smile, quite certain that you have never heard the name before.
It would almost seem as if a vast wave of prosperity had enveloped the
country, were one to judge of the stories of millions made in a minute,
fortunes sprung up over night, new factories erected where work never
ceases; prices paid for real estate, monster strokes on the Bourse.
Little wonder then that in May just past, with the Germans scarcely
sixty miles from Paris, the sale of Degas' studio attained the
extraordinary total of nearly two million dollars; an Ingres drawing
which in 1889 brought eight hundred and fifty francs, selling for
fourteen thousand, and a Greco portrait for which Degas himself gave
four hundred and twenty francs in 1894, fetching eighty-two thousand
francs.
Yes, such things happen even in France, and one hears but too often of
fortunes accumulated in the past four years--but alas! how much more
numerous are those which have been lost. The _nouveaux-pauvres_ far
outnumber the _nouveaux-riches_; but these former seem to go into
hiding.
The Parisian bourgeois was essentially a property owner. His delight
was in houses; the stone-front six-story kind, the serious rent-paying
proposition, containing ten or a dozen moderate-priced apartments, and
two good stores, from which he derived a comfortable income. Such was
the ultimate desire of the little shop-keeper, desire which spurred him
on to sell and to economise.
A house, some French rentes, government bonds (chiefly Russian in
recent years) and a few city obligations, were the extent of his
investments, and formed not only the nucleus but the better part of
many a French fortune.
Imagine then the predicament of such people under the moratorium. Few
and far between are the tenants who have paid a sou of rent since
August, 1914, and the landlord has no power to collect. Add to this
the ever increasing price of living, and you will understand why many
an elderly Parisian who counted on spending his declining years in
peace and plenty, is now hard at work earning his daily bread.
Made in a moment of emergency, evidently with the intention that it be
of short duration, this law about rentals has become the most
perplexing question in the world. Several attempts have been made
towards a solution, but all have remained fruitless, unsanctioned; and
the property owners are becoming anxious.
That men who have been mobilised shall not pay--that goes without
saying. But the others. How about them?
I happen to know a certain house in a bourgeois quarter of the city
about which I have very special reasons for being well informed.
Both stores are closed. The one was occupied by a book-seller, the
other by a boot-maker. Each dealer was called to the army, and both of
them have been killed. Their estates will not be settled until after
the war.
The first floor was rented to a middle-aged couple. The husband,
professor in a city school, is now prisoner in Germany. His wife died
during the Winter just passed.
On the second landing one entered the home of a cashier in a big
National Bank. He was the proud possessor of a wife and three pretty
babies. The husband, aged thirty-two, left for the front with the rank
of Lieutenant, the first day of the mobilisation. His bank kindly
consented to continue half salary during the war. The lieutenant was
killed at Verdun. His employers offered a year and a half's pay to the
young widow--that is to say, about six thousand dollars, which she
immediately invested in five per cent government rentes. A
lieutenant's yearly pension amounts to about three hundred dollars, and
the Legion of Honour brings in fifty dollars per annum.
They had scarcely had time to put anything aside, and I doubt if he
carried a life insurance. At any rate the education of these little
boys will take something more than can be economised after the bare
necessities of life have been provided. So how is the brave little
woman even to think of paying four years' rent, which when computed
would involve more than two-thirds of her capital?
The third floor tenant is an elderly lady who let herself be persuaded
to put her entire income into bonds of the City of Vienna, Turkish
debt, Russian roubles, and the like. I found her stewing up old
newspapers in a greasy liquid, preparing thus a kind of briquette, the
only means of heating which she could afford. Yet the prospect of a
Winter without coal, possibly without bread, did not prevent her from
welcoming me with a smile, and explaining her case with grace and
distinction, which denoted the most exquisite breeding. Her maid, she
apologised as she bowed me out, was ill of rheumatism contracted during
the preceding Winter.
The top apartment was occupied by a government functionary and his
family. As captain in the infantry he has been at the front since the
very beginning. His wife's family are from Lille, and like most
pre-nuptial arrangements when the father is in business, the daughter
received but the income of her dowry, which joined to her husband's
salary permitted a cheerful, pleasant home, and the prospect of an
excellent education for the children.
The salary ceased with the Captain's departure to the front; the wife's
income stopped when the Germans entered Lille a few weeks later. They
now have but his officer's pay, approximately eighty dollars per month,
as entire financial resource. Add to this the death of a mother and
four splendid brothers, the constant menace of becoming a widow, and I
feel certain that the case will give food for reflection.
All these unfortunate women know each other; have guessed their mutual
misfortunes, though, of course, they never mention them. Gathered
about a single open fire-place whose welcome blaze is the result of
their united economy, they patiently ply their needles at whatever
handiwork they are most deft, beading bags, making filet and mesh
laces, needle-work tapestry and the like, utilising every spare moment,
in the hope of adding another slice of bread to the already too frugal
meals.
But orders are rare, and openings for such work almost nil. To obtain
a market would demand business training which has not been part of
their tradition, which while it tempts, both intimidates and revolts
them. Certain desperate ones would branch out in spite of all--but
they do not know how, dare not seem so bold.
And so Winter will come anew--Winter with bread and sugar rations at a
maximum; Winter with meat prices soaring far above their humble pocket
books.
Soup and vegetable stews quickly become the main article of diet. Each
succeeding year the little mothers have grown paler, and more frail.
The children have lost their fat, rosy cheeks. But let even a local
success crown our arms, let the _communiqué_ bring a little bit of real
news, tell of fresh laurels won, let even the faintest ray of hope for
the great final triumph pierce this veil of anxiety--and every heart
beat quickens, the smiles burst forth; lips tremble with emotion.
These people know the price, and the privilege of being French, the
glory of belonging to that holy nation.
V
When after a lengthy search our friends finally discover our Parisian
residence, one of the first questions they put is, "Why on earth is
your street so narrow?"
The reason is very simple. Merely because la rue Geoffrey L'Asnier was
built before carriages were invented, the man who gave it its name
having doubtless dwelt there during the fourteenth or fifteenth
century, as one could easily infer after inspecting the choir of our
parish church. But last Good Friday, the Germans in trying out their
super-cannon, bombarded St. Gervais. The roof caved in, killing and
wounding many innocent persons, and completely destroying that choir.
Elsewhere a panic might have ensued, but residents of our quarter are
not so easily disturbed. The older persons distinctly recall the
burning of the Hotel de Ville and the Archbishop's Palace in 1870. And
did they not witness the battles in the streets, all the horrors of the
Commune, after having experienced the agonies and privations of the
Siege? I have no doubt that among them there are persons who were
actually reduced to eating rats, and I feel quite certain that many a
man used his gun to advantage from between the shutters of his own
front window.
Their fathers had seen the barricades of 1848 and 1830, their
grandfathers before them the Reign of Terror--and so on one might
continue as far back as the Norman invasion.
The little café on the rue du Pont Louis-Philippe serves as meeting
place for all the prophets and strategists of the quarter, who have no
words sufficient to express their disdain for the Kaiser's heavy
artillery.
"It's all bluff, they think they can frighten us! Why, I, Madame, I
who am speaking to you--I saw the Hotel de Ville, the Theatre des
Nations, the grain elevators, all in flames and all at once, the whole
city seemed to be ablaze. Well, do you think that prevented the
Parisians from fishing in the Seine, or made this café shut its doors?
There was a barricade at either end of this street--the blinds were up
and you could hear the bullets patter against them. The insurgents,
all covered with powder, would sneak over and get a drink--and when
finally their barricade was taken, it was the Republican soldiers who
sat in our chairs and drank beer and lemonade! _Their_ guns, humph!
Let them bark!"
It is at this selfsame café that gather all the important men of our
district, much as the American would go to his club. They are serious
_bourgeois_, well along in the fifties, just a trifle ridiculous,
perhaps on account of their allure and their attire. But should one
grow to know them better he would soon realise that most of them are
shrewd, hard-working business men, each burdened with an anxiety or a
sorrow which he never mentions.
They too love strategy. Armies represented by match safes, dominoes
and toothpicks have become an obsession--their weakness. They are
thorough Frenchmen and their critical sense must be unbridled. They
love their ideas and their systems. They would doubtless not hesitate
to advise Foch. Personally, if I were Foch, I should turn a deaf ear.
But if I were a timid, vacillating, pessimistic spirit, still in doubt
as to the final outcome, I should most certainly seat myself at a
neighbouring table and listen to their conversation that I might come
away imbued with a little of their patience, abnegation, and absolute
confidence.
Nor does the feminine opinion deviate from this course. I found the
same ideas prevalent in the store of a little woman who sold umbrellas.
Before the war Madame Coutant had a very flourishing trade, but now her
sales are few and far between, while her chief occupation is repairing.
She is a widow without children, and no immediate relative in the war.
Because of this, at the beginning she was looked down upon and her
situation annoyed and embarrassed her greatly. But by dint of search,
a most voluminous correspondence, and perhaps a little bit of intrigue,
she finally managed to unearth two very distant cousins, peasant boys
from the Cevennes, whom she frankly admitted never having seen, but to
whom she regularly sent packages and post cards; about whom she was at
liberty to speak without blushing, since one of them had recently been
cited for bravery and decorated with the _Croix de Guerre_.
This good woman devotes all the leisure and energy her trade leaves
her, to current events. Of course, there is the official _communiqué_
which may well be considered as the national health bulletin; but
besides that, there is still another, quite as indispensable and fully
as interesting, made up of the criticism of local happenings, and
popular presumption.
This second _communiqué_ comes to us direct from Madame Coutant's,
where a triumvirate composed of the scissors-grinder, the
woman-who-rents-chairs-in-St.-Gervais, the sacristan's wife, the
concierge of the Girls' School, and the widow of an office boy in the
City Hall, get their heads together and dispense the news.
The concierges and cooks while out marketing, pick it up and start it
on its rounds.
"We are progressing North of the Marne"; "Two million Americans have
landed in France," and similar statements shall be accepted only when
elucidated, enlarged and embellished by Madame Coutant's group. Each
morning brings a fresh harvest of happenings, but each event is
certified or contradicted by a statement from some one who is "Out
there," and sees and knows.
Under such circumstances an attack in Champagne may be viewed from a
very different angle when one hears that Bultot, the electrician, is
telephone operator in that region; that the aforesaid Bultot has
written to his wife in most ambiguous phraseology, and that she has
brought the letter to Madame Coutant's for interpretation.
But it is more especially the local moral standards which play an
important part and are subject to censorship in Madame Coutant's
circle. The individual conduct of the entire quarter is under the most
rigid observation. Lives must be pure as crystal, homes of glass. It
were better to attempt to hide nothing.
That Monsieur L., the retired druggist, is in sad financial straits,
there is not the slightest doubt; no one is duped by the fact that he
is trying to put on a bold face under cover of war-time economy.
That the grocer walks with a stick and drags his leg on the ground to
make people think he is only fit for the auxiliary service, deceives no
one; his time will come, there is but to wait.
Let a woman appear with an unaccustomed furbelow, or a family of a
workman that is earning a fat salary, eat two succulent dishes the same
week, public opinion will quickly make evident its sentiments, and
swiftly put things to rights.
The war must be won, and each one must play his part--do his bit, no
matter how humble. The straight and narrow paths of virtue have been
prescribed and there is no better guide than the fear of mutual
criticism. That is one reason why personally I have never sought to
ignore Madame Coutant's opinion.
It goes without saying that the good soul has attributed the
participation of the United States in this war entirely to my efforts.
And the nature of the advice that I am supposed to have given President
Wilson would make an everlasting fortune for a humourist. But in spite
of it all, I am proud to belong to them; proud of being an old resident
in their quarter.
"Strictly serious people," was the opinion passed upon us by the
sacristan's wife for the edification of my new housemaid.
It is a most interesting population to examine in detail, made up of
honest, skilful Parisian artisans, _frondeurs_ at heart, jesting with
everything, but terribly ticklish on the point of honour.
"They ask us to 'hold out'," exclaims the laundress of the rue de Jouy;
"as if we'd ever done anything else all our lives!"
These people were capable of the prodigious. They have achieved the
miraculous!
With the father gone to the front, his pay-roll evaporated, it was a
case of stop and think. Of course, there was the "Separation fee,"
about twenty-five cents a day for the mother, ten cents for each child.
The French private received but thirty cents _a month_ at the beginning
of the war. The outlook was anything but cheerful, the possibility of
making ends meet more than doubtful. So work it was--or rather, extra
work. Eyes were turned towards the army as a means of livelihood.
With so many millions mobilised, the necessity for shirts, underwear,
uniforms, etc., became evident.
Three or four mothers grouped together and made application for three
or four hundred shirts. The mornings were consecrated to house work,
which must be done in spite of all, the children kept clean and the
food well prepared. But from one o'clock until midnight much might be
accomplished; and much was.
The ordinary budget for a woman of the working class consists in
earning sufficient to feed, clothe, light and heat the family, besides
supplying the soldier husband with tobacco and a monthly parcel of
goodies. Even the children have felt the call, and after school, which
lasts from eight until four, little girls whose legs must ache from
dangling, sit patiently on chairs removing bastings, or sewing on
buttons, while their equally tiny brothers run errands, or watch to see
that the soup does not boil over.
Then when all is done, when with all one's heart one has laboured and
paid everything and there remains just enough to send a money-order to
the _poilu_, there is still a happiness held in reserve--a delight as
keen as any one can feel in such times; i.e., the joy of knowing that
the "Separation fee" has not been touched. It is a really and truly
income; it is a dividend as sound as is the State! It has almost
become a recompense.
[Illustration: VIEW OF ST. GERVAIS FROM MADAME HUARD'S PARIS HOME
(BOMBARDED BY GERMAN SUPER CANNON, APRIL, 1918)]
What matter now the tears, the mortal anxieties that it may have cost?
For once again, to quote the laundress of the rue de Jouy--
"Trials? Why, we'd have had them anyway, even if there hadn't been a
war!"
In these times of strictest economy, it would perhaps be interesting to
go deeper into the ways of those untiring thrifty ants who seem to know
how "To cut a centime in four" and extract the quintessence from a
bone. My concierge is a precious example for such a study, having
discovered a way of bleaching clothes without boiling, and numerous
recipes for reducing the high cost of living to almost nothing.
It was in her lodge that I was first introduced to a drink made from
ash leaves, and then tasted another produced by mixing hops and
violets, both to me being equally as palatable as certain brands of
grape juice.
Butter, that unspeakable luxury, she had replaced by a savoury mixture
of tried out fats from pork and beef kidney, seasoned with salt,
pepper, allspice, thyme and laurel, into which at cooling was stirred a
glass of milk. Not particularly palatable on bread but as a seasoning
to vegetable soup, that mighty French stand-by, I found it most
excellent. Believe me, I've tried it!
Jam has long been prepared with honey, and for all other sweetening
purposes she used a syrup of figs that was not in the least
disagreeable. The ration of one pound of sugar per person a month, and
brown sugar at that, does not go very far.
The cold season is the chief preoccupation of all Parisians, and until
one has spent a war winter in the capital he is incapable of realising
what can be expected from a scuttle full of coal.
First of all, one commences by burning it for heating purposes,
rejoicing in every second of its warmth and glow. One invites one's
friends to such a gala! Naturally the coal dust has been left at the
bottom of the recipient, the sack in which it was delivered is well
shaken for stray bits, and this together with the sittings is mixed
with potter's clay and sawdust, which latter has become a most
appreciable possession in our day. The whole is then stirred together
and made into bricks or balls, which though they burn slowly, burn
surely.
The residue of this combustible is still so precious, that when
gathered up, ground anew with paper and sawdust, and at length
amalgamated with a mucilaginous water composed of soaked flax-seed, one
finally obtains a kind of pulp that one tries vainly to make ignite,
but which obstinately refuses to do so, though examples to the contrary
have been heard of.
The fireless cooker has opened new horizons, for, of course, there is
still enough gas to start the heating. But none but the wealthy can
afford such extravagance, so each one has invented his own model. My
concierge's husband is renowned for his ingenuity in this particular
branch, and people from the other side of the Isle St. Louis, or the
rue St. Antoine take the time to come and ask his advice. It seems to
me he can make fireless cookers out of almost anything. Antiquated
wood chests, hat boxes, and even top hats themselves have been utilised
in his constructions.
"These are real savings-banks for heat"--he explains pompously--for he
loves to tackle the difficult--even adjectively. His shiny bald pate
is scarce covered by a Belgian fatigue cap, whose tassel bobs in the
old man's eyes, and when he carried his long treasured gold to the
bank, he refused to take its equivalent in notes. It was necessary to
have recourse to the principal cashier, who assured him that if France
needed money she would call upon him first. Then and then only would
he consent to accept.
He is a Lorrainer--a true Frenchman, who in the midst of all the
sorrows brought on by the conflict, has known two real joys: the first
when his son was promoted and made lieutenant on the battle field; the
second when his friends the Vidalenc and the Lemots made up a quarrel
that had lasted over twelve years.
"I was in a very embarrassing position," he explained, "for I held both
families in equal esteem. Fortunately the war came and settled
matters. When I say fortunately, of course, you understand, Madame,
what I mean. '_A quelquechose malheur est bon_.'"
And in truth the original cause of difference between the Lemots,
drapers, and the Vidalenc, coal and wood dealers, had been lost in the
depths of time. But no hate between Montague and Capulet was ever more
bitter. The gentle flame of antipathy was constantly kept kindled by a
glance in passing, a half audible sneer, and if the Vidalenc chose the
day of the White Sale to hang out and beat their stock of coal sacks,
one might be certain that the Lemots would be seized with a fit of
cleanliness on the coldest of winter days, and would play the hose up
and down the street in the freezing air about an hour or so before the
Vidalencs would have to unload their coal wagons.
The younger generation, on leaving school every afternoon, would also
see to it that the family feud be properly recognised, and many and
bitter were the mutual pummelings.
Reconciliation seemed an impossibility, and yet both were hardworking,
honest families, economical and gracious, rejoicing in the friendship
of the entire quarter, who, of course, were much pained by the
situation.
Even the mobilisation failed to bring a truce and the unforgettable
words of "Sacred Unity" fell upon arid ground.
But how strange, mysterious and far reaching are the designs of
Providence. Young Vidalenc was put into a regiment that was brigaded
with the one to which belonged Monsieur Lemot.
The two men met "Out there," and literally fell into each other's arms.
A letter containing a description of this event arrived in the two
shops at almost the same moment. That is to say the postman first went
to Father Vidalenc's, but by the time the old man had found his
spectacles, Madame Lemot had received her missive, and both were
practically read at once. Then came the dash for the other's shop, the
paper waving wildly in the air.
Of course, they met in the street, stopped short, hesitated, collapsed,
wept and embraced, to the utter amazement of the entire quarter who
feared not only that something fatal had happened, but also for their
mental safety.
Later in the day the news got abroad, and by nightfall every one had
heard that Father Vidalenc had washed Madame Lemot's store windows, and
that Madame Lemot had promised to have an eye to Vidalenc's accounts,
which had been somewhat abandoned since the departure of his son.
When Lemot returned on furlough there was a grand dinner given in his
honour at Vidalenc's, and when Vidalenc dined at Lemot's, it was
assuredly amusing to see the latter's children all togged out in their
Sunday best, a tri-colour bouquet in hand, waiting on their doorstep to
greet and conduct the old man.
Unfortunately there was no daughter to give in matrimony so that they
might marry and live happily ever after. But on my last trip home I
caught a glimpse of an unknown girlish face behind Madame Lemot's
counter, and somebody told me it was her niece.