Three roads wander down from the hills and come together; and at the
point of meeting stands a crucifix. This large and dignified _Calvaire_,
though bearing the nicks of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds a
sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the more impressive because of these
marks of desecration. It forms the center of the tiny village, whose
houses cluster close to the mourning image and then straggle thinly
along the three roads. Not even the war which swept over in all its
ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. Many houses have
collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked
roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new
tar paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism. Vauchelles has met the
challenge of devastation and is setting things aright.
Is the town asleep? The healing July sun softly warms the silent houses
and their broken walls and closed doors. No one is in sight. Yet we have
come with our camionette well laden with clothing for the inhabitants.
Ah! they are all away working in the fields. Old Mademoiselle Masson,
peering through the one pane of glass that is left in her window, sees
us, and hobbles to the door to give us the information. She beams upon
us, an unkempt yet gracious figure, and when she talks her false teeth
move slightly up and down. She will run and call her sister who is up on
the hill, and she will tell Madame Riflet as she goes. The news will
spread. The news always spreads. Already the people are gathering, for
_la Croix Rouge_ is its own introduction; and these peasants, too
proud--most of them--to go and ask, will accept what is freely and
gladly given at their doors.
The first person I call upon is Madame Cat. Shall I soon forget that
determined little face with its deep set blue eyes, and sharp features
unsoftened by the brown hair that is pulled back from her forehead? Or
the one room left in that tiny house, shattered and bare, yet stamped
indelibly with the character of its valiant occupants? The ashes are
swept in the fireplace. Two burnished shells tattooed in a careful
pattern and filled with flowers brighten the mantel. And the bed! Even
though made of fragments found in the debris, with naught but a hay
_paillasse_ and a few old quilts dragged through the long flight and
return, it is nevertheless smooth and noble, adorned only with the
reverence and importance with which the French surround The Bed. The
daughter comes in, a thin music-voiced girl with a fine profile like her
mother's. They accept simply, and with appreciation, the useful things
the Red Cross offers. In this case I am authorized to make an unusual
present. For we have a few rolls of wall paper which we have been
holding for someone who takes a special pride in her interior. It would
cover the cracked and damp walls of Madame Cat and would add much cheer
to her little room, besides keeping out the wind. Their faces are
radiant at the suggestion. The daughter will come to the _poste_
tomorrow for it. Can they hang it themselves? "_Ah, c'est facile,
Mademoiselle!_" and the mother gives me her recipé for a wonderful glue
that will hold for years. They accompany me to the street.
"You will come again soon, Mademoiselle, and see it for yourself?"