He accepted the invitation. He thrust his fatigue cap into his pocket,
took off his topcoat, threw it on the back of a chair, which he drew up
to the fire, beside mine, and at a gesture from me he sat down.
"Hmmm," I thought. "This is a new proposition."
The other soldiers never sit down even when invited. They prefer to
keep on their feet.
Ever since I began to see so much of the army, I have asked myself
more than once, "Where are the fils de famille"? They can't all be
officers, or all in the heavy artillery, or all in the cavalry. But I had
never seen one, to know him, in the infantry. This man was in every
way a new experience, even among the noncommissioned officers I
had seen. He was more at his ease. He stayed nearly two hours. We
talked politics, art, literature, even religion--he was a good Catholic--
just as one talks at a tea-party when one finds a man who is
cultivated, and can talk, and he was evidently cultivated, and he
talked awfully well.
He examined the library, borrowed a volume of Flaubert, and finally,
after he had asked me all sorts of questions--where I came from; how
I happened to be here; and even to "explain Mr. Wilson," I responded
by asking him what he did in civil life.
He was leaning against the high mantel, saying a wood fire was
delicious. He smiled down on me and replied: "Nothing."
"Enfin!" I said to myself. "Here he is--the 'fils de famille' for whom I
have been looking." So I smiled back and asked him, in that case, if it
were not too indiscreet--what he did to kill time?
"Well," he said, "I have a very pretty, altogether charming wife, and I
have three little children. I live part of the time in Paris, and part of
the time at Cannes, and I manage to keep busy."
It seemed becoming for me to say "Beg pardon and thank you," and
he bowed and smiled an "il n'y a pas de quoi," thanked me for a
pleasant afternoon--an "unusual kind of pleasure," he added, "for a
soldier in these times," and went away.
It was only when I saw him going that it occurred to me that I ought to
have offered him tea--but you know the worth of "esprit d'escalier."
Naturally I was curious about him, so the next time I saw the
Canadian I asked him who he was. "Oh," he replied, "he is a nice
chap; he is a noble, a vicomte--a millionaire."
So you see I have found the type--not quite in the infantry ranks, but
almost, and if I found one there must be plenty more. It consoled me
in these days when one hears so often cries against "les
embusqués."
I began to think there was every type in the world in this famous
118th, and I was not far from wrong.
The very next day I got the most delicious type of all--the French-
American--very French to look at, but with New York stamped all over
him--especially his speech. Of all these boys, this is the one I wish
you could see.
Like all the rest of the English-speaking Frenchmen--the Canadian
excepted--he brought a comrade to hear him talk to the lady in
English. I really must try to give you a graphic idea of that
conversation.
When I opened the door for him, he stared at me, and then he threw
up both hands and simply shouted, "My God, it is true! My God, it is
an American!!"
Then he thrust out his hand and gave me a hearty shake, simply
yelling, "My God, lady, I'm glad to see you. My God, lady, the sight is
good for sore eyes."
Then he turned to his comrade and explained, "J'ai dit à la dame,
'Mon Dieu, Madame,'" etc., and in the same breath he turned back to
me and continued:
"My God, lady, when I saw them Stars and Stripes floating out there, I
said to my comrade, 'If there is an American man or an American
lady here, my God, I am going to look at them,' and my God, lady, I'm
glad I did. Well, how do you do, anyway?"
I told him that I was very well, and asked him if he wouldn't like to
come in.
"My God, lady, you bet your life I do," and he shook my hand again,
and came in, remarking, "I'm an American myself--from New York--
great city, New York--can't be beat. I wish all my comrades could see
Broadway--that would amaze them," and then he turned to his
companion to explain, "J'ai dit à Madame que je voudrais bien que
tous les copains pouvaient voir Broadway--c'est la plus belle rue de
New York--ils seront épatés--tous," and he turned to me to ask
"N'est-ce pas, Madame?"
I laughed. I had to. I had a vivid picture of his comrades seeing New
York for the first time--you know it takes time to get used to the Great
White Way, and I remembered the last distinguished Frenchman
whom the propaganda took on to the great thoroughfare, and who, at
the first sight and sound and feel of it, wanted to lay his head up
against Times Square and sob like a baby with fright and
amazement. This was one of those flash thoughts. My caller did not
give me time for more than that, for he began to cross-examine me--
he wanted to know where I lived in America.
It did not seem worth while to tell him I did not live there, so I said
"Boston," and he declared it a "nice, pretty slow town," he knew it,
and, of course, he added, "But my God, lady, give me New York
every time. I've lived there sixteen years--got a nice little wife there--
here's her picture--and see here, this is my name," and he laid an
envelope before me with a New York postmark.
"Well," I said, "if you are an American citizen, what are you doing
here, in a French uniform? The States are not in the war."
His eyes simply snapped.
"My God, lady, I'm a Frenchman just the same. My God, lady, you
don't think I'd see France attacked by Germany and not take a hand
in the fight, do you? Not on your life!"
Here is your naturalization business again.
I could not help laughing, but I ventured to ask: "Well, my lad, what
would you have done if it had been France and the States?" He
curled his lip, and brushed the question aside with:
"My God, lady! Don't be stupid. That could never be, never, on your
life."
I asked him, when I got a chance to put in a word, what he did in New
York, and he told me he was a chauffeur, and that he had a sister
who lived "on Riverside Drive, up by 76th Street," but I did not ask
him in what capacity, for before I could, he launched into an
enthusiastic description of Riverside Drive, and immediately put it all
into French for the benefit of his copain, who stood by with his mouth
open in amazement at the spirited English of his friend.
When he went away, he shook me again violently by the hand,
exclaiming: "Well, lady, of course you'll soon be going back to the
States. So shall I. I can't live away from New York. No one ever could
who had lived there. Great country the States. I'm a voter--I'm a
Democrat--always vote the Democratic ticket--voted for Wilson. Well,
goodbye, lady."
As he shook me by the hand again, it seemed suddenly to occur to
him that he had forgotten something. He struck a blow on his
forehead with his fist, and cried: "My God, lady, did I understand that
you have been here ever since the war began? Then you were here
during the battle out there? My God, lady, I 'm an American, too, and
my God, lady, I 'm proud of you! I am indeed." And he went off down
the road, and I heard him explaining to his companion "J'ai dit à
madame," etc.
I don't think any comment is necessary on what Broadway does to
the French lad of the people.
Last night I saw one of the most beautiful sights that I have ever
seen. For several evenings I have been hearing artillery practice of
some sort, but I paid no attention to it. We have no difficulty in
distinguishing the far-off guns at Soissons and Rheims, which
announce an attack, from the more audible, but quite different, sound
of the tir d'exercice. But last night they sounded so very near--almost
as if in the garden--that, at about nine, when I was closing up the
house, I stepped out on to the terrace to listen. It was a very dark
night, quite black. At first I thought they were in the direction of
Quincy, and then I discovered, once I was listening carefully, that they
were in the direction of the river. I went round to the north side of the
house, and I saw the most wonderful display--more beautiful than any
fireworks I had ever seen. The artillery was experimenting with signal
lights, and firing colored fusées volantes. I had read about them, but
never seen one. As near as I could make out, the artillery was on top
of the hill of Monthyon--where we saw the battle of the Marne begin,--
and the line they were observing was the Iles-lès-Villenoy, in the river
right at the west of us. When I first saw the exercises, there were half
a dozen lovely red and green lights hanging motionless in the sky. I
could hear the heavy detonation of the cannon or gun, or whatever
they use to throw them, and then see the long arc of light like a chain
of gold, which marked the course of the fusée, until it burst into color
at the end. I wrapped myself up, took my field-glasses, and stayed
out an hour watching the scene, and trying to imagine what exactly
the same thing, so far as mere beauty went, meant to the men at the
front.
In the morning I found that everyone else had heard the guns, but no
one had seen anything, because, as it happens, it was from my lawn
only that both Monthyon and the Iles-lès-Villenoy could be seen.