depict life in our quarter without mentioning one of the most notable
inhabitants--namely Monsieur Alexandre Clouet, taylor, so read the sign
over the door of the shop belonging to this pompous little person--who
closed that shop on August 2nd, 1914, and rallied to the colours. But
unlike the vulgar herd he did not scribble in huge chalk letters all
over the blinds--"The boss has joined the army." No, indeed, not he!
Twenty four hours later appeared a most elaborate meticulous sign which
announced:
MONSIEUR CLOUET
wishes to inform his numerous
customers that he has joined the ranks
of the 169th infantry, and shall do
his duty as a Frenchman.
His wife returned to her father's home, and it was she who pasted up
the series of neat little bulletins. First we read:
MONSIEUR CLOUET
is in the trenches but his health is
excellent.
He begs his customers and friends
to send him news of themselves.
Postal Sector 24X.
I showed the little sign to my friends who grew to take an interest in
Monsieur Clouet's personal welfare, and passing by his shop they would
copy down the latest news and forward it to me, first at Villiers, and
afterwards to the States.
It is thus that I learned that Monsieur Clouet, gloriously wounded, had
been cared for at a hospital in Cahors, and later on that he had
recovered, rejoined his depot and finally returned to the front.
One of my first outings during my last trip sent me in the direction of
Monsieur Clouet's abode. I was decidedly anxious to know what had
become of him. To my surprise I found the shop open, but a huge
announcement hung just above the entrance.
MONSIEUR CLOUET
gloriously wounded and decorated
with the Military Medal, regrets to
state that in future it will be
impossible for him to continue giving his
personal attention to his business.
His wife and his father-in-law will
hereafter combine their efforts to give
every satisfaction to his numerous
customers.
I entered. For the moment the wife and the father-in-law were
combining their efforts to convince a very stout, elderly gentleman
that check trousers would make him look like a sylph.
"Ah, Madame, what a surprise," she cried, on seeing me.
"But your husband?" I queried. "Is it really serious--do tell me!"
"Alas, Madame, he says he'll never put his foot in the shop again. You
see he's very sensitive since he was scalped, and he's afraid somebody
might know he has to wear a wig!"
VI
The Boche aeroplane was by no means a novelty to the Parisian. Its
first apparitions over the capital (1914) were greeted with curious
enthusiasm, and those who did not have a field glass handy at the time,
later on satisfied their curiosity by a visit to the Invalides, where
every known type of enemy machine was displayed in the broad court-yard.
The first Zeppelin raid (April 15th, 1915) happened toward midnight,
and resulted in a good many casualties, due not to the bombs dropped by
the enemy, but to the number of colds and cases of pneumonia and
bronchitis caught by the pajama-clad Parisian, who rushed out half
covered, to see the sight, thoughtlessly banging his front door behind
him.
But the first time that we were really driven to take shelter in the
cellar was after dinner at the home of a friend who lives in an
apartment house near the Avenue du Bois. We were enjoying an impromptu
concert of chamber music, when the alarm was given, swiftly followed by
distant but very distinct detonations, which made hesitation become
imprudence.
The descent to the basement was accomplished without undue haste, or
extraordinary commotion, save for an old Portuguese lady and her
daughter who lost their heads and unconsciously gave us a comic
interlude, worthy of any first-class movie.
Roused from her sleep, the younger woman with self preservation
uppermost in her mind, had slipped on an outer garment, grabbed the
first thing she laid her hands on, and with hair streaming over her
back, dashed down five long flights of stairs.
At the bottom she remembered her mother, let forth an awful shriek, and
still holding her bottle of tooth wash in her hands, jumped into the
lift and started in search of her parent.
In the meantime, the latter on finding her daughter's bed empty, had
started towards the lower floors, crossing the upward bound lift, which
Mademoiselle was unable to stop.
Screams of terror, excited sentences in Portuguese--in which both gave
directions that neither followed, and for a full ten minutes mother and
daughter raced up and down in the lift and on the stairway, trying
vainly to join one another.
A young lieutenant home on leave, at length took pity on them and
finally united the two exhausted creatures who fell into each other's
arms shrieking hysterically:
"If we must die--let us die together!"
The concierges and the servants began arranging chairs and camp stools
around the furnace; the different tenants introduced themselves and
their guests. Almost every one was still about when the signal was
given, and this cellar where the electric lamps burned brightly soon
took on the aspect of a drawing-room, in spite of all. One lone man,
however, stood disconsolate, literally suffocating beneath a huge
cavalry cape, hooked tight up to his throat. As the perspiration soon
began rolling from his forehead, a friend seeking to put him at his
ease, suggested he open up his cloak.
The gentleman addressed cast a glance over the assembled group,
broadened out into a smile, and exclaimed--
"I can't. Only got my night shirt underneath."
The hilarity was general, and the conversation presently became bright
and sparkling with humorous anecdotes.
The officers held their audience spellbound with fear and admiration;
the women talked hospital and dress, dress and hospital, finally
jesting about the latest restrictions. One lady told the story of a
friend who engaged a maid, on her looks and without a reference, the
which maid shortly became a menace because of her propensity for
dropping and breaking china.
One day, drawn towards the pantry by the sound of a noise more terrible
than any yet experienced, she found the girl staring at a whole pile of
plates--ten or a dozen--which had slipped from her fingers and lay in
thousands of pieces on the floor.
The lady became indignant and scolded.
"Ah, if Madame were at the front, she'd see worse than that!" was the
consoling response.
"But we're not at the front, I'll have you understand, and what's more
neither you nor I have ever been there, my girl."
"I beg Madame's pardon, but my last place was in a hospital at Verdun,
as Madame will see when my papers arrive."
General laughter was cut short by the sound of two explosions.
"They're here. They've arrived. It will soon be over now," and like
commentaries were added.
A servant popped the cork of a champagne bottle, and another passed
cakes and candied fruit.
An elderly man who wore a decoration, approached the officers.
"Gentlemen," said he, "excuse me for interrupting, but do any of you
know the exact depth to which an aeroplane bomb can penetrate?"
The officers gave him a few details, which, however, did not seem to
satisfy the old fellow. His anxiety became more and more visible.
"I wouldn't worry, sir, if I were you. There's absolutely no danger
down here."
"Thank you for your assurance, Messieurs," said he, "but I'm not in the
least anxious about my personal safety. It's my drawings and my
collection of porcelains that are causing me such concern. I thought
once that I'd box them all up and bring them down here. But you never
can tell what dampness or change of temperature might do to a water
colour or a gouache. Oh! my poor Fragonards! My poor Bouchers!
Gentlemen, never, never collect water colours or porcelains! Take it
from me!"
At that moment the bugle sounded--"All's well," and as we were
preparing to mount the stairs, the old man accosted the officers anew,
asking them for the titles of some books on artillery and fortification.
"That all depends to what use you wish to apply them."
"Ah, it's about protecting my collection. I simply must do something!
I can't send them to storage, they wouldn't be any safer there, and
even if they were I'd die of anxiety so far away from my precious
belongings."
"Good-nights" were said in the vestibule, and the gathering dispersed
just as does any group of persons after a theatre or an ordinary
reception. But once in the street, it was absolutely useless to even
think of a taxi. People were pouring from every doorway, heads stuck
out of every window.
"Where did they fall? Which way?"
In the total obscurity, the sound of feet all hurrying in the same
direction, accompanied by shouts of recognition, even ripples of
laughter, seemed strangely gruesome, as the caravan of curious hastened
towards the scene of tragedy.
"No crowds allowed. Step lively," called the _sergeants-de-ville_, at
their wits' end. "Better go back home, they might return. Step
lively, I say!"
It happened thus the first few visits, but presently the situation
became less humorous. One began to get accustomed to it. Then one
commenced to dislike it and protest.
Seated by the studio fire, we were both plunged deep in our books.
"_Allons_!" exclaimed H. "Do you hear the _pompiers_? The Gothas
again!"
We stiffened up in our chairs and listened. The trumpets sounded
shrilly on the night air of our tranquil Parisian quarter.
"Right you are. That means down we go! They might have waited until I
finished my chapter, hang them! There's no electricity in our cellar,"
and I cast aside my book in disgust.
Taking our coats and a steamer rug we prepared to descend. In the
court-yard the clatter of feet resounded.
The cellar of our seventeenth century dwelling being extremely deep and
solidly built, was at once commandeered as refuge for one hundred
persons in case of bombardment, and we must needs share it with some
ninety odd less fortunate neighbours.
"Hurry up there. Hurry up, I say," calls a sharp nasal voice.
That voice belonged to Monsieur Leddin, formerly a clock maker, but now
of the _Service Auxiliare_, and on whom devolved the policing of our
entire little group, simply because of his uniform.
His observations, however, have but little effect. People come
straggling along, yawning from having been awakened in their first
sleep, and almost all of them is hugging a bundle or parcel containing
his most precious belongings.
It is invariably an explosion which finally livens their gait, and they
hurry into the stairway. A slight jam is thus produced.
"No pushing there! Order!" cries another stentorian voice, belonging
to Monsieur Vidalenc, the coal dealer.
"Here! here!" echo several high pitched trebles. "_Très bien, très
bien_. Follow in line--what's the use of crowding?"
Monsieur Leddin makes another and still shriller effort, calling from
above:
"Be calm now. Don't get excited."
"Who's excited?"
"You are!"
"Monsieur Leddin, you're about as fit to be a soldier as I to be an
Archbishop," sneered the butcher's wife. "You'd do better to leave us
alone and hold your peace."
General hilarity, followed by murmurs of approval from various other
females, which completely silenced Monsieur Leddin, who never reopened
his mouth during the entire evening, so that one could not tell whether
he was nursing his offended dignity or hiding his absolute incompetence
to assume authority.
Places were quickly found on two or three long wooden benches, and a
few chairs provided for the purpose, some persons even spreading out
blankets and camping on the floor.
The raiment displayed was the typical negligée of the Parisian working
class; a dark coloured woollen dressing gown, covered over with a shawl
or a cape, all the attire showing evidence of having been hastily
donned with no time to think of looking in the mirror.
An old lantern and a kerosene lamp but dimly lighted the groups which
were shrouded in deep velvety shadows.
Presently a man, a man that I had never seen before, a man with a long
emaciated face and dark pointed beard, rose in the background, holding
a blanket draped about him by flattening his thin white hand against
his breast. The whole scene seemed almost biblical, and instantly my
mind evoked Rembrandt's masterpiece--the etching called 'The Hundred
Florin Piece,' which depicts the crowds seated about the standing
figure of our Saviour and listening to His divine words.
But the spell was quickly broken when an instant later my vision
coughed and called--
"Josephine, did you bring down the 'Petit Parisien,' as I told you?"
Ten or fifteen minutes elapsed, and then a rather distant explosion
gave us reason to believe that the enemy planes were retiring.
"_Jamais de la vie_! No such luck to-night. Why we've got a good
couple of hours ahead of us, just like last time. You'll see! Much
better to make yourself as comfortable as possible and not lose any
sleep over it."
The tiny babies had scarcely waked at all, and peacefully continued to
slumber on their mothers' knees, or on improvised cots made from a
blanket or comforter folded to several thicknesses.
The women soon yawned, and leaning their backs against the wall nodded
regularly in spite of their efforts not to doze off, and each time,
surprised by the sudden shock of awakening would shudder and groan
unconsciously.
Tightly clasped in their hands, or on the floor between their feet lay
a bag which never got beyond their reach, to which they clung as
something sacred. Certain among them were almost elegant in their grey
linen covers. Others had seen better days, while still others dated
back to the good old times of needlework tapestry. There were carpet,
kit and canvas bags, little wooden chests with leather handles, and one
poor old creature carefully harboured a card-board box tied about with
a much knotted string.
What did they all contain? In France amid such a gathering it were
safe to make a guess.
First of all, the spotless family papers--cherished documents
registering births, deaths and marriages. A lock of hair, a baby
tooth, innumerable faded photographs, a bundle of letters, a scrap of
paper whereon are scrawled the last words of a departed hero, and way
down underneath, neatly separated from all the rest, I feel quite sure
the little family treasure lies hidden. Yes, here is that handful of
stocks and bonds, thanks to which their concierge bows to them with
respect; those earnings that permit one to fall ill, to face old age
and death without apprehension, the assurance the children shall want
for nothing, shall have a proper education--the certitude that the two
little rooms occupied can really be called home; that the furniture so
carefully waxed and polished is one's own forever. Bah! what terrors
can lack of work, food shortage, or war hold for such people? Thus
armed can they not look the horrid spectres square in the face? The
worst will cost but one or two blue bank notes borrowed from the little
pile, but because of the comfort they have brought they will be
replaced all the more gayly when better days shall come.
All this ran through my brain as I watched those hands--big and small,
fat and thin, young and old, clasping their treasure so tightly, and I
couldn't help feeling that gigantic convulsive gesture of thousands of
other women, who all over the great Capital at that same moment were
hugging so lovingly their little all; the fruit of so much toil and so
much virtue.
My reflections were cut short by a deafening noise that roused my
sleeping companions. The children shrieked, and the women openly
lamented.
"That was a close call," commented Monsieur Neu, our concierge.
Five or six boys wanted to rush out and see where the bomb had fallen.
They were dissuaded, but with difficulty.
An elderly man had taken his six year old grandson on to his knee, and
that sleepy little Parisian urchin actually clapped his hands and
crowed over the shock.
"Jiminy, that was a fine one!"
"That's right, my child," pompously exclaimed the grandsire. "Never,
never forget the monsters who troubled your innocent sleep with their
infamous crimes."
"Oh, cut it out, grandpop," was the somewhat irreverent reply. "Aren't
you afraid you might miss forty winks?" and then turning to his mother,
"I say, mamma, if one of them lands on our house, you promise you'll
wake me up, won't you? I want to see everything, and last time and the
time before, I missed it!"
"Yes, darling, of course, but go to sleep, there's a good boy."
A tall, good-looking girl over in one corner openly gave vent to her
sentiments.
"The idiots! the idiots! if they think they can scare us that way!
They'd far better not waste their time, and let us sleep. It isn't a
bit funny any more, and I've got to work just the same to-morrow, Boche
or no Boche!"
Two rickety old creatures clasped each other in arms, and demanded in
trembling voices if there was any real danger! This produced a ripple
of merriment.
Monsieur Duplan, the butcher, then asked the ladies' permission to
smoke, the which permission was graciously accorded.
"Why, if I'd only thought, I'd have brought down another lamp and my
work. It's too bad to waste so much time."
"I have my knitting. You don't need any light for that."
"Where on earth did you get wool? How lucky you are!"
From Monsieur Leddin's lips now rose a loud and sonorous snore.
"Decidedly that man is possessed of all the charms," giggled a
sarcastic neighbour.
"Yes, it must be a perfect paradise to live with such an angel, and to
feel that you've got him safe at home till the end of the war. I don't
wonder his poor little wife took the children and went to Burgundy."
"Why isn't he at the front?" hissed some one in a whisper.
"Yes--why?"
"There are lots less healthy men than he out there. The fat old
plumber who lived on the rue de Jouy, and who can hardly breathe, was
taken----"
"And the milkman who passed a hundred and three medical inspections and
finally had to go."
"If you think my husband is overstrong, you're mistaken."
"And mine, Madame, how about him?"
Something told me that Monsieur Leddin's fate was hanging in the
balance on this eventful evening.
"Shake him up, Monsieur Neu, he doesn't need to sleep if we can't.
We've all got to work to-morrow and he can take a nice long nap at his
desk."
"Oh, leave him alone," put in Monsieur Laurent, the stationer, who was
seated near me. "Just listen to those fiendish women. Why they're
worse than we are about the slackers. After all, I keep telling them
there must be a few, otherwise who's going to write history? And
history's got to be written, hasn't it?"
"Most decidedly," I replied.
And having at length found a subject of conversation that I had deigned
approve, he continued,
"Just think of what all the poor kids in generations to come will have
to cram into their heads! The names of all the battles on all the
Fronts and the dates. It makes me dizzy! I'm glad it's not up to me.
I like history all well enough, but I'd rather make it than have to
learn it."
Monsieur Laurent did not speak lightly. He had veritably helped to
make history, having left his right foot and part of his leg "Out
there" on the hills of Verdun.
I asked him how he was getting along since his return.
"Better than ever! Excellent appetite--never a cold--never an ill.
I'll soon be as spry as a rabbit. Why, I used to be too heavy, I
always fell asleep after luncheon. That campaign set my blood to
rights. I'm ten years younger," he exclaimed, pounding his chest.
"That's a good strong-box, isn't it?" and he coughed loudly to
thoroughly convince of its solidity.
"France can still count on me! I was ready for war, and I shall be
prepared for peace."
"Just wait till it gets here," murmured some woman.
[Illustration: THE COURTYARD LEADING TO MADAME HUARD'S CELLAR]
"It'll come, it's bound to come some time," he cried, evidently
pursuing a favourite theme. "And we'll like it all the better for
having waited so long."
Monsieur Laurent has firm faith in the immediate business future.
"_Voilà_! all we've got to do is to lay Germany out flat. Even then
the economical struggle that will follow the war will be terrible," he
prophesies. "The French must come to the fore with all the resources
of their national genius. As to myself, I have my own idea on the
subject."
We were fairly drinking in his words.
"You've all doubtless seen the sign that I put up in my window?"
We acquiesced.
"Well, it was that sign that opened my eyes."
I was all attention by this time, for I distinctly remembered the above
mentioned sign. It had puzzled and amused me immensely. Painted in
brilliant letters, it ran as follows:
_EXCEPTIONAL BARGAIN:_
_For men having their left foot
amputated and wearing size No. 9.
3 shoes for the right foot--two
black and one tan; excellent
quality, almost like new.
For sale, or exchange for shoes
belonging to the left foot. Must be
of same quality and in like condition._
"I haven't yet made any special effort to ascertain whether there are
more amputations of the left than of the right foot," continued
Monsieur Laurent; "I suppose it's about equal. Well, my plan is just
this. As soon as there's peace I'm going to set up shop on the rue St.
Antoine, or the Place de la Bastille. I'll call it 'A la botte de
l'amputé,' and I sell my shoes separately instead of in pairs. There's
a fortune in it inside of five years."
"Just hear him raving," sighed his wife. "You know well enough,
Laurent, that just so soon as the war is over we're going to sell out,
and with the money, your pension, and what we've saved up, we'll go out
to the Parc St. Maur, buy a little cottage and settle down. I'll raise
a few chickens and some flowers, and you can go fishing in the Seine
all day long."
"But the economical struggle?"
"You let the economical struggle take care of itself. Now, with your
mad idea, just suppose those who had a right foot all wanted tan shoes,
and those who had a left couldn't stand anything but black? I'd like
to know where you'd be then? Stranger things than that have happened."
Laurent gazed at his wife in admiration.
"With all your talk about the future, it seems to me we've been down
here a long time since that last explosion."
One woman looked for her husband but could not find him. The Rembrandt
Christhead had also disappeared.
A tall fifteen year old lad who stood near the door informed us that
they had slipped out to see.
"So has Germain."
"Then you come here! Don't you dare leave me," scolded the mother.
"Can you just see something happening to him with his father out there
in the trenches?"
Monsieur Neu and two other men soon followed suit.
The big boy who had so recently been admonished managed to crawl from
beneath his mother's gaze and make his escape.
"If ever I catch him, he'll find out what my name is," screamed the
excited woman, dashing after him into the darkness.
Then, presently, one by one we took our way towards the hall, and the
cellar seemed empty.
The tall boy came back to the entrance, all excitement.
"We saw where it fell!" he panted. "There are some wounded. The
police won't let you go near. There's lots and lots of people out
there. Where's mamma?"
"She's looking for you!"
He was off with a bound.
The instinct to see, to know what is going on is infinitely stronger
than that of self preservation. Many a soldier has told me that, and I
have often had occasion to prove it personally.
Some of the women started towards the street.
"We're only going as far as the door," said they by way of excuse.
"You're really quite safe beneath the portico." And they carried their
babies with them.
So when the final signal of safety was sounded, there remained below
but a few old women, a couple of very small children, and Monsieur
Leddin, whom nothing seemed to disturb.
The mothers returned to fetch their children. The old ladies and
Monsieur Leddin were aroused.
"_C'est fini_! _Ah_!"
And in the courtyard one could hear them calling as they dispersed.
"Good-night, Madame Cocard."
"Good-night, Madame Bidon."
"Don't forget."
"I won't."
"Till next time."
"That's it, till next time."
A young woman approached me.
"Madame, you won't mind if I come after them to-morrow, would you?" she
begged with big wistful eyes. "The stairway is so dark and so narrow
in our house, I'm afraid something might happen to them."
"Mercy me! you're surely not thinking of leaving your babies alone in
the cellar?"