again, relieved. You cannot imagine the tricks I must resort to in
order not to arouse false suspicions. Then, as soon as I open their
door they know the reason of my coming, and what poor miserable
creatures I often take in my arms and try vainly to console.
"Ah, Madame, the wives you can cope with, say things to, put their
babies in their arms. But the mothers, Madame, the mothers!"
"And no one complains, Madame Dumont?"
"No one, Madame, they all know that we've got to win this war."
All along the road home I walked slowly, lost in reverie. But I had no
time for musing after my arrival, for Aunt Rose met me at the doorstep,
a small boy by her side.
"Listen, my dear," she cooed, "I've a great favour to ask you. Would
you mind walking around to the farms and telling them that Maxence will
be here to-morrow morning? His little boy has just come over to tell
me."
The coming of Maxence produced an indescribable enthusiasm wherever I
announced the news. Maxence is the only blacksmith in Neuilly. Of
course he's serving in the artillery, but during his quarterly ten-day
_permissions_, he tries to cover all the work that is absolutely
indispensable to the welfare of the community. He arrived much
sun-burned and tanned, accompanied by two other chaps who were not
expected, having travelled two days and two nights without stopping.
They seated themselves before a succulent repast prepared by Madame
Maxence, and in the meantime the crowd began gathering in the shop.
"Get in line! Get in line!" he called to them joyfully. "Give me time
to swallow my coffee and I'll be with you."
Abandoning his uniform, he put on his old clothes, his sabots and his
leather apron, and for ten long days the hammer beat incessantly upon
the anvil.
Sometimes between strokes he would look up and smile, calling out:
"Why, they won't even give me time to catch a mess of fish, or go to
see my grandmother at Paray!"
There is always some tool to be repaired, a last horse to be shod.
"What do you know about this for a furlough! And every time it's the
same old story."
The others, all those whom I have seen return from the front, do
exactly as did Maxence.
Pushing open the gate, they embrace their pale and trembling wives,
cuddle the children in their arms, and then five minutes later one can
see Jean or Pierre, clothed in his working suit, seized and subjected
by the laws of his tradition.
Sunday though, the whole family must go to Mass. The careful housewife
has brushed and cleaned the faded uniform, burnished the helmet, put
new laces in the great thick-soled shoes. The children cling to their
father, proud of his warlike appearance. Then afterwards, of course,
there are many hands to be shaken, but no extraordinary effusions are
manifested.
"Ah, home at last, old man!"
"You're looking splendid. When did you get here?"
"Did you come across Lucien, and Bataille's son?"
They hardly mention the war. They talk of the weather, the crops, the
price of cattle, but never of battle. I have even found a certain
extraordinary dislike for discussion of the subject. Or when they can
be persuaded to speak, they laugh and tell of some weird feat.
"There are those who make the shells, those who shoot them, and those
who catch them. We're doing the catching just at present. There
doesn't seem to be much choice!"
They return, just as they came, without noise, without tears.
"Gigot's son's gone back this morning."
"Is that so? How quickly time flies!"
They take the road with a steady step, loaded down beneath their
bundles. But they never turn their heads for a last good-bye.
"Aren't you going to mend my pick-axe, Maxence?" queried an old
neighbour.
"Sorry, mother, but I've got to leave."
"Well, then, it'll be for next time."
"If next time there is!"
There is that terrible conditional "If" in all such village
conversations, just the same as in every conversation all over France.
Two years ago still another "If" hung on every lip. The hope that it
entertained seemed so vastly distant that no one dared give it open
utterance. But each in his secret soul nurtured and cherished the
idea, until at length those whispered longings swelled to a mighty
national desire,
"If only the Americans . . ."
They have not hoped in vain. The Americans have come.
FINIS
End of Project Gutenberg's With Those Who Wait, by Frances Wilson Huard