September 8, 1914.
It was about my usual time, four o'clock, the next morning,--Sunday,
September 6,--that I opened my blinds. Another lovely day. I was
dressed and downstairs when, a little before five, the battle
recommenced.
I rushed out on the lawn and looked off. It had moved east--behind the
hill between me and Meaux. All I could see was the smoke which hung
over it. Still it seemed nearer than it had the day before. I had just
about room enough in my mind for one idea--"The Germans wish to cross
the Marne at Meaux, on the direct route into Paris. They are getting
there. In that case to-day will settle our fate. If they reach the
Marne, that battery at Coutevroult will come into action,"--that was
what Captain Edwards had said,--"and I shall be in a direct line between
the two armies."
Amelie got breakfast as if there were no cannon, so I took my coffee,
and said nothing. As soon as it was cleared away, I went up into the
attic, and quietly packed a tiny square hat-trunk. I was thankful that
this year's clothes take up so little room. I put in changes of
underwear, stockings, slippers, an extra pair of low-heeled shoes,
plenty of handkerchiefs,--just the essentials in the way of toilette
stuff,--a few bandages and such emergency things, and had room for two
dresses. When it was packed and locked, it was so light that I could
easily carry it by its handle on top. I put my long black military
cape, which I could carry over my shoulder, on it, with hat and veil and
gloves. Then I went down stairs and shortened the skirt of my best
walking-suit, an/d hung it and its jacket handy. I was ready to
fly,--if I had to,--and in case of that emergency nothing to do for
myself.
I had got all this done systematically when my little French friend--I
call her Mile. Henriette now--came to the door to say that she simply
"could not stand another day of it." She had put, she said, all the
ready money they had inside her corset, and a little box which contained
all her dead father's decorations also, and she was ready to go. She
took out the box and showed the pretty jeweled things,--his cross of
the Legion d'Honneur, his Papal decoration, and several foreign
orders,--her father, it seems, was an officer in the army, a great
friend of the Orleans family, and grandson of an officer of Louis XVI's
Imperial Guard. She begged me to join them in an effort to escape to
the south. I told her frankly that it seemed to me impossible, and I
felt it safer to wait until the English officers at Coutevroult notified
us that it was necessary. It would be as easy then as now--and I was
sure that it was safer to wait for their advice than to adventure it for
ourselves. Besides, I had no intention of leaving my home and all the
souvenirs of my life without making every effort I could to save them up
to the last moment. In addition to that, I could not see myself joining
that throng of homeless refugies on the road, if I could help it.
"But," she insisted, "you cannot save your house by staying. We are in
the same position. Our house is full of all the souvenirs of my
father's family. It is hard to leave all that--but I am
afraid--terribly afraid for the children."
I could not help asking her how she proposed to get away. So far as I
knew there was not a carriage to be had.
She replied that we could start on foot in the direction of Melun, and
perhaps find an automobile: we could share the expense. Together we
could find a way, and what was more, that I could share my optimism and
courage with them and that would help.
That made me laugh, but I didn't think it necessary to explain to her
that, once away from the shelter of my own walls, I should be just as
liable to a panic as any one else, or that I knew we should not find a
conveyance, or, worse still, that her money and her jewels would hardly
be safe inside her corset if she were to meet with some of the Uhlans
who were still about us.
Amelie had not allowed me to carry a sou on me, nor even my handbag
since we knew they were here. Such things as that have been hidden-all
ready to be snatched up--ever since I came home from Paris last
Wednesday--only four days ago, after all!
Poor Mile. Henriette went away sadly when she was convinced that my
mind was made up.
"Good-bye," she called over the hedge. "I seem to be always taking
leave of you."
I did not tell Amelie anything about this conversation. What was the
good? I fancy it would have made no difference to her. I knew pretty
well to what her mind was made up. Nothing in the world would have made
Pere budge. He had tried it in 1870, and had been led to the German
post with a revolver at his head. He did not have any idea of repeating
the experience. It was less than half an hour later that Mile.
Henriette came up the hill again. She was between tears and laughter.
"Mother will not go," she said. "She says if you can stay we must. She
thinks staying is the least of two evils. We can hide the babies in the
cave if necessary, and they may be as safe there as on the road."
I could not help saying that I should be sorry if my decision influenced
theirs. I could be responsible for myself. I could not bear to have to
feel any responsibility for others in case I was wrong. But she assured
me that her mother had been of my opinion from the first. "Only," she
added, "if I could have coaxed you to go, she would have gone too."
This decision did not add much to my peace of mind all that long Sunday.
It seems impossible that it was only day before yesterday. I think the
suspense was harder to bear than that of the day before, though all we
could see of the battle were the dense clouds of smoke rising straight
into the air behind the green hill under such a blue sky all aglow with
sunshine, with the incessant booming of the cannon, which made the
contrasts simply monstrous.
I remember that it was about four in the afternoon when I was sitting in
the arbor under the crimson rambler, which was a glory of bloom, that
Pere came and stood near by on the lawn, looking off. With his hands in
the pockets of his blue apron, he stood silent for a long time. Then he
said, "Listen to that. They are determined to pass. This is different
from 1870. In 1870 the Germans marched through here with their guns on
their shoulders. There was no one to oppose them. This time it is
different. It was harvest-time that year, and they took everything, and
destroyed what they did not take. They bedded their horses in the
wheat."
You see Pere's father was in the Franco-Prussian War, and his
grandfather was with Napoleon at Moscow, where he had his feet frozen.
Pere is over seventy, and his father died at ninety-six. Poor old Pere
just hates the war. He is as timid as a bird--can't kill a rabbit for
his dinner. But with the queer spirit of the French farmer he has kept
right on working as if nothing were going on. All day Saturday and all
day Sunday he was busy digging stone to mend the road.
The cannonading ceased a little after six--thirteen hours without
intermission. I don't mind confessing to you that I hope the war is not
going to give me many more days like that one. I'd rather the battle
would come right along and be done with it. The suspense of waiting all
day for that battery at Coutevroult to open fire was simply nasty.
I went to bed as ignorant of how the battle had turned as I was the
night before. Oddly enough, to my surprise, I slept, and slept well.