Shall I tell you about the old woman and her statue of Sainte Claire?
She was a true native of Picardy, and if I could give you her dialect,
this story would be more amusing. We came upon her in the course of our
visits, living in her clean little house that had been well mended. She
was delighted to have someone to talk to.
"Come in, my good girl," she patronized the queenly and aristocratic
Madame de Vigny. "Come in, everybody," and we all went in.
"Sit down, my dear," again to Madame de Vigny. "Those barbarians didn't
leave me many chairs, but here is one, and this box will do for these
young ladies." She herself remained standing, a stout old body in spite
of her eighty years. Her blue eyes were clear and twinkled with fun, and
she had a mischievous way of smiling out of the corner of her mouth,
displaying two teeth. She loved her joke, this shrewd old lady.
"_Dites, Madame_," she said, "is it true that you give away flannel
petticoats and stockings?"
"Yes, Madame, when one has need of them."
"Is it possible? And for nothing? Ah, that is good, that is generous.
Tonight I shall tell Sainte Claire about you. Would you like to see my
'_tiote[1] Sainte Claire_?" We followed her back through a little yard
and down into a cellar. "You see, Mesdames, when the villains bombarded
Noyon, I stayed right here. I wasn't going to leave my home for those
people. One night the convent opposite was struck, and the next morning
in the street I found my Sainte Claire. She wasn't harmed at all, lying
on her back in the mud. 'Now God will protect me,' I said, and I picked
her up in my arms and carried her into my house. And Sainte Claire said
to me, 'Place me down in the cave, and you will be safe.' So I brought
her down."
[Footnote 1: Dialect for _petite_.]
She led us to a tiny underground apartment, probably a vegetable cellar,
and there, on a bracket jutting from the mildewed wall, stood the
painted plaster image of the saint.
"_Voilà ma Sainte Claire!_" exclaimed the old peasant woman, crossing
herself. "She and I have lived down here during the bombardment and the
entire occupation. She has protected me. Look, Madame--" and she showed
us a corner of the ceiling that had been newly repaired. "The _obus_
passed through here, and never touched us. I kept on praying to the
Sainte, and she said, 'Do not move and you will be safe.' All night I
was on my knees before her, and toward morning the house was hit--only
one meter away the wall fell down, and we were not harmed, Madame,
neither the Sainte nor I. Then Sainte Claire said to me, 'The Boches are
coming. Take half of your potatoes and bring them down here.' I had a
beautiful pile of potatoes, Madame, just harvested. But I took only half
and put them in a sack and stuffed it with hay. For thirteen months,
Madame, I slept on those potatoes. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Take half
your wine, and put it down the well.' I wanted to hide it all, but she
said 'No, take only half.' And I sunk one hundred bottles, Madame, of my
best wine in the well. The Boches came. Five of them came to my house.
Five _grands gaillards_ with square heads. Oh, they are ugly, Madame!
'Show us your wine,' they ordered. 'It is there, Messieurs, in the
cellar,' I answered meek as a lamb. And they all began drinking till
they were drunk. Then one of them dragged me down here by the arm, and
for thirteen months, Madame, I lived in this hole with Sainte Claire
while they possessed my house. They made me cook for them, the animals;
but I should have starved, Madame, if I had not had my potatoes. Then
the French began their bombardment. Ah, it was terrible, Madame, to be
bombarded by one's friends. I did not leave this cave, and I prayed and
prayed, 'Sainte Claire, save me once more!' and Sainte Claire replied,
'The French are coming. We shall not be hurt.' One morning it was
suddenly quiet: the cannon had stopped. I listened and heard nothing,
and I came up into my house. It was empty, Madame. The Boches had gone.
One shell had fallen through the roof into my bedroom--that was all. But
ah, Madame! _Noyon, pauvre Noyon!_ She was like a corpse. _Ah lala,
lala! Qué'malheur!_ The next day our soldiers came. Ah, how glad I was.
And I asked Sainte Claire, 'May I not go to the well and bring up a
bottle of wine?' And she said 'No, not yet.' So we waited, Madame, until
the day of the Armistice. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Now you may go and
bring up all the wine.' And, Madame, what do you think? I went to the
well and I hauled up the wine and out of the hundred bottles only two
were broken." The old woman laughed with delight at the trick she had
played on the invader.
"They never guessed it was there. It was Sainte Claire, Madame, who
saved it. I poured her a glassful and we celebrated, Madame; we
celebrated the victory down in our cave, _ma'tiote Sainte Claire_ and
I."
* * * * *
Mademoiselle Froissart and I left the _Poste de Secours_ one day, and
started for a far away village that was said to be utterly wiped out.
Our drive lay over a terrific road. We crossed a vast sad plain,
intersected with trenches, with nothing in sight but one monster
deserted tank, still camouflaged, and here and there the silhouette of
a blasted tree against the lowering sky. These dead trees of the battle
line! Sometimes, with their bony limbs flung forth in gnarled unnatural
gestures, they remind me of frantic skeletons suddenly petrified in
their dance of death. They are frenzied, and unutterably tragic. They
seem to move; yet they are so dead. And I imagine their denuded tortured
arms reaching toward unanswering Heaven in an agony of protest against
the fate that has gripped all nature.
We entered a torn and tangled forest. The road was narrow and overgrown,
and several times I had to dodge hand grenades that lay in the grassy
ruts. The Ford ploughed bravely through deep mud, skidded, recovered,
fell into holes, and kept on. My attention was so focused upon driving
that I saw little else but the road ahead, though once at an exclamation
from Mademoiselle Froissart, out of the corner of my eye I saw a machine
gun mounted and apparently intact. The motor was toiling, but in my soul
I blessed its regular noise that told me all was well. Leaving the wood
we came to what appeared to be a large rough clearing. There were no
trees--only bumps of earth covered with tall weeds. To our surprise we
caught sight of the jaunty blue figure of a poilu, and then a band of
slouching green-coated prisoners who were digging in their heavy
leisurely manner. Mademoiselle Froissart inquired for the village of
Evricourt.
"_Mais c'est ici, Madame_," replied the soldier with a grin.
"Here!" We stared. There was nothing by which one could have told that
this was the site of a town, except an occasional bit of brick that
showed beneath the weeds. All the Germans had stopped work to look at
these two women who had so unexpectedly penetrated to this God-forsaken
spot. We asked whether any of the inhabitants had returned.
"Just one old man," said the poilu, "who lives all alone in his cellar,
over there." He pointed, and suddenly from the ground emerged an aged
man, white haired and erect. He came toward us, an astonishingly
handsome figure. His beautifully modeled head was like a bit of perfect
sculpture found suddenly among rank ruins, whose very fineness shocks
us because of its contrast with its coarse surroundings. His blue eyes
were piercing under bushy white brows, while a snowy and curling beard,
abundant yet well trimmed, set off the dark ivory of his complexion. And
on his head, above the silvery waving hair, was placed at a careful
angle a blue _callot_. He was dressed in that agreeable soft blue that
distinguishes the garments of those who work out of doors, and a
spotless white shirt was turned back at the throat.
"_Bonjour, Mesdames_," he greeted us, taking off his cap and came up for
a chat. We were amazed at his charm and intelligence. He had come back
thus alone "because, Mademoiselle, this is my home. An old man can best
serve his country by living off his own land. What good is he in a
strange province where they eat such ridiculous things, and where
everyone has the craze for machinery? Besides, the more one's home is
ruined the greater the obligation to return and rebuild it. _C'est un
devoir, Mademoiselle._" His place was here, unless--with a twinkle in my
direction--Mademoiselle would take him back to America with her, in
which case he would willingly leave. I laughed at the compliment and
told him to name the day and the boat.
Food? He had scratched a little garden by his door and had plenty, thank
you. Clothing? "Do I not look well dressed, Mademoiselle?" We admitted
that he looked ready for a fête. Company? "Ah, Mademoiselle, memories,
memories! I smoke my pipe and I repeople this village. It is alive for
me. Look, Mademoiselle, that is where the church was--it was a pretty
church. And there was the _mairie_. Only"--with a shrug of good humored
despair--"now I have no more tobacco. These _messieurs_"--indicating the
soldier and the Germans who were smiling good naturedly--"are kind
enough to share theirs with me, but they are not very rich themselves,
you see," at which they all laughed at their common plight. Here at last
was something that we could offer. I usually kept cigarettes with me for
such emergencies. And now I produced two boxes of them and several
packages of American matches.
"Mademoiselle, I accept them with my profound thanks," said the old
_gallant_ with a bow, removing his cap.
At length we had to leave. A prisoner stepped forward to crank my car,
and all of them, the dauntless Frenchman in the center, lined up and
gave us the military salute. Before reentering the woods I looked back
and saw the blue-coated figure offering a light to the green coat. From
cigarette tip to cigarette tip the fraternal spark was being
transmitted: the spark that crosses borders and nationalities, that
glows in the darkness, and puts mankind at peace. And so we left them
all--smoking; smoking out there in the ruins, smoking and dreaming of
home. Of home and love unattainable beyond the Rhine; of home and love
buried forever in the wreckage of war and of time.
* * * * *
This week Mademoiselle Froissart and I spent forty-eight hours in Paris,
during which time we purchased one thousand toys for our Christmas
party. Such a time as I had coralling a taxi to carry our large crate
of playthings to the station. Paris was gay and crowded, making up for
its four years of gravity, and the conscienceless taxi drivers were
having pretty much their own way, refusing all that were going in a
direction that did not suit their convenience, and extorting enormous
_pour boire_. I stood on the edge of the mad stream of vehicles that
pressed by on the boulevard, and watched for an empty taxi. One came,
the old reprobate who drove it casting his practiced eye about for a
likely looking customer. He deigned to notice me, recognizing me for an
American, and well knowing our national childish impatience, and its
lucrative consequences. He drove up to the curb.
"Where to?" he asked defiantly, blinking his bleary eyes, his red
alcoholic face set in insolent lines.
"_La Gare du Nord._"
He reflected an instant. "Bon," he decided. I got in, resolving to take
possession before breaking all the news to him.
"First I must stop at the _Grand Bazaar_ to call for a box," I said in
a most matter-of-fact way.
"Ah ça! non! It can't be done!" he exclaimed in a fury. "How do you
expect me to earn my living if I have to go out of my way and wait a
century outside a store?"
"I will pay you for your time."
Still he refused to move. "Déscendez, déscendez!" he cried in an ugly
voice. I knew the next one would be just as bad, and besides I had no
time to lose. The hour of the train was approaching. Basely I resorted
to bribery: "Look here, Monsieur, I am American and I will pay you well.
Did you ever know an American to fail to make it worth your while?" He
considered, and looked me over appraisingly.
"It will be twenty francs then, Madame." This was too outrageous.
"Ah non," I said in my turn, but I laughed. "_Ecoutez_, do you know what
is in that box I am going to get? Toys for the little children of the
devastated regions. If I don't take it with me they will have nothing,
nothing at all for Christmas."
"Eh, what?" His old heart was moved. "_Pays dévasté? C'est vrai? Bien,
Madame_, I will take you anywhere you wish." And he started the car. On
our way through traffic he related to me over his shoulder how his wife
and children had fled from Soissons while he was driving a _camion_ at
the front, and that their home was gone.
At the _Grand Bazaar_ Mademoiselle Froissart was waiting with the huge
crate of toys. It was hoisted onto the front seat beside the chauffeur,
who, far from grumbling at its size, was most solicitous in placing it
so that it would not jar. "We mustn't break the dolls," he said with a
wink. Arriving at the station he insisted upon carrying it to the
baggage room for us. "_Hey, mon vieux!_" he addressed the baggage man,
"step lively and get that case on the train for Noyon. It's full of
dolls--dolls for the little girls." And the whole force laughed and flew
to the crate, and tenderly hustled it out to the train with paternal
interest.
"Merry Christmas and many thanks," I said to our driver, holding out the
twenty francs. He did not glance at the money and pushed back my hand.
"_Non, non, Mademoiselle, c'est un plaisir_," he murmured. I protested,
but his whole expression pleaded. "It's not much, Mademoiselle. It's for
the little girls--out there."
Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and
watching us. He waved his hat.
"_Bon voyage!_" he called above the crowd. Then, turning, he went back
into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying
upon the intimidated and helpless public.