All the little towns, once so thrifty and prosperous, are now hardly more
than ruins. It is no wonder that this part of the country (Vincennes, St.
Maur, Chenvières, etc.) is so destroyed, because it was all about here
that the French, shut up in Paris, had made the most frequent sorties.
Everything was terribly changed.
Now my beautiful bridge is a thing of the past. There is one arch half in
water and debris of stone and mortar on the shore.
Henry and I, having no alternative, were obliged to walk from the station
to the pontoon bridge, made, Henry said, in one night. I don't know about
that; but what I do know is that the French blew up my bridge _in one
night_. Then we made the whole distance to Petit Val on foot, passing
by the châteaux of Ormesson, Chenvières, Grand Val, and Montalon.
All the châteaux we passed are utterly abandoned, some quite in ruins; one
can see, for instance, right through beautiful Grand Val, bereft of
windows and doors.
But worse was awaiting me! My heart sank within me when we came in sight
of the _potager_, the glory of Petit Val, so renowned in its day for
its fruits and vegetables. Now it is frightful to see! Its walls torn
asunder; cannon put in its crenelated sides, dilapidated and destroyed;
the garden filled with rubbish of all description. But, as though nature
were protesting against all this disorder and neglect, the cherry-trees
were placidly blossoming; the almond-trees, with their delicate pink
flowers, filled the air with perfume: everything, in short, doing its part
in spite of war and bloodshed. Your heart would ache if you could see the
place as it is now. The porter's lodge is completely gutted, windowless
and doorless, open to wind and weather.
It seems strange to see a sentry-box stationed at the entrance of the park
and a sentinel pacing to and fro. Henry gave the password, and we walked
up the avenue toward the château. I will not weary you by trying to depict
my feelings, but will leave you to imagine what they must have been. I
looked in vain for the beautiful Lebanon cedar which, you remember, stood
where my nightingale used to sing, on the broad lawn. Henry said that it
had been the first tree that the Germans had cut down, and it had been
lying there on the lawn just as it fell, where the soldiers could
conveniently cut their fuel. Henry called my attention to a white flag
flying on the chateau, which, at Paul's request, Count Bismarck had
ordered to be put there.
Henry said it signified in military language that only staff officers were
to occupy the château, and that no unnecessary damage should be done "if
we are quiet." Did Bismarck think we were likely to be unruly and go about
shooting people? The one thing in the world we wanted was to be quiet. The
flag also signified that the château should be protected. Henry had once
complained to Bismarck of the damage done by the German soldiers at Petit
Val, and Bismarck had replied, "À la guerre comme à la guerre," adding,
"The German Government will hold itself responsible for private losses,
with the exception of those which are consequences of a state of war ...
there is always a certain amount of unavoidable destruction."
"Unavoidable destruction!" cried Henry; "this can cover a multitude of
sins."
"The exigencies of war, if you like that better," rejoined Bismarck.
Paul Hatzfeldt wrote to Helen last September that the King of Prussia had
promised to put Petit Val under special protection. He even wished to go
there himself; but Paul thought Petit Val looked so spoiled that he was
glad the King did not go. If it was spoiled in September last, imagine
what it must have been six months later, with six months of soldiers to
spoil it!
When we arrived at the château itself the officers, who had evidently just
been lunching, came out to meet us, wondering, apparently, who this
courageous lady (poor trembling me!) could possibly be. Henry knew their
names, and presented them all to me; they clanked their heels together and
made the most perfect of military salutes.
The commanding officer in charge of Petit Val is Count Arco, a major of a
Bavarian regiment. I hastened to explain my presence among them, saying
that I wished to collect the various things I had left in the château when
I went away last August, and I had taken advantage of the first occasion
which offered itself of coming here.
Count Arco held a short conversation with Henry, who told him I would like
to go to my apartment. "Do not trouble to have anything disarranged for
me," I said, "as I shall only be here for a short time. My mother-in-law
is driving out later in the afternoon to take me back to Paris."
While we were talking Count Arco informed me that there were twenty six
officers in the château itself and one hundred and twenty soldiers
quartered round in the different pavilions, farm-houses, _ateliers_, and
--I think he said--about fifty in the _orangerie_.
Presently an orderly appeared and conducted me to my rooms, which had
evidently been hurriedly evacuated, but they looked quite nice and clean.
I was agreeably surprised to find my writing-desk and commodes pretty
nearly as I remembered to have left them. At any rate, letters, trinkets,
and so forth seemed undisturbed. I wish I could say the same for my
wearing apparel, which had considerably diminished since my departure.
Waists without their skirts, and skirts without their waists, and I found
various female articles unknown to me; but never mind! _Honi soit qui mal
y pense!_
It was said in France that no German could resist a clock, and that the
dearth of clocks after the war is quite noticeable. To prove the contrary,
and to applaud the officers who had lived in Petit Val (and there had been
many hundreds of them), my clock was ticking away as of old on my
mantelpiece.
Having finished packing the things to take with me, I wished to have a
look at _protected_ Petit Val.
The "unavoidable destruction" had been interpreted in a very liberal
sense.
The salon was a sight never to be forgotten. The mirrors which paneled the
whole of the east wall were broken, as if stones had been thrown at them;
every picture had been pierced by bayonets. The beautiful portrait of the
Marquis de Marigny (the former owner of Petit Val and brother of Madame de
Pompadour) had vanished. Instead of the Aubusson furniture we had left,
which, I suppose, has been transferred to other homes, I found two pianos,
one grand (not ours), two billiard-tables (not ours), some iron tables,
and some very hard iron chairs (certainly not ours), annexed, I should
say, from a neighboring café.
The library, formerly containing such rare and valuable books, is now a
bedroom--the shelves half empty, the books scattered about, some of them
piled up in a corner and used as a table. Henry said that, when any one
wanted to light a fire or a pipe, they simply tore a page out of a book.
What did they care? Was it not one of the "exigencies of war"? The frames
and glasses of the engravings were broken; but, fortunately, all the
engravings were not ruined.
You remember Mrs. Moulton's boudoir, where all was so dainty and complete?
The soldiers had converted it into a kitchen, and at the moment we were
there they were cooking some very smelly cabbage _à la tedesco_.
My pretty pavilion! If you could have seen it!
Evidently the all-powerful flag had not protected this, for it was without
doors, windows, and parquets. The only thing in it was a dear little calf
munching his last meal before being killed. To make it look more like a
slaughter-house, there were haunches of beef hanging on the Louis XV.
appliques, which had been left on the walls to serve as nails. Fresh blood
was dropping from them on the sacks of potatoes underneath.
The officers had coffee served under the _charmille_.
I was glad to get something to sustain my sinking heart. Henry and I took
a sad walk through the park. The once beautifully kept lawn is now like a
ploughed field, full of ruts and stones.
The lake was shining in the sun, but on it there were no boats. The grotto
over which used to trickle a little waterfall was completely dry, showing
the ugly stucco false rocks. It seemed dismal and forlorn. I wondered how
I ever could have thought it beautiful! The _rivière_ was without its
pretty rustic bridge; the picturesque pavilions were filled with soldiers;
some were sitting on the porches mending their clothes.
Five o'clock came before we realized how late it was. We expected the
carriage every moment; but there was no sign of it, though we scanned the
length of the long avenue with the Count's field-glasses.
Why did Mrs. Moulton not come? Something must have happened! But what?
Henry and I were seriously alarmed. Noticing our looks of dismay, Count
Arco asked me if I was anxious. I replied that I naturally was anxious,
because if my mother-in-law could not come or send the carriage she
certainly would have telegraphed. He then inquired if I wished to send a
telegram. No sooner had I said "yes" than an orderly appeared on horseback
to take the telegram to the station. He returned, while we still stood in
the avenue looking for the longed-for carriage, with the astounding news
that all the telegraph wires were cut.
To take the train was our next idea, and the wondering orderly was again
sent back to find out when the next train would start. This time he
returned with still more astounding news.
There were no trains at all!
Count Arco seemed to be most agitated, and I could see, by the expression
of the faces of the other officers, that they were more disturbed than
they wanted us to notice.
What should I do? Everything was in ruins in the village. There was not
even an _auberge_ of the smallest dimensions. All the neighboring châteaux
were abandoned. Of whom could I ask hospitality? Count Arco, seeing my
embarrassment, proposed my staying the night at Petit Val. Henry's living
there made it easier for me. So I accepted his offer; besides, there was
no choice. The soldiers arranged my room according to their ideas of a
lady's requirements, which included a boot-jack, ash-trays, beer-mugs,
etc. Their intentions were of the best.
At seven o'clock Henry and I dined with the officers. It seemed strange to
me to be presiding at my own table surrounded by German officers, Count
Arco being my _vis-à-vis_.
Do you want to know what we had for dinner? Bean soup, brought from
Germany. Sausages and cabbage, put up in Germany. Coffee and zwiebacks, I
suppose also from Germany.
The evening passed quickly, and I must admit very pleasantly. Any one who
had pretensions to music played or sang, Henry performed some of his
compositions; one officer did some card tricks. They all had an anecdote
of their experience from the past months, which they told with great
relish. Henry whispered to Count Arco: "My sister-in-law sings. Why don't
you ask her for a song?" I could have pinched him!
Although I was very tired and did not feel like it, I reflected that
almost anything was preferable to being begged and teased. And, after all,
why not be as amiable as my companions, who had done their best to amuse
me?
I seated myself at the piano and commenced with one of Schumann's songs,
and then I sang "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," of Massé, which had a great
success, and at the refrain, "Et moi! j'ai l'âme triste," there was not a
dry eye in the little circle. Graf Waldersee, one of the oldest warriors,
wept like an infant while I was singing, and coming up to me, after
blowing his nose, said, in his delightfully broken English, "You zing like
an angle [I hope he meant angel]. It is as if ze paradise vas opened to
us." Then he retired in a corner and wiped his eyes. I sang "Ein Jungling
liebt ein Mädchen," of Schumann, and when I came to the line, "Und wem das
just passieret, dem bricht das Herz entzwei," I heard a mournful sigh. It
came from the Benjamin of the flock, a very young officer, who sat with
his hands over his face sobbing audibly. What chord had I struck? Was
_his_ the heart that was breaking _entzwei_?
I had sung to many people, but I think I never sang to a more appreciative
audience than this one.
Henry accompanied me in "Beware!" Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They
all gathered around me, eager to thank me for the unexpected pleasure. I
really think they meant what they said.
When I returned to my room I looked out of my window and saw the sentinel
pacing to and fro in the moonlight. I realized _for the first time_ that
the château was protected!