Produced by Al Haines
[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 OF
MERCY," 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 custom
to drive over to Château-Thierry every Friday afternoon. The horses,
needing no guidance, would always pull up at the same spot in front of
the station from which point of vantage, between a lilac bush and the
switch house, I would watch for the approaching express that was to
bring down our week-end guests.
A halt at the bridge head would permit our friends to obtain a
bird's-eye view of the city, while I purchased a measure of
fresh-caught, shiny-scaled river fish, only to be had of the old
boatman after the arrival of the Paris train. Invariably there were
packages to be called for at Berjot's grocery store, or Dudrumet's dry
goods counter, and then H. having discovered the exact corner from
which Corot painted his delightful panorama of the city, a pilgrimage
to 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 passing
through 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 the
Riviera, have, at various seasons been more attractive, not only to
foreigners, but to the Parisians themselves, so aside from the art
lovers who made special trips to Rheims, there was comparatively little
pleasure travelling in our immediate neighbourhood, and yet what
particular portion of France is more historically renowned? Is it not
on those same fertile fields so newly consecrated with our blood that
every struggle for world supremacy has been fought?
It would be difficult to explain just why this neglect of the lovely
East; neglect which afforded us the privilege of guiding our friends,
not only along celebrated highways, but through leafy by-paths that
breathed 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 so
beloved of the Barbizon master, and sympathetic even by the names of
the tiny hamlets which dotted its vine-covered hills.
Our nearest dealer in agricultural machines lived in a place called
Gaudelu. We called him "MacCormick" because of his absolute and
loquacious partiality for those American machines, and to reach his
establishment we used to pass through delightful places called le Grand
Cormont, Neuilly-la-Poterie, Villers-le-Vaste.
As I write these lines (July, 1918) the station at Château-Thierry is
all of that city that remains in our hands. The bridge head has become
the most disputed spot on the map of Europe; "The Elephant" a heap of
waste in No Man's Land, while doubtless from the very place where Corot
painted his masterpiece, a German machine gun dominating the city is
belching forth its ghastly rain of steel.
That very country whose obscurity was our pride is an open hook for
thousands of eager allies and enemies, while on the lips of every wife
and mother, from Maine to California, Belleau Woods have become words
full of fearful portent. I often wonder then, if the brave Americans
who are actually disputing inch by inch my home and its surroundings
have ever had time to think that a little village known as "Ecoute s'il
pleut," might find its English equivalent in "Hark-how-it-rains!"
Two touching accounts of the second descent upon our country have come
to my hands. A little orphan peasant lad, under army age, who fled
with our caravan four years since, now pointer in the French
artillery--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 say
as much for my grandparents, for you doubtless know what has again
befallen our country. All the inhabitants have been evacuated.
I am absolutely without news of my grandparents. I learned to-day
through a word from my brother Alfred that they had been obliged to
leave home and had fled in an unknown direction. In spite of the
rumour 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 in
the Yonne.
My brother was obliged to go the next day, and at the present time is
at Rozoy-en-Brie. I believe we made a halt there in 1914 when we fled
as refugees. After three days at Rozoy, Alfred could stand it no
longer, and with three companions they started home on bicycles, in
order to see what had happened. They reached Villiers to find every
house empty, and were almost instantly expulsed by shells. So now we
are all scattered to the four winds of heaven. I am so sad when I
think of my poor grand-parents, obliged to leave home and to roll along
the high-roads at their age. What misery!
I am afraid our village is going to suffer much more than it did in
1914. That horde of scoundrels will spare nothing! And when will it
all be over?
I hope that my letter will find you well and happy, and I beg you to
believe 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 get
away," writes Monsieur Aman Jean, the well-known painter, who had a
home in Château-Thierry. "The situation was becoming unbearable and we
three were the last to leave our unfortunate city. Behind us an army
engineer blew up the post and telegraph office, the military buildings,
the station, the store house, and finally the bridge. Our eyes were
beginning to smart terribly, which announced the presence of mustard
gas, and told us we had left none too soon.
"I will never forget the sight and the commotion of the road leading
from Château-Thierry to Montmirail. Interminable lines of army
transports on one side counterbalanced by the same number of fleeing
civilians going in the opposite direction. Now and then a farm cart
would pull aside to let a heavy military truck get by, and one can
hardly imagine the state of a highway that is encumbered by a double
current of refugees and soldiers hastening towards the front. The
painful note was made by the unfortunate civilians who had put on their
Sunday clothes, the only way they had of saving them. As to the
picturesque, it was added by the multitude of little donkeys trotting
beneath the weight of the machine guns, and by the equipment of the
Italian troops. There were bright splashes of colour here and there,
together with a heroic and lamentable animation. It impressed me most
violently. It was wonderfully beautiful and pathetically horrible.
"On one side old people, women and children formed a long straggling
cortège; while on the other--brilliant youth constituted a homogeneous
and 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 Government
Offices, the banks, the prefecture and the post office without the
slightest alarm. The retreat was well advanced ere they dreamed of it.
When finally the people realised that the enemy was at their very
gates, 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 Hun
wreaked his vengeance, not only on our armies, but our innocent
civilians and their possessions. Shot and shell, organised looting and
cruelty, were employed to cow the intrepid spirit of the French, but
without success. When, finally their retreat came, hands were quick to
repair material damage, refugees swiftly returned, and even the
September rains joined in the effort to purify the fields which had
been so ruthlessly polluted.
With the Hun on the Aisne, and a victory to our credit, there wasn't
even a pause for breath. A new life seemed to surge forth, and all
bent their energies towards effacing every trace of what had seemed
like a hideous nightmare. Even the Eastern Railway, which had been
closed on account of the destruction of some seven or eight bridges
over the Marne, broke all records by repairing or replacing them in
eleven days' time. And while this had no direct bearing upon our
situation, the moral effect of even _hearing_ the train-loads of men
and munitions passing through our region, was certainly surprising.
Little by little things began to assume their normal aspect. Not that
they ever entirely regained it, for there was always the dull rumbling
of the cannon to remind us of bygone terrors, while the establishment
of several emergency hospitals in the vicinity lent an animation to the
highroads, formerly dotted with private cars, but now given over
entirely to ambulances and supply trucks.
As to the uniforms, they quickly became such accustomed sights that a
youthful civilian would have been the novelty.
Buoyed up by the success of our armies, every one expected an early
peace, and even the busiest of us began making projects for the fair
future. In the odd moments of relief from my somewhat onerous hospital
duties, my only pleasure and distraction was to build castles in the
air, and in the eternal Winter lights I laid many a plan for a little
boudoir 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 different
times had filled the rooms of the château, converted into wards, had
been very deft at repairing everything in the way of furniture that the
Germans had defaced or neglected to appropriate. There were many
skilful carpenters and cabinet makers among them, and I saw visions of
employing them at their own trade, producing both occupation, which
they craved, and funds which they needed, but were too proud to accept
as 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 old
bourgeois who lived in a little city called La Ferté-Milon, quite a bit
north of us. The walls of his salon were ornamented with some charming
eighteenth century paper representing the ports of France, and in
excellent condition. I had long coveted it for my boudoir, and in days
before the war had often dickered with him as to price. I now feared
lest it should have been destroyed or disfigured, and regretted having
wished to drive too keen a bargain, but on finding it intact, I am
ashamed to say the collector's instinct got the better of the woman,
and I used every conceivable argument to persuade him to come to my
price. 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 your
money, but the world will be minus one more good thing, and we've lost
too many of those already."
The withering glance with which this remark was received was as good as
any discourse on patriotism.
"The Germans back here? Never! Why at the rate we're going now it
will be all over before Spring and you'll see what a price my paper
will 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 of
the most hateful warfare ever known. In all the universe it seemed to
me that the wild animals were the only creatures really exempt from
preoccupation about the fray. It might be war for man and the friends
of man, but for them had come an unexpected reprieve, and even the more
wary soon felt their exemption from pursuit. Man was so busy fighting
his own kind that a wonderful armistice had unconsciously arisen
between him and these creatures, and so birds and beasts, no longer
frightened by his proximity, were indulging in a perfect revel of
freedom.
During the first weeks of the conflict, the "cotton-tails," always so
numerous on our estate, were simply terrified by the booming of the
guns. If even the distant bombardment assumed any importance, they
would disappear below ground completely, for days at a time. My old
foxhound was quite disconcerted. But like all the rest of us they soon
became accustomed to it, and presently displayed a self assurance and a
familiarity 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 pheasants
strutting along the roadside like any barnyard hen and chickens, and
one recalled with amazement the times when stretching themselves on
their claws they would timidly and fearfully crane their necks above
the 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 in
the army zone, weazels, pole cats and even fox have become very
numerous, and covey of quail that once numbered ten and fifteen, have
singularly diminished by this incursion of wild animals, not to mention
the hawks, the buzzards and the squirrels.
One Autumn morning I appeared at our gateway just in time to see a
neighbour'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 were
picturesquely profane to say the least. Presently the scene grew in
violence, and then finally terminated with the assertion that the whole
tragedy was the result of the Kaiser's having thrown open the German
prisons and turned loose his vampires on France.
Be that as it may, there was certainly no more enchanting way of
obtaining mental and physical relaxation than in wandering through
those wonderful woodlands that abound in our vicinity, and which
breathed so many inspirations to the Master of Fable, who at one time
was their keeper. How I wish that good La Fontaine might have seen his
dumb friends under present circumstances. What fantasies would he not
have woven about them.
Season and the temperature were of little importance. There was never
a promenade without an incident--never an incident, no matter how
insignificant, that did not remind me of the peculiar phase under which
every living creature was existing.
Once in the very early Spring, taking my faithful Boston bull, we stole
away for a constitutional. Suddenly my little companion darted up
close to the hedgerow, and on hurrying to the scene to find out the
cause of this departure from her usual dignified demeanour, I found her
standing face to face with a hare! Both animals, while startled, were
rooted to the spot, gazing at each other in sheer fascination of their
own fearlessness. It was so amazingly odd that I laughed aloud. But
even this did not break the spell. It lasted so long that presently
even I became a little puzzled. Finally it was the hare who settled
the question by calmly moving away, without the slightest sign of
haste, leaving my bull dog in the most comical state of concern that I
have ever seen.
It was about this time that _Fil-de-Ver_, our donkey, decided to
abandon civilised life in favour of a more roaming career in the woods,
which he doubtless felt was his only true vocation. He had fared ill
at the hands of the Germans, and during the entire Winter our own boys
had used him regularly to haul dead wood. This kind of _kultur_ he
resented distinctly, and resolved to show his disgust by becoming more
independent.
First he tried it out for a day or two at a time. Then he was gone a
week, and finally he disappeared altogether.
Being of sociable disposition he joined a little herd of deer which was
the pride and joy of our woods, and one afternoon I came upon this
motley company down by a little lick we had arranged on the brink of a
tiny 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 there
by the fast sinking sun. _Fil-de-Fer_ stood a moment undecided.
Presently, lifting his hind legs high into the air he gave vent to a
series of kickings and contortions which might have been taken for a
comical imitation, while a second later as though realising how
ridiculous he had been, he fell to braying with despair, and breaking
into 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 what
kind of animal the _Loup-garou_ might be, was somewhat difficult to
ascertain. No one in our vicinity had ever seen him, and from all I
could gather he seemed to be a strange sort of apocalyptic beast,
gifted with horns, extraordinary force, and the especial enemy of
mankind.
There was something almost uncanny in the way the peasants would look
at one and lower their voices when speaking of this weird phenomenon,
and presently from having suspected my innocent donkey, I began to
wonder if I were not in the presence of some local popular superstition.
The rumour was still persistent, when one evening at dark there was an
urgent call from Headquarters asking that we send down for four or five
patients that were destined for our hospital. I do not now recall for
just 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 received
from an old peasant woman who met our cart on the high-road just before
we turned off into the Bois du Loup.
Night, black and starless, was upon us before we had penetrated half a
mile into the woods. My youthful companion began to sing martial airs,
and stimulated his courage by beating time with his feet on the bottom
of the cart. A chill Autumn rain commenced to fall, tinkling against
the rare leaves that now remained on the trees, blinding both horse and
driver, and greatly impeding our progress. Presently I noticed that
our lantern had gone out, and fearing lest we be borne down upon by
some swift moving army truck, I produced a pocket lamp and descended
from my seat.
A handful of damp matches, much time and good humour were consumed ere
I succeeded in getting a light, and just as I swung the lantern back
into place, the air was pierced by a high-pitched, blood-curdling
shriek!
_Le Loup_ . . . !
At the same moment there was a sharp crackling on the opposite side of
the 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 pull
himself together and murmured incoherent syllables. Personally, I was
a bit unnerved, yet somewhat reassured. If my eyes had not deceived
me, the mystery of the _Loup-garou_ was now solved. And yet I felt
quite sure that wild boar were unknown in our region.
At Château-Thierry I made enquiries and from soldiers and foresters
learned that heretofore inhabitants of the Ardennes forest, these
animals had been driven South when man had chosen to make the firing
line of their haunts; and that, prolific breeders, they were now
practically a menace to the unarmed civilian. From these same lovers
of nature I gathered that for the first time in their recollection
sea-gulls and curlews had likewise been seen on the banks of the Marne.
While the country now abounds in newcomers, many of the old familiar
birds and animals are rapidly disappearing.
Larks are rare visitors these days, and the thrush which used to hover
over our vineyards in real flocks, have almost entirely vanished. The
swallows, however, are our faithful friends and have never failed to
return to us.
Each succeeding Spring their old haunts are in a more or less
dilapidated condition according to the number of successful visits the
German aviators have chosen to pay us during the Winter, and I fancy
that this upsets them a trifle. For hundreds of generations they have
been accustomed to nest in the pinions of certain roofs, to locate in a
determined chimney, and it is a most amusing sight to see them cluster
about a ruined spot and discuss the matter in strident chirpings.
Last season, after a family consultation, which lasted well nigh all
the morning, and during which they made repeated visits of inspection
to a certain favourite drain pipe, I suddenly saw them all lift wing
and sail away towards the North. My heart sank. Something near and
dear seemed to be slipping from me, and one has said _au revoir_ so oft
in vain. So they too were going to abandon me!
In one accustomed to daily coping with big human problems, such emotion
may seem trivial, but it was perhaps this constant forced endurance
that kept one up, made one almost supersensitively sentimental. Little
things grew to count tremendously.
At lunch time I sauntered forth quite sad at heart, when an unexpected
familiar twittering greeted my ear, and I turned northward to see my
little friends circling about the stables. Life closer to the front
had evidently not offered any particular advantages, and in a few days'
time their constant comings and goings from certain specific points
told me that they had come back to stay.
But if friend swallow may be praised for his fidelity, unfortunately
not so much can be said for another familiar passerby--the wild duck.
October had always seen them flocking southward, and some one of our
household had invariably heard their familiar call, as at daybreak they
would pass over the château on their way from the swamps of the Somme
to the Marais de St. Gond. The moment was almost a solemn one. It
seemed to mark an epoch in the tide of our year. Claude, Benôit,
George and a decrepit gardener would abandon all work and prepare
boats, guns and covers on the Marne.
Oh, the wonderful still hours just before dawn! Ah, that
indescribable, intense, yet harmonious silence that preceded the
arrival of our prey!
Alas, all is but memory now. Claude has fallen before Verdun, Benôit
was killed on the Oise, and George has long since been reported missing.
Alone, unarmed, the old gardener and I again awaited the cry of our
feathered friends, but our waiting, like that of so many others, was in
vain. 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 the
Autumn nights, above the distant rumble of the cannon rose only the
plaintive cry of stray dogs baying at the moon.
Dogs, _mon Dieu_, I wonder how many of those poor, forgotten, abandoned
creatures 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 a
moment; 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 poor
brute that has lost home and master!
It is thus that I came into possession of an ill tempered French poodle
called _Crapouillot_, which the patients in our hospital insisted on
clipping like a lion with an anklet, a curl over his nose and a puff at
the end of his tail. A most detestable, unfortunate beast, always to
be found where not needed, a ribbon in his hair, and despicably bad
humoured.
He was succeeded by a Belgian sheep dog, baptised _Namur_, who in time
gave place to one of the most hopelessly ugly mongrels I have ever
seen. But the new comer was so full of life and good will, had such a
comical way of smiling and showing his gleaming white teeth, that in
memory of the joy caused by the Charlie Chaplin films, he was
unanimously dubbed _Charlot_.
The mere sound of his name would plunge him into ecstasies of joy,
accompanied by the wildest yapping and strange capers, which invariably
terminated by a double somersault in the mud so anxious was he to
convince us of his gratitude. Imagine then what might be obtained by a
caress, or a bowl of hot soup.
Last in line, but by no means least, was a splendid English pointer, a
superb, finely bred animal, who day in, day out would lie by the open
fire, lost in a profound revery that terminated in a kind of sob.
Poor, melancholy _Mireille_, what master was she mourning? For what
home 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 delicate
head 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 will
ever and eternally belong to him to whom you gave yourself once and
entirely. But these are sad anxious days for us all; we must bear
together. And so as my own dogs have often been my only consolation in
like times of misery and despair, oh, how I would love to comfort
you--beautiful, faithful, disconsolate Mireille!"
II
Cities, like people, seem to have souls, deep hidden and rarely ever
entirely revealed. How well must one come to know them, stone by
stone, highways, homes and habitants, ere they will disclose their
secret. I have rejoiced too often in the splendid serenity of St. Jean
des Vignes, felt too deeply the charm of those ancient streets, hoped
and suffered too intensely within its confines that Soissons should not
mean 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 stately
mansions, your magnificent gardens? What has become of those fifteen
or sixteen hundred brave souls who loved you so well that they refused
to leave you? _Qui sait_?
One arrived at Soissons in war time by long avenues, shaded on either
side by a double row of stately elms, whose centenary branches
stretching upward formed an archway overhead. Then came the last
outpost of Army Police, a sentinel stopped you, minutely examined your
passports, verified their visés, and finally, all formalities
terminated, one entered what might have been the City of Death.
Moss and weeds had sprung up between the cobble stone pavings; as far
as eye could see not a human soul was astir, not a familiar noise was
to be heard, not a breath of smoke stole heavenwards from those
hundreds of idle chimneys: and yet life, tenacious ardent life was
wonderfully evident here and there. A curtain lifted as one passed, a
cat on the wall, a low distant whistle, clothes drying at a window, a
flowering plant on a balcony, sometimes a door ajar, through which one
guessed a store in whose dimly lighted depths shadows seemed to be
moving about; all these bore witness to an eager, undaunted existence,
hidden for the time being perhaps, but intense and victorious, ready to
spring forward and struggle anew in admirable battles of energy and
conscience.
The Hotel du Soleil d'Or offered a most hospitable welcome. It was the
only one open or rather, if one would be exact, the only one still
extant. To be sure there were no panes in the windows, and ungainly
holes were visible in almost all the ceilings, but the curtains were
spotlessly white and the bed linen smelled sweet from having been dried
in the open air.
A most appreciable surprise was the excellent _cuisine_, and as
ornament to the dining-room table, between a pair of tall preserve
dishes, and on either side of the central bouquet, stood an unexploded
German shell. One of them had fallen on to the proprietor's bed, the
second landing in the pantry, while twenty or thirty others had worked
more efficiently, as could be attested by the ruins of the carriage
house, 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 to
cross the threshold, however, your eye would be instantly greeted by a
most abominable heap of plaster and wreckage, and the jovial proprietor
seeing your embarrassment, would explain:
"My wife and the servants are all for cleaning up, but to my mind it's
better to leave things just as they are. Besides if we put all to
rights now, when our patrons return they will never credit half we tell
them. 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, this
instinct of the active ant that immediately commences to rebuild its
hill, obliterated by some careless foot, has become as characteristic
of the French.
The Sisters of St. Thomas de Villeneuve, who were in charge of an
immense 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 the
subject. His stock in trade consisted of furniture, china and crockery
of all kinds, housed beneath a glass roof, which seemed to attract the
Boches' special attention, for during the four years of war just past,
I believe that scarcely a week elapsed during which he was not directly
or indirectly the victim of their fire.
The effects were most disastrous, but aided by his wife and an elderly
man who had remained in their employ, he would patiently recommence
scrubbing, sweeping and cleaning, carefully reinstating each object or
fragment thereof, in or as near as possible to its accustomed place.
It was nothing less than miraculous to survey those long lines of
wardrobes that seemed to hold together by the grace of the Almighty
alone; gaze upon whole rows of tables no one of which had the requisite
number of legs; behold mere skeletons of chairs, whose seats or backs
were missing; sofas where gaping wounds displayed the springs; huge
piles 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 were
indiscreet enough to touch them.
"I don't see the point in straightening things out so often"--was my
casual comment.
"Why, Madame, what on earth would we do about the inventory when peace
comes, if we were not to put a little order into our stock?" was the
immediate reply.
I was sorry I had spoken.
Among the other numerous places of interest was the store of a dealer
in haberdashery and draperies. An honest, well equipped old fashioned
French concern, whose long oak counters were well polished from
constant use. The shelves were piled high with piece after piece of
wonderful material, but not a single one of them had been exempt from
the murderous rain of steel; they were pierced, and pierced, and
pierced 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 have
to sell is in the cellar!"
And true enough this subterranean existence had long ceased to be a
novelty, and had become almost a habit.
From the basement windows of every inhabited dwelling protruded a stove
pipe, and the lower regions had gradually come to be furnished almost
as comfortably as the upper rooms in normal days. Little by little the
kitchen chair and the candle had given way to a sofa and a hanging
lamp; beds were set up and rugs put in convenient places.
"We live so close to the trenches that by comparison it seems like a
real paradise to us," gently explained Madame Daumont, the pork
butcher. Her _charcuterie_ renowned far and wide for its hot meat
patès, ready just at noon, had been under constant fire ever since the
invasion, but had never yet failed to produce its customary ovenful at
the appointed hour.
"At the time of the battle of Crouy," she confessed, "I was just on the
point 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 old
mother was getting nervous. The dough for my patés was all ready, but
I 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 it
another day. I'm leaving in a few moments.'
"'What? Leaving? And we who are going out to meet death have got to
face it on empty stomachs?'
"They were right. In a second I thought of my own husband out there in
Lorraine. So I said to them 'Come back at four o'clock and they'll be
ready.'"
And then gently, and as though to excuse herself, she added--
"There are moments though when fear makes you lose your head, but there
doesn't seem to be anything you can't get used to."
"You soon get used to it" was the identical expression of a young
farmer's aid who sold fruit, vegetables and flowers beneath an archway
that had once been the entrance to the Hotel de la Clef. She had
attracted my attention almost immediately, the brilliant colours of her
display, and her pink and white complexion, standing out so fresh and
clear against the background of powder-stained stones and chalky ruin
heaps.
The next day, after an extra heavy nocturnal bombardment, we went out
in search of a melon. A shell had shattered her impromptu showcase,
dislocated a wall on one side of the archway, which menaced immediate
collapse. In fact, the place had become untenable.
"Oh, it's such a nuisance to have to look for another sure spot," was
the only lament. "Just see, there's a whole basket of artichokes gone
to waste--and my roses--what a pity!"
An explosion had gutted the adjacent building leaving an immense breach
opening on to the street from what had once been an office or perhaps a
store-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 before
yesterday. I had three this morning, but I sold them all to the
gentleman of the artillery, and I've promised to-morrow's to the
Brigade Officers. I hardly think I shall be able to dispose of any
more before the end of the week. But why don't you go and see 'Père
François'? 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 with
him. Does he still live where he used to?"
"I believe so."
We were not long seeking him out, and in response to our knocking his
good wife opened the door.
"Oh, he's out in his garden," was her reply to our queries. "You can't
keep him away from it. But he's going crazy, I think. He wants to
attend to everything all by himself now. There isn't a soul left to
help him, and he'll kill himself, or be killed at it as sure as I'm
alive. You'll see, the shells won't miss him. He's escaped so far but
he may not always be so lucky. He's already had a steel splinter in
his 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 he
is!"
On the old woman's assurance that we would find him by pounding hard on
the gateway leading to the Avenue de la Gare, we hastened away, leaving
her to babble her imprecations to a lazy tabby cat who lay sunning
itself in a low window box.
The old fellow being a trifle deaf we were destined to beat a rather
lengthy tattoo on the high iron gate. But our efforts were crowned
with success, for presently we heard his steps approaching, his sabots
crunching 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 have
the American sweet peas and the Dorothy Perkins. I know you! And the
dahlias I gave you? How did they turn out?"
I grew red and sought to change the conversation. Perhaps he saw and
understood.
"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 the
Hotel de Ville."
Further on the _Gloire de Dijon, La France_ and _Maréchal Niels_ spread
forth all their magnificent odorous glory onto the balmy air of this
Isle de France country, whose skies are of such exquisite delicate
blue, whose very atmosphere breathes refinement.
I felt my old passion rising;--that passion which in times gone by had
drawn us from our sleep at dawn, and scissors and pruning knife in
hand, how many happy hours had H. and I thus spent; he at his fruit
trees, I at my flower beds, cutting, trimming, scraping, clipping;
inwardly conscious of other duties neglected, but held as though
fascinated by the most alluring infatuation in the world--the love of
nature. Here now in this delightful garden kept up by the superhuman
efforts of a faithful old man, the flame kindled anew.
In an instant H. had discovered the espaliers where _Doyenné du
Cornice_ and _Passe Cressane_ were slowly but surely attaining the
required degree of perfection beneath Père François' attentive care.
As I stood open mouthed in wonder before the largest bush of fuchsias I
had ever yet beheld, an explosion rent the air, quickly followed by a
second, the latter much closer to us.
"Boche bombs! Come quick," said Père François without seeming in the
least ruffled.
Led by the old man we hastened to a tiny grotto, in whose depths we
could hear a fountain bubbling. Legion must have been the loving
couples that have visited this spot in times gone by, for their vows of
fidelity were graven in endearing terms on the stony sides of the
retreat. _Léon et Marguerite pour toujours, Alice et Théodore, Georges
et Germaine_ were scrawled above innumerable arrow-pierced hearts.
"All things considered, I'd rather they'd send us over a shell or two
than bomb us from above!" ejaculated Père François, who spoke from
experience.
"It was one of those hateful things that hit my Japanese pepper tree on
the main lawn, and killed our only cedar. The handsomest specimen we
had here! It makes me sick every time I throw a log of it on to the
fire in the Winter. I can't tell you how queer it makes me feel. Of
course, it's bad enough for them to kill men who are their enemies, but
think of killing trees that it takes hundreds of years to grow. What
good can that do them?"
The Boche deemed at a safe distance, we visited the vegetable garden
where we purchased our melon and were presented with any number of
little packets containing seeds. We protested at the old man's
generosity and sought to remunerate him.
"Nothing of the kind; I wouldn't think of accepting it. It's my
pleasure. Why it's been ages since I had such a talk as this. I'm so
glad you came. So glad for my roses too!" and he started to cut a
splendid bouquet.
"I've been saying to myself every day," he continued, "Isn't it a pity
that nobody should see them? But now I feel satisfied."
At the gateway we held out our hands which he took and shook most
heartily, renewing his protestations of delight at our visit, and
begging us to "Come again soon."
"To be happy one must cultivate his garden," murmured H., quoting
Voltaire as we made off down the road. And within a day or two we
again had an excellent proof of this axiom when we discovered that Abbé
L. still resided in his little home whose garden extended far into the
shadow of St. Jean des Vignes.
That worthy ecclesiastic gave over every moment that was not employed
in the exercise of his sacred functions to the joys of archaeological
research, and was carefully compiling a history of the churches in the
arrondissement of Soissons and Château-Thierry. He had been our guest
at Villiers, and I remember having made for him an imprint of two
splendid low-relief tombstones which date back to the 15th century, and
were the sole object and ornament of historic interest in our little
village chapel.
This history was the joy and sole distraction of his entire existence,
and he never ceased collecting documents and photographs, books, plans
and maps, all of which though carefully catalogued, threatened one day
to take such proportions that his modest dwelling would no longer
suffice to hold them.
We found him comfortably installed behind a much littered kitchen table
in a room that I had heretofore known as his dining room. I was a bit
struck by its disorder, and the good man was obliged to remove several
piles of papers from the chairs before inviting us to be seated.
"I trust you will forgive this confusion," he begged, "but you see a
shell hit my study yesterday noon, and has forced me to take refuge in
this corner of the house which is certainly far safer."
"I've had an excellent occasion to work," he continued. "Our duties
are very slight these days, and the extreme quiet in which we live is
most propitious for pursuing the task I have undertaken."
"But, Monsieur l'Abbé," we cried. "What a paradox! And the
bombardment?"
"Really, you know, I've hardly suffered from it--except when that shell
struck the house the other morning. Of course, the whole edifice
shook, and at one time I thought the roof was coming through upon my
head. My ink bottle was upset and great streams trickled to the floor.
But Divine intervention saved my precious manuscript which I was in the
very act of copying, and although my notes and files were a bit
disarranged, they were easily sorted and set to rights. So you see
there was nothing really to deplore and God has graciously seen fit to
let me continue my work. It is such a joy to be able to do so."
Strange placidity! the immediate countryside for miles around having
long since been delivered up to brutal destruction, wanton waste,
hideous massacre, and a goodly number of the churches of which the
pious man was taking so much pains to record the history, were now but
anonymous heaps of stone.
All the way home I could not refrain from philosophising on the
happiness of life, perfect contentment, and the love of good. My
reflections, while perhaps not particularly deep nor brilliant, were
none the less imbued with a sense of gratitude to the Almighty, and
filled 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 weighed
an instant in the balance against the repugnance of altering life-long
habits, or abandoning an assemblage of dearly beloved landscapes and
faces.
Naturally enough, a certain number of commercial minded had remained
behind, tempted by the possibility of abnormal gain through catering to
the soldier; and to whatever had been their habitual merchandise, was
soon 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 of
warriors.
But, besides these merchants, there were still to be counted a certain
number of well-to-do citizens, professors, government employés, priests
and magistrates, all simple honest souls who had stayed because they
were unable to resign themselves to an indefinite residence away from
Soissons, and there was no sacrifice to which they were not resolved in
advance, so long as it procured them the joy of remaining.
I accompanied the President of the local French Red Cross Chapter on a
visit to a lady who was much interested in an _ouvroir_, and who lived
in a splendid old mansion located near the ruins of the Palais de
Justice.
The little bell tinkled several times, resounding clearly in the
deathlike silence, and presently a young maid-servant made her
appearance 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 Madame
left for the seashore last evening? Shall I give Madame their address
at Houlgate? They've been going there for the last twenty years. They
will be back the first of September as usual."
"How stupid of me," exclaimed my companion. "I might have known
though. We shall discover what we wish to know from Madame V."
We found the last mentioned lady and her daughter in a pretty dwelling
on 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 present
occupied by the Germans, and as the mountains are forbidden, and the
sea air excites me so that I become quite ill, I fear we shall have to
remain at home, for the time being at least. The garden is really
delightfully cool though--we sit out there and sew all day."
I asked permission to admire the exquisite embroidered initials which
both mother and daughter were working.
"I'm so glad you like them. Do you know we found that monogram on an
old 18th century handkerchief? We merely enlarged it, and really feel
that we have something quite unusual. But my table cloths are well
worth it, they were the very last that were left at the Cour Batave. I
doubt 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 that
will stand the test of time and washing," replied the good mother
smiling 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 this
very cloth."
"But they will never guess under what strange circumstances it was
hemmed and embroidered," gently proffered the young girl raising her
big blue eyes and smiling sweetly.
"Bah, what difference does that make so long as they are happy and can
live in peace? That's the principal thing, the one for which we're all
working, 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 spite
of all. What more imperturbable confidence in its immortality could be
manifested than by this mother and daughter calmly discussing the
durability of their family linen, within actual range of Teuton gunfire
that might annihilate them at any moment?