Across the street lives Monsieur Martin. He comes from his house to
greet me and holds open the gate, a tall farmer in corduroys with
gentle, genial face. His wife had died during the cruel flight from the
invader, and he and his three sons have come back to the remains of
their old home. He apologizes for it, though I find it immaculate.
Shining casseroles hang by the hearth, the three beds are carefully
made, and on the fire something savory is cooking in a _cocotte_.
"It needs a woman's touch," he says smiling. "We are four men and we do
what we can, but--" he finishes with a gesture of the helpless male
entangled in that most clinging, exasperating web of all--cooking and
dish-washing! "_Ca n'en finit plus, Mademoiselle_," he exclaims in
humorous misery. "One has no sooner finished, when one must begin again.
Bah! It is woman's work," with a lordly touch of imperiousness. It is
the ancient voice of Man.
The next house is dark. No one answers my knock, and I lift the latch
and go in. The windows, being broken, are all boarded up to keep out the
dreaded drafts. It is a moment before I can see, though a quavering
voice that is neither man's nor woman's bids me enter. Gradually my eyes
make out two wise old faces of ivory in the obscurity by the hearth.
They are old, old--nobody knows how old they are.
"_Entrez, Madame_," and the old woman rises with difficulty, leaning on
her cane, and draws forward a chair.
"_Bonjour, Madame_," in far-away tones from the aged husband, too feeble
to move alone. I linger for some time with these two dear souls--for
they are scarcely more than souls. We talk of bygone, happy days, of the
war, and of their present needs--so few! Then I tell them I am American.
"American?" says the old man, peering into my face, "that
means--friend."
"Yes," I reply, "that means--friend."
Then I come to a wooden _barraque_, a hive buzzing with children. They
are clambering at the windows and playing in the dirt before the door,
all clad in a many-colored collection of scraps which an ingenious
mother has pieced together. A little boy, wearing the blue _callot_ of a
poilu on the back of his head, sits on the doorsill. He smiles and
stands up, and tells me his mother is inside. Within I find the mother
seated in a room of good-natured disorder, nursing her latest born. Her
lavish smile of welcome lights her broad sunburned face framed in tawny
braids, and she indicates a bench for me with the ease and authority of
a long practiced hostess. She sits there with the infant at her ample
breast, and on her face is written unquestioning satisfaction with her
part in life. A swift laughing tale I hear, of little frocks outgrown
and of sabots worn through, and no place to buy anything, and little
Jean so thin and nervous, "but no wonder, Mademoiselle, for he was born
during the evacuation, and only Cécile to take care of me, and she just
sixteen years old, and I had to be carried in a wheelbarrow." I picture
the flight, the father away at the front, the mother unable to walk, yet
marshalling her little ones, comforting, cajoling, scolding, and feeding
them through it all. The baby finishes with a little contented sigh and
the proud mother exhibits him. "It's a boy, Mademoiselle," as
exuberantly as though it were her first instead of her ninth. "_C'est un
petit garçon de l'Armistice_" with a happy blush.
"Ah, let us hope that he will always be a little child of peace." But in
another moment she is playing with him, chucking him under the chin.
"_Tiens, mon coco! Viens, mon petit soldat_--you must grow up strong and
big, for you are another little soldier for France."
Little Vauchelles, far away in the hills of the fertile Oise, I think of
you. I hope I may again visit you. And I wonder. What ripples from the
seething capitals will stir the placid thoughts of your stouthearted
peasants? And will your broad-browed women wait with age-old resignation
for the next wave of war, or will they catch the echo that is rebounding
through all the valleys of the world and join their voices in the
swelling chord for brotherhood?
In your midst, where the three roads meet, still stands the image of
Christ on the Cross.