is adorned with the statues of the above mentioned gentlemen carved in
stone. The proprietor, who built the edifice and paid the bill, having
been sole judge in the choice of celebrities, the result is as
astonishing as it is eclectic, and though absolutely devoid of beauty,
thoroughly imposing.
We arrived before our luggage, which was conveyed by so old and puffy a
horse that we considered it criminal not to leave our cab and finish
the hill on foot. At the top of a monumental staircase we entered the
hotel office, behind whose desk were enthroned two persons of most
serious aspect; the one, stout and florid of complexion with a long
nose and an allure worthy of Louis XIV, proudly bore upon her head such
an extraordinary quantity of blond hair arranged in so complicated a
fashion that I trembled to think of the time required to dress it. The
other, sallow faced, with a long curved chin, might have been taken for
a Spanish Infanta, pickled in vinegar and allspice.
The formality of greetings accomplished, princess number one produced a
book in which we were to sign our names. The dignity and importance
she attached to this ceremony would certainly not have been misplaced
in a Grand Chamberlain preparing the official register for the
signature of Peace preliminaries.
This, together with the manner in which she took note of our names,
drying them with a spoonful of gold sand, gave me the illusion that I
had just performed some important rite.
"One or two rooms?" she queried.
"One big room, Madame."
"With or without bath?" demanded the co-adjutor, whose voice possessed
a contralto quality utterly out of keeping with her pale blond hair and
complexion.
"With bath, please."
A new register was opened. Both bent over it closely, each showing the
other a different paragraph with her fore finger. Finally they
murmured a few inaudible syllables and then shook their heads.
"Would you prefer number six or number fourteen?" finally asked the
Infanta.
We looked at each other in astonishment, neither being superstitious
about numbers, but it would have been painful to announce to these
ladies that the matter was totally indifferent to us. They had been so
condescending as to allow us a choice.
"Number six has a balcony and two windows. Number fourteen has one
window and a bathroom," the princess informed us.
"But," continued the Infanta, "it is our duty to inform you that hot
water has been forbidden by the municipal authorities, and that cold
water is limited to two pitchers per person, per room."
I said I would take number six, which arrangement terminated the
ladies' mental indecision, and seemed to please them greatly. They
smiled benignly upon us.
The smaller one, whom I have called the coadjutor, because her throne
was less elevated than the princess', put her finger on a button and a
violent ringing broke the silence of the vast hallway. No one answered.
Three times she repeated the rings, with an imperious movement.
"Be kind enough to go and call Monsieur Amédé, Mademoiselle Laure."
On her feet, Mademoiselle Laure was even smaller than when seated. She
crossed the vestibule, opened a door, and her strong voice resounded
along an empty corridor from which issued the odour of boiling
cauliflower.
"Monsieur Amédé!" she shouted anew, but not even an echo responded.
"Mademoiselle Laure, ask for the head waiter."
Mademoiselle Laure recrossed the vestibule and opening a door
diametrically opposed to the other, called:
"Monsieur Balthazard!"
Monsieur Balthazard appeared, his shirt sleeves rolled up beyond his
elbow, wiping his hands on a blue gingham apron. He was a little slim
man who may have been sixty years old. A glass eye gave him a
sardonic, comic or astonished air, according to the way he used his
good one, which was constantly moving, at the same time that it was
clear and piercing.
"Monsieur Balthazard--what an attire for a head waiter!"
"Madame, I was just rinsing the wine barrels."
"And how about the errands for the people in rooms twenty-four and
twenty-seven."
A noise at the hall door attracted our attention. It was as though
some one were making desperate and fruitless attempts to open it.
"There he is now," exclaimed Monsieur Balthazard. "I'll go and let him
in. He's probably got his hands full."
Monsieur Amédé, literally swamped beneath his bundles, staggered into
the vestibule. To the different errands confided to his charge by the
hotel's guests had undoubtedly been added the cook's list, for an
enormous cabbage and a bunch of leeks completely hid his face, which
was uncovered only as he let them fall to the ground.
When he had finally deposited his treasures, we discovered a small lad
about fourteen or fifteen years of age, dressed in a bellboy's uniform
which had been made for some one far more corpulent of stature. The
sleeves reached far down over his hands, the tight fitting, gold
buttoned jacket strangely resembled a cross between a bag and an
overcoat, and though a serious reef had been taken in the trousers at
the waist line, the legs would twist and sway--at times being almost as
ample as those worn by the Turkish sultanas.
Our coachman now arrived with our luggage.
"Monsieur Amédé, take this luggage and accompany Monsieur and Madame to
number six."
The child gathered up his new burden and started upstairs.
We followed, helping him pick up the various objects which successively
escaped his grasp.
"Goodness, it seems to me you're awfully young to be doing such heavy
work!"
"Oh," said he, wiping his brow, "I'm very lucky. My mother is cook
here, and Monsieur Balthazard is my uncle. With old fat Julia, the
maid, and Mathilde, the linen woman, we're all that's left. All the
men have gone to war, and the women into the powder mills. We keep the
hotel going, we do."
Monsieur Amédé was full of good will, and a desire to help me all he
could. He explained to us that he was now building the solid
foundation of a future whose glories he hardly dare think, so numerous
and unfathomable did they seem. Unfortunately, however, we were
obliged to note that he seemed little gifted for the various
occupations to which he had consecrated his youth--and his glorious
future--for in less than five minutes he had dropped a heavy valise on
my toes, and upset an ink-well, whose contents dripped not only onto
the carpet but onto one of my new bags. In trying to repair damages,
Monsieur Amédé spoiled my motor veil and got several large spots on the
immaculate counterpane, after which he bowed himself out, wiping his
hands on the back of his jacket, assuring us that there was no harm
done, that no one would scold us, nor think of asking us for damages.
We saw him again at dinner time, when disguised as a waiter he passed
the different dishes, spilling sauce down people's necks, tripping on
his apron and scattering the handsome pyramids of fruit hither and yon.
Lastly he took a plunge while carrying out an over-loaded tray, but
before any one could reach him he was on his feet, bright and smiling,
exclaiming:
"I'm not hurt. No harm done. I'll just sweep it up. It won't stain."
In the meantime quiet, skilful Uncle Balthazard strained every nerve in
a herculean effort to keep his temper and serve thirty persons all at
once.
It was touching to hear the old man murmur, "Gently, boy--go gently,"
as his youthful protégé stumbled from one blunder to another. "Go
gently, you can be so clever when you're not in a hurry!"
Monsieur Amédé almost caused us to miss the train next evening in spite
of the numerous warnings from the princess behind the desk, who had
arranged the hour of our departure. That brilliant young man who had
been sent ahead with our luggage was nowhere to be found when our train
was announced. My husband, a woman porter, a soldier on furlough who
knew him, started out to scour the immediate surroundings of the
station, finally locating him in a backyard near the freight depot, his
hands in his pockets, excitedly following a game of nine-pins at which
a group of convalescent African soldiers was playing.
Of course he immediately explained that there was no harm done since
the train was twenty minutes late, and when finally it arrived and he
handed our baggage into the compartment, he accidentally let slip a
little wooden box containing an old Sevres vase, which I had purchased
at an antiquity dealer's that very morning.
He picked it up, exclaiming:
"Lucky it's not fragile."
And lifting his cap, on whose visor one might read "Hotel des Homines
Illustres," he cheerfully wished us a _Bon voyage_.
IX
Before the war it used to be Aunt Rose's victoria that met us at the
station; a victoria drawn by a shiny span and driven by pompous old
Joseph, the coachman, clad in a dark green, gold-buttoned livery and
wearing a cockade on his hat. Aunt Rose's coachman, and the Swiss at
Notre Dame were classed among the curiosities of the city, as could be
attested by the numerous persons who hastened to their doorstep to see
the brilliant equipage pass by.
But this time we found the victoria relegated beside the old "Berline"
which Aunt Rose's great-grandmother had used to make a journey to
Italy; the horses had been sent out to the farm, where they were
needed, and Joseph, fallen from the glory of his box, attired in a
striped alpaca vest, and wearing a straw hat, half civilian, half
servant, seemed a decidedly puffy old man, much aged since our last
visit.
"Monsieur and Madame will be obliged to take the omnibus. Will
Monsieur kindly give me the baggage check?"
Then as I fumbled in my purse--
"Monsieur and Madame will find many changes, I fear."
But in spite of his prophecy to us there seemed little difference. The
rickety old omnibus rattled and bumped noisily over the pointed cobble
pavements, the tiny city merely seemed asleep behind its drawn blinds
and its closed shutters. At the corner of the square in front of the
château the old vegetable vendor still sold her products seated beneath
her patched red cotton parasol; the Great Dane watchdog lay in exactly
the same place on the tinker's doorstep. Around the high church tower
the crows circled and cawed as usual, while the bell of its clock
which, as we passed, slowly struck three, was echoed by the distant
hills with the same familiar sound.
The omnibus deposited us at the entrance to the big roomy edifice which
Aunt Rose called "home."
The broad façade, evenly pierced by its eighteen long French windows,
had a genial, inviting appearance, while the soft rose colour of the
bricks, the white stone trimming, the iron balconies, mingled here and
there with bas-reliefs and sculptures, were in perfect harmony with the
tall slanting slate roof and majestic chimneys, the whole forming one
of those delightful ensembles constructed by local architects during
the 17th century for the pleasure and comfort of a large French
bourgeois family.
Aunt Rose herself, leaning upon an ivory-headed cane, but bright eyed
and alert as ever, awaited us at the top of the steps. From her we
soon learned that we had missed our friends the M.'s by but a day, and
that little André, son of our cousins in Flers, had announced his visit
for the following Monday.
At this point Friquet, her old Pomeranian favourite, crept down from
his cushion and approached us.
"He doesn't bark any more, so you know he must be getting old," smiled
Aunt Rose, caressing her pet.
"My poor Victoire is getting on, too, I fear. Her nephew is stone
blind since the battle of the Marne. Joseph has lost two of his
grandsons; of course, he didn't tell you--he doesn't want any one to
speak of it--but he's very much upset by it. Nicholas and Armandine do
nothing but worry about their poor little Pierre, who hasn't given a
sign of life for three months now--so I fear you will have to be very
patient and very indulgent guests."
The delightful old lady led us to our room, "the psyche room" we, the
youngsters, used to call it on account of the charming grisaille wall
paper, dating from the end of the Empire period, and representing in
somewhat stiff but none the less enchanting manner the amorous
adventures of that goddess.
I have always had a secret feeling that many a time, urged by her
confessor, Madame de C. had been upon the point of obliterating or
removing those extremely chaste nude images. But at the last moment
rose up the horror of voluntarily changing anything in the homestead,
transforming a whole room that she always had known thus, and perhaps
the unavowed fear of our ridicule and reproach, had made her renounce
her project.
"Brush up quickly, and come right down to tea. We've got so many
things to talk over. You've so much to tell me!"
So a quarter of an hour later, tea-cup in hand, we must needs go into
the details of our trips, inform her of our hopes and fears, tell of
all the different things we had seen--what America was going to
do--what it had already accomplished. And with her marvellously quick
understanding, her vivacious intelligence, the old lady classified the
facts and the anecdotes, asked us to repeat dates and numbers, that she
might the better retain them in her splendid memory.
All through dinner and the long evening she plied us with questions,
kept the conversation running along the same lines, returning now and
then to a certain theme, or certain figures, and asking us to go into
even more detail.
"I know I'm an abominable old egoist," at length she apologised. "But
you'd forgive me if only you realised how much happiness your stories
will bring, and to how many people. I imagine that you haven't had
much time for correspondence with our family--but that's all an old
woman like myself is good for these days."
"Our family" consisted in relationship to the 'nth degree of all the
H's, de C's, B's and F's that were then in existence, some of them such
distant cousins that Aunt Rose herself would never have recognised them
had they met. And besides these people there were her friends, her
servants, her farmers, possibly a group of three hundred persons with
whom the good soul corresponded, giving news of the ones to the others,
announcing misfortunes or joys--a living link between us all.
Left a widow when still quite young, Aunt Rose had lived with and
respected the memory of her husband. Though she had had many an offer,
she had never cared to remarry. But unable to stand the damp climate
of Normandy, she had returned to her family homestead in this little
city of the Bourbonnais, in whose suburbs she possessed quite a fortune
in farm lands. Alone in the world, with no immediate family, she had
devoted herself not only to her own, but to her husband's relatives.
Her home had always been the _havre de grace_, known and venerated by
them all; a meeting place for reconciliation between persons whose
self-control had escaped them; the shelter for prodigal and repentant
sons who awaited the forgiveness of their justly wrathful sires; the
comforting haven that seemed to assuage the pangs of departure and
bereavement. But above all it was the one spot for properly
celebrating family anniversaries, announcing engagements, and spending
joyous vacations.
The war had been the cause of a great deal of hard work in this respect.
"Why, I receive more letters than a State functionary," Aunt Rose
informed me when I came upon her early the next morning, already
installed behind her huge flat-topped desk, her tortoise-shell
spectacles tipped down towards the end of her very prominent nose.
"For nearly four years I've been writing on the average of twenty
letters a day and I never seem to catch up with my correspondence.
Why, I need a secretary just to sort out and classify it. You haven't
an idea the different places that I hear from. See, here are your
letters from the United States. Léon is in the Indo-Chinese Bank in
Oceania. Albert is mobilised at Laos, Quentin in Morocco. Jean-Paul
and Marcel are fighting at Saloniki; Emilien in Italy. Marie is
Superior in a convent at Madrid; Madeline, Sister of Charity at Cairo.
You see I've a world-wide correspondence.
"Look," she continued, opening a deep drawer in one side of her desk,
"here are the letters from my _poilus_ and, of course, these are only
the answered ones. The dear boys just love to write and not one of
them misses a week without doing so. I'm going to keep them all.
Their children may love to have them some day."
Then she opened a smaller drawer, and my eye fell upon a dozen or
fifteen packages, all different in size and each one enveloped in white
tissue paper, carefully tied about with grey silk ribbon.
"These were written by our dear departed," she said simply.
In an instant they passed before my eyes, those "dear departed." Big,
tall William, so gay and so childish, he who used to play the ogre or
the horse, or anything one wished: a person so absolutely indispensable
to their games that all the little folk used to gather beneath his
window early in the morning, crying in chorus: "Uncle William! Uncle
William! do wake up and come down and play!"
[Illustration: FLOCKING TO READ THE COMING COMMUNIQUÉ IN A LITTLE
FRENCH CITY]
Jean-François, the engineer; Philippe, the architect; Honoré, whom we
dubbed "Deshonoré," because he used always to return empty-handed when
we went hunting together. Gone, gone forever!
Aunt Rose picked up one of the smaller packages.
"These were from little Jacques." And two bright tears trembled on her
lashes.
"You remember him, of course, my dear. He was an orphan, he never knew
his mother. I always supposed that is what made him so distant and
reserved. Jean, his guardian, who is very severe, used to treat him as
he did his own children--scolding him often about his indolence, his
lack of application to his studies.
"I used to have him here with me during his vacations. He loved this
old house--and I knew it. Sometimes when you would all start out for
some excursion I'd see him coming back towards the gate:
"'You're not going with them then, Jacques?'
"'No, thank you, Aunt Rose, it's so nice in your drawing-room.'
"When he was just a little baby I often wanted to take him onto my lap
and laugh and play with him. But he was so cold and distant! A funny
little mite, even with boys of his own age. Nobody seemed to
understand him exactly; certain people even thought that his was a
surly nature.
"He spent his last furlough here, and I found quite a change in him.
He was more robust and tanned. A splendid looking fellow, and I was so
proud of him.
"'Aunt Rose,' he asked even before we embraced, 'is there any one else
stopping with you?'
"'Why no, child, and I'm afraid you'll find the house very empty. If
only I'd known you were coming I most certainly should have invited
your cousins.'
"'Oh, I'm so glad you didn't! I much prefer being alone with you.'
"He came and went in the house, but never could be persuaded to go
outside the yard. I should have loved to have taken him with me and
shown his War Cross to some of my old friends. But he wouldn't hear of
it.
"'Pooh!' he would laugh when I would suggest such a thing. 'If ever
they come near me I'll tell them I've got "trench pest"--and then
you'll see them clear out.'
"He went down in the kitchen and I'd hear him pottering around. I
never knew him so gay and happy.
"'Tante Rose, I'm going to sing you "La Madelon" and the "Refrain de la
Mitraille." It was Planchet, the tinsmith, who composed it!'
"He'd sit for hours in that big blue armchair, blinking at the fire,
and then suddenly he'd come to earth and explain:
"'Aunt Rose, what a pleasure to be here.'
"When finally he had to go back, he caught me and whispered in my ear,
as I kissed him:
"'Next time, Tante, you promise me not to invite any one, won't you?'
"Poor child, he will never come back, and his friend Planchet, the
tinsmith, saw him fall with a bullet through his heart. It was he who
wrote me the sad news.
"Well, my dear, what mystery the soul hides within itself! In one of
the cupboards of the room he occupied I found two note books and a
diary filled with verses he had never shown to any one, never admitted
having written. How little we guessed what he was about when we
scolded him for his indolence and inattention. If you only knew what
accents, what harmonious phrases he found to depict the shades of our
trees, the rippling of the river, the perfume of the flowers and his
love for us all.
"There is a whole chapter devoted to the old homestead. He seemed to
feel everything, divine everything, explain everything. None of us
understood him. There is no use pretending we did. Not one among us
would ever have guessed that so splendid and delicate a master of the
pen lived and moved amongst us."
Aunt Rose looked straight out onto the sun-lit court, the great tears
trickling down her cheeks.
For a long time neither of us spoke.
Like its mistress, Aunt Rose's home lives to serve the war. The
culinary realm is always busily engaged preparing _patés_ and
_galantines_, _rillettes_ and sausages. "For our boys," is the answer
almost before the question is put. "They're so glad to get home-made
dainties, and are always clamouring for more--no matter how much you
send!
"Since they must eat preserved food, we might as well send them
something we make ourselves, then we're sure it's the best. Why, I'd
be ashamed to go out and buy something and send it off without knowing
who had handled it." This was the cook's idea of patriotism, which I
shared most heartily, having at one time had nothing but "bully beef"
and dried beans as constant diet for nearly a fortnight.
The coachman and inside man sealed the crocks and tins, prepared and
forwarded the packages.
"Oh, there's one for everybody! Even the boys of the city who haven't
got a family to look after them. They must be mighty glad Madame's
alive. We put in one or two post cards, views of the town. That
cheers them up and makes them feel they're not forgotten here in R----."
One afternoon on descending into the kitchen we beheld two sturdy
looking fellows seated at table and eating with ravenous appetite. One
was an artilleryman who had but a single arm, the other a _chasseur_,
whose much bandaged leg was reposing upon a stool.
"They are wounded men on convalescent leave," explained Armandine.
"The poor fellows need a little humouring so that they'll build up the
quicker, and an extra meal surely can't hurt!"
This was certainly the opinion of the two invalids who had just
disposed of a most generous bacon omelet, and were about to dig into a
jar of _paté_.
Armandine and Nicholas watched them eat with evident admiration, fairly
drinking up their words when between mouthsful they would stop for
breath and deign to speak. Their rustic eloquence was like magic balm
poured onto a constantly burning, ulcerated sore.
"Your son? Why, of course, he'll turn up!" the artilleryman assured
them.
"But he hasn't written a line!"
"That's nothing. Now just suppose that correspondence is forbidden in
his sector for the time being."
"I know, but it's three months since we heard from him. We've written
everywhere, to all the authorities, and never get any returns--except
now and then a card saying that they're giving the matter their
attention. That's an awfully bad sign, isn't it?"
"Not at all, not at all," chimed in the _chasseur_. "Why, some of the
missing have been found in other regiments, or even in the depots, and
nobody knows how they got there.
"Three months? Why, that's not long. After the battle of the Marne my
poor old mother had them say Heaven knows how many masses for the
repose of my soul; for four months and three days she never heard a
thing of me, and I'd written her regularly every week.
"Yes, and what are you going to do if the letter carrier gets killed,
or the Boche locate the mail waggon on the road every other delivery?
Nobody's going to inform you of the accident."
"And that does happen often?"
"Almost every day."
"Quite a common occurrence; there's nothing for you to worry about yet,
really now."
So "hope springs eternal" in the breasts of the bereaved parents, whose
smile gradually broadens out into a laugh when the artillery-man
recounts some grotesque tale, and gives his joyous nature free rein.
The convalescents who came to this particular city must have
recuperated in the minimum of time, if _régime_ had anything to do with
the re-establishment. In every house the cloth was always on the
table, the door open in sign of welcome.
"Come in and have a bite with us," people would call to them as they
passed by.