In ghastly numbers, the wounded began pouring into Paris, a sad and
terrible procession. About the railroad stations, crowds were
gathered. Mothers, sisters, wives, sweethearts were anxiously
scanning each pitiful burden as it was lifted into the waiting
ambulances, their hearts torn with the fear that this might be the
one they sought. Strong men shook with anguish at the terrible
spectacle. These shattered wrecks, who had gone forth in the pride
of their youth and strength, fought, suffered, died, so that Liberty
might live, their wounds mutely supplicating those who were to take
their places not to let their sacrifice be in vain.
As the stretchers were tenderly borne past the waiting people,
flowers were flung on the gray blankets, there were cheers and
suppressed sobs. But mingling with their tears was a feeling of
exultant pride that these man had saved their beloved country from
the humiliation of defeat, had kept hope still alive for final
victory.
The women of France, those wonderful women who have always risen to
every crisis in their country's history flocked to give their
services to her now.
With Gerome's permission, Marie offered her aid. Her hands were deft
and light, and her heart was full of pity for these poor boys whom
she had seen march away so bravely, young, strong, and flushed with
the glow of eager patriotism. She was filled with compassion for
these people of whom her marriage had made her one, and she worked
early and late among them. The fatigue that followed acted as a sort
of relief against the terrible anxiety with which she was filled as
to Gerome's safety, for now she never knew where he was nor into what
danger he was going.
As an assistant nurse, she spent most of her time in the hospitals,
going from bed to bed, comforting, consoling, doing as much as her
limited training would permit. Her heart bled for the sightless eyes
that had so recently smiled back the sunlight; for the useless stumps
of arms that could never again hold those they loved; for the
helpless young giants shorn of their strength forever. As she went
in and out among the terrible flotsam tossed back by the tide of
battle, a wondering admiration for the people of her adoption grew in
her heart, for torn and racked, bloody and shattered as they were,
these men never complained, there was never a word of discouragement.
Stronger than their suffering, stronger than the thought of the
helpless years ahead, was the joy born of the knowledge that they had
fought well and bravely for what they loved most--La Patrie!
There was more than enough to do for all who were willing to lend
their aid. Marie's heart was wholly in her work, she toiled
unremittingly. She tried to comfort those among her acquaintances
whose dear ones lay out beneath the little wooden crosses near the
Marne.
But although in the hospitals her gentle hand and sweet face brought
comfort to many a pain-racked _poilu_, gradually among her own circle
she seemed to sense a widening breach, a rift in the love and
companionship that had always been given her.
One day she overheard Fleurette and Sidonie discussing her.
"Marie is different," said the older, "she isn't really one of the
_Boches_, she belongs to us!"
"She was born there," the other had responded doggedly, "and I heard
papa say yesterday, 'Once a German, always a German!'"
She went into their room immediately, and carefully explained to them
that all her love and allegiance was with them; that she had given up
her own country with her marriage to Gerome, and was now as loyally
French as they.
But the tales of brutality, of wanton destruction that were reported
in Paris, the cruelty of these people from whom she had sprung, were
inconceivable to her. She couldn't believe them. Once she voiced
these doubts to Gerome.
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes.
"Dearest," he said, "I'm afraid these things are true. It will be
best for you to believe them, and to forget that the blood of our
enemies flows in your veins!"
Once on her way home, she had seen an angry mob stoning the windows
of Herr Pappenheim's _Rotisserie_. Through the door she caught a
glimpse of the round face of the proprietor. It was a pasty-white,
and there was a swollen lump over one eye where a stone had struck
him. The windows were smashed and yelling boys were pillaging among
the appetizing stores.
She heard the derisive shouts of "_Boches--yah, sale Boche_," as the
_gendarmes_ dispersed the crowd.
Good Herr Pappenheim, who had so often winked at a generous
overweight for some needy customer, and in the warm evenings had
always sat happily on the sidewalk before his shop, his fat German
wife at his side, and all the children in the neighborhood climbing
over his broad, good-humored shoulders! And now, with this new
feeling against his race, these same children were stoning his
windows!
The return of the government to Paris brought the Le Grands with it.
Julie came with a note to the Avenue d'Antin.
"Dear Marie," it said, "we are home again. We shall be very glad to
see you when you can spare the time!"
"Spare the time," she looked up startled. The formal phrasing
worried her. Were they too, thinking of her as The Enemy?
"They don't trust me," she complained to Gerome on one of his
fleeting visits to her. "They look at me as though I am some strange
creature that doesn't belong here. They--they whisper about me.
Yesterday, at the Red Cross rooms, I heard Madame Dupin say I was an
alien, and--and once or twice they spoke about--about _spies_!"
Gerome, weary with his long vigil and happy to be with her again,
drew her close in his arms.
"Dearest," he murmured, "I know it must be very hard for you. This
sort of thing is one of the worst phases of this war. But you are
one of us now! It is because you are a part of my beloved France,
that She means more to me than ever."
Marie nestled closer, her cheek against his brown one.
"I am a part of France, dear, now and forever!"
She felt her words deeply, with a sense of elation in the knowledge
that she did belong to this wonderful country whose children could
sing their way happily through the sunlit days of peace, and yet when
the sky grew overcast with war clouds that obscured the sun and
threatened to overwhelm her with destruction, be ready to lay aside
their playthings, turn from their laughter and ease, and girding on
their armor, stand staunch and firm, fighting to the last drop of
their heart's blood.
In the faces about her, she read the exaltation that must have
lighted the countenance of the Maid of Orleans, the determination
that the proud head of their beloved country should never be bowed
beneath a strange yoke.
She forgot Austria, forgot Germany, forgot her alien blood, and gave
her waking hours gladly, unreservedly to be as useful as she could.
After the supply of trained nurses increased she was set to making
surgical dressings, and, as she rolled the interminable yards of
gauze, the room would sometimes blur through her tears of sympathy at
the sad stories she heard. But as more and more of the terribly
wounded kept pouring into the city, the hatred and resentment against
the enemy who was causing all this suffering grew, and she began to
see a difference in the faces about her. Women who had been kind and
friendly before, who had politely ignored her foreign origin, now
began openly to show their disfavor.
Sometimes when she entered the room filled with women busy preparing
supplies for the hospitals, there would be a sudden cessation of
conversation, as though she had been the subject they were discussing.
As the days wore on, suspicion and distrust became more open, friends
of the Le Grands who knew her origin, cut her as they passed her in
the street, and even her cousins asked her less and less to the
apartment in the Avenue Victor Hugo.
Marie's sensitive nature shrank from the aversion about her. She
suffered keenly from the suspicion directed against her. So at last
it was decided that she would be safer at the Château de la Motte
than here in Paris where she must of necessity be so much alone.
Tearfully, she closed the little apartment and prepared to go to her
husband's people.