VI

We had gone about two miles when the sight of my greyhounds tied behind

the farm cart made me think of my little Boston bull.

"Where's Betsy?" I asked of those perched on the hay.

Julie, Nini and Yvonne grew white.

It took little time to discover that no one had seen her that morning.

It was evident she had been forgotten--left to die tied to the brass

rail inside an abandoned bakery, for it was there I had fastened her on

arriving the night before. Pedaling ahead till I reached Leon who led

the procession--

"Keep straight on this road. If it should fork, take the direction of

the La Ferte Gauche. I'll be back in no time." Then turning about, I

started a parallel race with an autobus, much to the delight of the

occupants.

Useless to say that my adversary gained on the up-grade, turned the

corner, was gone, and was followed by another long before I reached the

public square, breathless and full of anxiety.

Rebais was empty--not even a tardy refugee straggled by the wayside, and

before I reached the bakery I could hear the plaintive howls of my

little brute.

What a joyful welcome I received. What hilarious waggings of that

little screw tail! But, there was no time to be lost, for the problem

now was how Betsy was to catch up with the procession. She was too

heavy for me to carry under my arm, and too old and puffy to be expected

to follow a bicycle--but it was one or the other, and tying her leash to

the handle bar, off we started, after an encouraging pat on the head and

the promise of a lump of sugar if she would only "be a good girl."

On we sped, past the huge lumbering motorbuses, which terrified the poor

animal who tugged vehemently at her string, at times almost choking

herself.

In half an hour we had caught up with the caravan, and as I lifted poor

exhausted Betsy on to the hay, Nini roused from her dozing and pointing

to the east, said, "Oh, look! what a big fire!"

"You silly child, it's the sun rising; go back to sleep," I said,

terrified by what I had seen, but unwilling to alarm the others

uselessly.

At the skyline of an immense plain that stretched on our left, huge

columns of flame burst heavenward, covered a moment later by dense black

smoke. Fortunately, however, the sun peeped over the horizon almost

instantly, thereby diminishing the intensity of the conflagration. But

Nini was not to be thus hoodwinked.

"See," she continued, "what funny little fluffy clouds those are!"

"Nini, if you don't go to sleep at once you'll have to get down and

walk, and let one of the boys take your place. They'll be only too glad

to, I know."

Nini obeyed instantly. She had come away with but one pair of shoes (in

spite of my admonition to take all the footwear she possessed) and that

pair of shoes pinched.

Funny little fluffy clouds indeed! The shaking of the earth beneath my

feet and a second of reflection told me, they were not clouds, before

they would be directed westward was but shells--and how long it would be

a question that chilled the blood in my veins.

The town we were heading for--La Ferte Gauche--lay southeast. Though I

had no glass, it was evident that it was now under the enemies' fire,

and we might just as well run our necks into a noose as keep on in that

direction. It was southwest--or nothing.

Without offering any explanation I rode ahead and told Leon to follow

me. Then turning abruptly to the right, I took the first side path that

was wide enough for our cart wheels, and in and out, up and down, we

followed it for over an hour, until coasting down a steep incline, I

found myself in the midst of a delightful little village, nestled

between two hills on the border of a river.

The shops were just opening and people were going about their work as if

nothing unusual were happening. They gazed in astonishment at this

hatless bicyclist, who wore a Red Cross armlet, and when I went into the

baker shop, I was filled with joy at the sight of all the crisp loaves

lined up in their racks ready for delivery.

Refugees?

They hadn't seen any. Someone had heard an unaccustomed movement of

wagons during the night, that was all.

A signpost, as I turned into the square, told me that I was at

Jouy-sur-Morin, and a few moments later, I came upon a group of

gentlemen in frock coats standing talking on an embankment below the

church. If it had been in the afternoon instead of five A. M., I should

have thought this assembly perfectly in harmony with the landscape. In

fact they looked so much like H.'s caricatures of his provincial

compatriots that I couldn't help smiling as I passed. This mutational

gathering of the municipal council was the only outward sign of anxiety

to be found in this picturesque township.

The arrival of our caravan produced quite a sensation among the early

risers at Jouy, thought the enthusiasm for telling their story had

somewhat subsided among my servants. They were footsore, sleepy, and

hungry.

The gentlemen in frock coats were too busy in their own affairs to give

us much attention, and I was about to leave when one of them called me

over and asked a few questions. Anxious to be off, I answered briefly.

The man probably took me for a poor demented female; how could he think

otherwise down here in his little valley, where not a sound of gun and

shell had penetrated as yet?

History will tell you how, a few hours later, Jouy-sur-Morin was the

scene of one of the bloodiest battles of the Marne.

At the dairy, my appearance aroused much curiosity, and when I brought

out the money to pay for my milk, the woman held up her hand. "No,

never; I couldn't take pay from such forlorn creatures as you!"

This unexpected pity brought the blood to my cheeks. I was hot with

indignation. Until now we had wanted for nothing, and with gold in my

pocket charity was an insult. I straightened my tie, looked at my dusty

boots, and realized for the first time that my face was drawn with

fatigue and anxiety--that my hair, though tidy, was sadly out of curl.

Leaving my change on the table, I turned on my heel and departed.

Explanations were tiresome and useless.

We crossed a railroad track and then the river--the Grand Morin--and in

a grass-grown granite quarry halted for breakfast, sheltering ourselves

from the blistering sun in the shade of the immense rocks.

The boys took the horses down to the river to drink and bathe, and a few

seconds later came back for towels and soap.

What a happy idea! A quarter of a mile higher up the bank I found a

well secluded spot, and plunged into the refreshing current. It was the

first time I had had my boots off since leaving Villiers. Thanks to a

small pocket glass and a fresh white blouse, I made myself quite

presentable and as I approached our camp, the appetizing odor of fresh

fried country sausage tickled my nostrils and made me glad to be alive.

Hot coffee accompanied by buttered toast had been prepared by the girls

during my absence, and we needed no coaxing to persuade us to do the

meal justice. Already accustomed to this gypsy life, George's dry humor

began to show itself, and now and again the silence would be broken by

peals of laughter, caused by some quaint joke.

We lingered lovingly over the repast, and I was trying to decide whether

or not we would push on at once or wait and rest until afternoon when

suddenly my question was answered for me.

While we had been clearing up and loading the carts a long train of

freight cars had noiselessly glided down the rails opposite our quarry,

and had halted without pulling into the station. There was nothing

abnormal in this, and from where we sat a trifle below the level of the

track, we could see but little of what was going on on the opposite

platform. Standing upright in my charette, carefully folding a blanket

so as to take up the least possible space, my eye was attracted by

several red specks scurrying up a steep incline. A moment afterwards my

gaze drifted downward and I realized that from the innocent looking

freight cars hundreds of armed soldiers were disembarking and spreading

themselves out, _en tirailleurs_, preparing an attack in ambush. I had

seen this same pretty feat successfully accomplished at the _grand

manauvres_, the year before, but it was another thing entirely when one

grasped that these men were in dead earnest.

Just then a buggy, containing a disheveled woman and collarless man,

galloped over the crossing and sped westward. The occupants, whom I

hailed, did not deign a reply, but beckoning with their arms, enjoined

me to follow them.

"It's time to break camp," I said, "if we intend to reach the next town

before it gets too hot."

So off we started, preceded by a heavy delivery wagon, a _Familistere_

from the north, which crossed the rails just as we were pulling onto the

road. It was a big covered affair, filled to overflowing with bedding

and household utensils--and even the top was loaded with huge boxes and

baskets of provisions. Behind it walked, or rather trotted, three stout

women and a man, the former half-crazed with heat and anxiety, mopping

their brows and their tears as the _cortege_ advanced.

An hour and a half of steady climbing quite exhausted them, and when we

reached the level, the three graces collapsed by the roadside, still

weeping copiously. I observed this as I approached, and presently saw

their companion mounted on the high hind wheel of their wagon, gazing

intently towards the east through a pair of field glasses.

"What can you see?" I asked as the _charette_ passed by them.

"Come and have a look. It's worth while. My wife and family are too

frightened."

I halted, and climbing up by the spokes reached the top, and steadying

myself with my left hand, took the proffered glass with my right.

From one extremity to the other of the wide plains, from which we were

separated by the valley of the Grand Morin, those same long columns of

dense black smoke rose lazily in the brilliant sunlight. Into some

determined spot the enemy was pouring a perfect rain of shot and shell,

and the dust rising after each explosion formed a curtain that blotted

out the rest of the landscape. Below, the _Senegalais_ had disappeared

in ambush, but now and again the distant clattering of the

_mitrailleuse_ told us they were at their deadly work. And to think,

all this was happening on ground we had traveled over only a few hours

since! And I had been fool enough to go back to Rebais--alone to

recover my dog!

I shuddered as I got down. What was the use of trying to hurry? We

couldn't go any faster than the horses, and if we overworked them now we

would have to rest longer later on. So, urging our poor old nags, we

trudged along the sun-baked roads between the high grown wheat fields of

the Brie country.

Still another couple of hours and we had reached Choisy-en-Brie, found a

stable for our animals, and we ourselves stretched out on our blankets

beneath the friendly shadow of the big stone church.

I had finished luncheon and was just dozing off when a motor horn roused

me from my lethargy. A second later I recognized Maitre Baudoin and his

wife, the latter holding their four-year-old daughter on her knees, her

grandmother sitting alone in the back seat which was piled high with

important documents, and their maid strapped to the steps of the car.

We set up a shout which stopped them. "We stayed until a shell burst on

the house next door, then we thought it was time to go,"' explained

Maitre Baudoin.

"What time did you leave Rebais?"

"Forty minutes ago. You'd better be moving, too."

"Sorry, but I can't. The horses must rest."

"Well, don't wait too long. Adieu."

"Adieu," and they were off.

I returned to my blanket and again was just closing my eyes when the

unexpected sound of Gregorian chant made me sit up. Nearer and nearer

it drew, louder and louder rose the priests' voices, and then a

much-befringed and flower-laden hearse, preceded by the clergy and

followed by the mourners (the men in evening dress and the women in

their Sunday clothes), rounded the corner, passed in front of us, and

halted before the main door of the church.

I couldn't help smiling. The incongruity of this pompous _enterrement

de premiere classe, en musique_, when the city was imminently menaced by

a German bombardment, bordered on the pathetic and the ridiculous.

However, the family of the defunct did not think so, and their deceased

parent was chanted to eternity with all the rites and ceremonies that

his will had provided for.

Personally I was delighted at the idea of going to sleep to the sound of

the organ, which pierced the thick granite walls and almost drowned the

rumble of the cannon, to which we had now become so accustomed that we

had ceased to be alarmed.

"_Des soldats!_" cried someone.

In a second I was on my feet.

"Where?"

"Two-on bicycles, going into the hotel opposite."