What have I seen.... The other morning among the men who came to the
vestiaire (wardrobe), where I am occupied part of the time, and who are
generally very gay and good-humoured, there was a young soldier with a
sober, set, disagreeable face. I shook him up with, "Why, what's the
matter that a French soldier makes such a face? Won't you look me in
the face and make me a nice smile?" But he didn't change expression. I
took him to one side. "What's the matter with you, my child? First of
all, where are you from?"
"I am from the North, madame."
"Oh, then I understand why you are sad. You do not know where your dear
ones are."
He looked at me with a fierce, wild expression and suddenly replied:
"I do know, madame. My elder brother was killed beside me, struck
by the same shell that wounded me. That is war. They have burned my
home, killed my mother and my father. My sister, sixteen years old,
has been violated and abused; my little sister, of nine years, has
disappeared." A black flame burned in the sombre look of the boy and
made it unbearable. I received that look straight in my eyes. "Tell me,
madame, we will get to their country, won't we, won't we?"
"Why, certainly, my boy--nothing surer."
"Oh, madame, they will pay for all this misery. But do not fear, _their
women and children will not be touched_."
"Their women and children will not be touched." That is what this
martyr of barbarism and of the cruelty of the enemy found in his heart
to say--this sombre, uncultivated child of a northern village. I shook
his rough hand--I squeezed it--I kissed the poor cheeks of this orphan
with maternal kisses, and I said: "I thank thee."