a
letter from a French officer:
"The enthusiasm is indescribable! Sammies, Tommies, Poilus, Midinettes,
dance the farandele in the streets, singing. More serious people
content themselves with round dances on the sidewalks; the girls have
their hair tied with tricolor ribbons, the men wear colored paper caps.
Actresses are singing on the street corners, waving flags. Add to this
the firing of cannon and bombs as if we were back in the evil days
of avions last spring. Your compatriots, colder and more phlegmatic,
content themselves with firing their revolvers in the air. I hope they
withdrew the bullets. In every street are corteges with flags, drums,
trumpets. 'Marseillaise' sang, shouted, whistled. Some drag the German
cannons surmounted by poilus, from the Place de la Concorde; on all
sides a sea of heads; impossible to cross the Avenue de la Opera, but
every one is 'bon-enfant,' and there have been no fights.
"On the boulevards are great 'Transparents' with Foch, Wilson and
Clemenceau's portraits. The crowd stands all day and all night
acclaiming them. Clemenceau himself ventured out on the boulevards, and
only escaped suffocation from his too ardent admirers, by rushing into
the Grand Hotel and having the portes cocheres closed."
As soon as the news of the signing of the armistice was known in
official circles yesterday morning, the Paris Municipal Council
sent out, to be posted all over the city, a stirring appeal to the
population to celebrate the greatest victory ever won. The poster read
as follows:
"Inhabitants of Paris"
"Victory! Triumphant Victory! On all fronts the defeated enemy has laid
down his arms! Blood will cease to flow!
"Let Paris throw off the noble reserve for which she has been admired
by the whole world.
"Let us give free course to our joy and enthusiasm and hold back our
tears.
"To show our infinite gratitude to our magnificent soldiers and their
incomparable leaders, let us decorate all our houses with the French
colors and those of our dear allies.
"Our dead may rest in peace. The sublime sacrifice they have made of
their lives to the future of the race and the salvation of France will
not be in vain.
"For them, as for us 'the day of glory has arrived.'
"Vive la Republique!
"Vive la France immortelle!
"For the Municipal Council,
"Adrien Mithouard, President.
"Chausse, Chassaigne-Goyon, Adolphe Chérioux, Henri Rouselle,
Vice-Presidents;
"Georges Pointel, Le Corbeiller, Lemarchand, Fiancette, Secretaries;
"Andre Gent, Syndic."