It is two months since I wrote--I know it. But you really must not
reproach me so violently as you do in yours of the 21st of November,
just received.
To begin with, there is no occasion for you to worry. I may be
uncomfortable. I am in no danger. As for the discomforts--well, I am
used to them. I cannot get coal very often, and when I do I pay
twenty-six dollars a ton for it, and it is only imitation coal, at that. I
cannot get washing done oftener than once in six weeks. Nothing
dries out-of-doors in this country of damp winters. I am often forced to
live my evenings by candle-light, which is pretty extravagant, as
candles are costly, and it takes a good many to get through an
evening. They burn down like paper tapers in these days.
When I don't write it is simply because I have nothing more
interesting than things like that to tell you. The situation is chronic,
and, like chronic diseases, much more likely to get worse than to get
better.
You should be grateful to me for sparing you, instead of blaming me.
I might not have found the inspiration to write today if something had
not happened.
This morning the town crier beat his drum all over the hill, and read a
proclamation forbidding all foreigners to leave the commune during
the next thirty days without a special permit from the general in
command of the 5th Army Corps.
No one knows what this means. I have been to the mairie to enquire
simply because I had promised to spend Christmas at Voulangis,
and, if this order is formal, I may have difficulty in going. I have no
desire to celebrate, only there is a child there, and the lives of little
children ought not to be too much saddened by the times and events
they do not understand.
I was told at the mairie that they had no power, and that I would have
to address myself to Monsieur le General. They could not even tell
me what form the request ought to take. So I came home, and wrote
the letter as well as I could.
In the meantime, I am distinctly informed that until I get a reply from
headquarters I cannot go out of the commune of Quincy-Segy.
If I really obey the letter of this order I cannot even go to Amélie's. Her
house is in the commune of Couilly, and mine in Quincy, and the
boundary line between the two communes is the path beside my
garden, on the south side, and runs up the middle of my road from
that point.
It is annoying, as I hardly know Quincy, and don't care for it, and
never go there except to present myself at the mairie. It is further off
the railroad line than I am here. Couilly I know and like. It is a pretty
prosperous village. It has better shops than Quincy, which has not
even a pharmacie, and I have always done my shopping there. My
mail comes there, and the railway station is there, and everyone
knows me.
The idea that I can't go there gives me, for the first time since the
battle, a shut-in feeling. I talked to the garde champêtre, whom I met
on the road, as I returned from the mairie, and I asked him what he
thought about the risk of my going to Couilly. He looked properly
grave, and said:
"I would not, if I were in your place. Better run no risks until we
understand what this is to lead to."
I thanked him, with an expression just as serious and important as
his. "I'll obey," I said to myself, "though to obey will be comic."
So I turned the corner on top of the hill. I drove close to the east side
of the road, which was the Quincy side, and as I passed the entrance
to Amélie's court I called to Père to come out and get Ninette and the
cart. I then climbed out and left the turn-out there.
I did not look back, but I knew Père was standing in the road looking
after me in amazement, and not understanding a bit that I had left my
cart on the Quincy side of the road for him to drive it into Couilly,
where I could not go.
"I'll obey," I repeated to myself, viciously, as I strolled down the
Quincy side of the road and crossed in front of the gate where the
whole width of the road is in my commune.