M. L’AUMÔNIER
In Canizy, one found always something new. It might be an _obus_, or
a soldier _en permission_, or a family _réfugiée_, or a _baraque_. I
learned to expect the unexpected. Having carefully negotiated with M.
Lanne for certain timbers and chicken wiring which formed the basis for
a roof of which I had need, I was prepared to see that they had vanished
overnight, and to express neither surprise nor indignation when I was
told that they were transformed into the foundation for Mme. Picard’s
_baraques_. Having left glass, diamond cutter, putty, brads, and a list
of those who needed the panes, I was not discouraged when week after week
went by without M. Augustin’s cutting them. The fact that M. Noulin had
brought the materials over in his cart, and held them on his premises,
was doubtless reason enough why M. Augustin stayed his hand. At all
events, it seemed wiser to leave the solution of this problem to the
village; and the last I knew, it hinged on the return of a soldier _en
permission_, a glazier by trade. He, all the world assured me, would
actually out the glass!
The Noulins themselves were among my earliest surprises. How they came
I know not, but one day I found the trio, father, mother and daughter,
tidying up the premises they had rented from M. Huillard. The outermost
room, from the walls of which still depended half-charred pictures, gaped
to the sky. But this was used as a store-room for neatly stacked wood
and fodder; within, the main room served as both kitchen and _épicerie_;
off it opened two bedrooms, and in the rear was a yard. The rooms were
completely furnished and the yard stocked with hens and about thirty
rabbits. In the stable stood a pony and a high-wheeled cart. All these
goods had M. Noulin bought and brought back from Compiègne, whither he
had fled at the outbreak of the war.
It was in the _épicerie_, which we provisioned, that I came to look for
most of the news of Canizy. Here, about the table, might sit drinking the
Moroccans who were repairing the canal. Here Mme. Moulin thrust into my
hand an account of our own Unit in her fashion journal of the month; an
account glowing with undeserved praise of America and concluding with the
words: “Heureux pays, où sur les mairies des villages on pourrait écrire:
‘Aide-toi, l’Amérique t’aidera.’ Plus heureuses Américaines, qui peuvent
et qui savent donner!”
Here she showed me a postal marked _Deutschland_, and bearing on its back
the picture of a jovial-looking man in civilian dress. “It is my son,”
explained Mme. Noulin. “He is a _prisonnier militaire_, and sends me this
to show me how well he is. He writes, too, that he has plenty to eat, of
sugar, of chocolate, and is always warm,—there is so much of coal! Think
you it is true?”
On the table was lying a package, done up with many directions, all
pointing to Germany. “What is this?” I asked. “That is for him; but the
_factrice_ could not take it to-day; such are her orders. No packages
will be transported by Germany this week, or next, or who knows for how
long? It is on account of a troop movement, she says.”
“But why then do you send, if he has no need?”
“There, what did I tell you?” broke in her husband. “Oh, these women;
they have no minds! It is the enemy who sends the letters, that we may
feel more bitterly the cold, the hunger, the misery, that we endure!”
It was at Mme. Noulin’s, in fine, that I first met M. l’Aumônier.
A snowy, windy morning it was, and the glare and the smart in my eyes
blinded me so that I did not at first note anything unusual about the
blue-clad soldier sitting by the fire. Declining Madame’s invitation
to share the open bottle of wine on the table, I was proceeding with my
errand when she’ interrupted, “Mademoiselle, I want you to know that this
is M. l’Aumônier from Offoy, who takes an interest, like you, in Canizy.”
The chaplain arose at the informal introduction. A deprecatory smile
became well his sensitive yet Roman features, and a quick flush
heightened his colour. “But no,” he said, his enunciation betraying him a
gentleman in spite of the plain uniform, “it is I who have been hearing
of your goodness and that of your co-benefactresses, Mademoiselle.”
“Mademoiselle,” protested Mme. Noulin, “you should know that Monsieur
walks from Offoy every morning before eight o’clock to conduct a class in
the catechism in the church.”
“That matters nothing; it is my pleasure, I would say, duty. But you—you
who have come from America to help my poor France, you who walk so much
farther. I, I have legs trained for walking by long marches, by a
soldier’s life——”
But I knew something of the duties of a military chaplain. Had I not seen
the bare, dark infirmary where he comforted his invalided companions? Had
I not visited the _baraque_ called the Soldiers’ Library which was more
or less in his charge; that cheerless hut with the books locked out of
sight in one corner, and the directions for rifle practice confronting
one on the wall? Could not one divine the battle charges when M.
l’Aumônier went forward in the ranks with his comrades, or stopped only
to give them the sacrament as they fell? Did I not know the calls made
upon him by the civilians also, now that he was _en repos_? A soldier’s
life, indeed, has inured the military chaplains of the French army to
hardships by contrast greater perhaps than any endured by the other
soldiers of France.
[Illustration: _Sans l’officier, les soldats nous auraient peut-être rien
fait?_
[If it hadn’t been for the officer, I don’t think the soldiers would have
done anything to us.]]
I strove to stop him, to express to him something of my deep appreciation
of this added burden he had taken on his shoulders in the spiritual care
of the children of Canizy.
But he waved away all implied sacrifice. “It is a pleasure,” he repeated,
“and the children are so good.”
Thereafter, M. l’Aumônier became my most disinterested ally in our
village. Did a mass seem desirable, the time was set late enough for me
to reach it from the Château. What mattered it that thereby Monsieur did
not breakfast till noon? When Mme. Gabrielle was still undecided over
her distribution, he consented to lend his presence to the function, and
thereby insured its success. He even undertook the responsibility of such
a mundane matter as the cutting of the glass. Day after day, I met him
in one family circle or another, making pastoral calls. Very different
were those happy weeks to the villagers from the months preceding, when
spiritual consolation came only with death. He seemed to find entrance
into the hearts of the people, and they responded to his care as flowers
to the sun.
Wherever M. l’Aumônier went, went also a clean, blond soldier boy of
twenty, who was studying to be a priest like his friend. He spoke
English, which he had learned as a shipping clerk in an exporting house
at Havre. “Our Colonel,” he explained, “is very much interested in the
civilians, particularly in the children. He even sent one of his captains
to Paris to buy warm clothing for every one of them in Offoy. He is a
very rich man and very kind. He has detailed me to help M. l’Aumônier all
that I can.”
We were walking along the canal as we spoke, and the wind blew straight
from the north. M. l’Aumônier said something in a low voice, and the boy
whipped off his scarf. “Yes, _please_, you are cold; you must take it,”
and perforce the scarf was wound about my neck.
“How long are you to be here?” I asked, dreading to see this regiment
pass back to the front.
“Me, I do not know. I have been wounded, you know; twice with the
bayonet, and ten days ago I was gassed. The lungs pain me yet,—I cannot
do much work.”
“You,” broke in his superior, “you, Mademoiselle, will go before we
do—for you have told me that you leave soon for America. At least, you
will have seen something, and can tell them there of the misery which
France suffers.”
“But one sees so little,—the trenches, the battles, the hardships of the
soldiers, I know nothing of these.”
“The trenches? There is little to see; is it not so, comrade? But this,”
he swept his arm to indicate the circle of destruction all about us,
“this you know. Tell them of the agony and of the fortitude of Picardy.”
We had come to the parting of our ways. Turning west, I was confronted
by a winter sunset; bare branches, crimson streamers, cold lakes of
turquoise; and bleak against this background, the ruins of Canizy. M.
l’Aumônier was right; of this one who has seen it cannot help to speak;
of the terrible devastation, of the silent courage of those who live in
it and fight, unheralded, their fight for France.