I met a man in the Club at Lille the other day who told me that he
knew all about women. He had studied the subject, he said, and could
read 'em like an open book. He admitted that it took a bit of doing,
but that once you had the secret they would trot up and eat out of
your hand.
Having thus spoken he swallowed three whiskies in rapid succession and
rushed away to jump a lorry-ride to Germany, and I have not seen him
since, much to my regret, for I need his advice, I do.
* * * * *
We splashed into the hamlet of Sailly-le-Petit at about eight o'clock
of a pouring dark night, to find the inhabitants abed and all doors
closed upon us.
However, by dint of entreaties whispered through key-holes and
persuasions cooed under window-shutters, I charmed most of them open
again and got my troop under cover, with the exception of one section.
Its Corporal, his cape spouting like a miniature watershed, swam up.
"There's a likely-lookin' farm over yonder, Sir," said he, "but the
old gal won't let us in. She's chattin' considerable." I found a group
of numb men and shivering horses standing knee-deep in a midden, the
men exchanging repartee with a furious female voice that shrilled at
them from a dark window. "Is that the officer?" the voice demanded.
I admitted as much. "Then remove your band of brigands. Go home to
England, where you belong, and leave respectable people in peace. The
War is finished."
I replied with some fervour (my boots were full of water and my cap
dribbling pints of iced-water down the back of my neck) that I was
not playing the wandering Jew round one-horse Picard villages in late
December for the amusement I got out of it and that I could be relied
on to return to England at the earliest opportunity, but for the
present moment would she let us in out of the downpour, please? The
voice soared to a scream. No, she would not, not she. If we chose to
come soldiering we must take the consequences, she had no sympathy
for us. She called several leading saints to witness that her barn
was full to bursting anyhow and there was no room. That was that.
She slammed the window-shutter and retired, presumably to bed. The
Corporal, who had been scouting round about, returned to report room
for all hands in the barn, which was quite empty. Without further ado
I pushed all hands into the barn and left them for the night.
Next morning, while walking in the village street, I beheld a
remarkable trio approaching. It consisted of a venerable cleric--his
skirts held high enough out of the mud to reveal the fact that he
favoured flannel underclothing and British army socks--and a massive
rustic dressed principally in hair, straw-ends and corduroys. The
third member was a thick short bulldog of a woman, who, from the
masterly way in which she kept corduroys from slipping into the
village smithy and saved the cleric from drifting to a sailor's grave
in the duck-pond, seemed to be the controlling spirit of the party.
By a deft movement to a flank she thwarted her reluctant companions
in an attempt to escape up a by-way, and with a nudge here and a
tug there brought them to a standstill in front of me and opened
the introductions.
"M. le Curé," indicating the cleric, who dropped his skirts and raised
his beaver.
"M. le Maire," indicating corduroys, who clutched a handful of straw
out of his beard and groaned loudly.
"_Moi, je suis Madame, Veuve Palliard-Dubose_," indicating herself.
I bowed, quailing inwardly, for I recognized the voice. She gave
corduroys a jab in the short ribs with her elbow. "_Eh bien_, now
speak."
Corduroys rolled his eyes like a driven bullock, sneezed a shower of
straw and groaned again.
"_Imbécile!_" spat Madame disgustedly and prodded the Curé. But the
Curé was engaged in religious exercises, beads flying through his
fingers, lips moving, eyes tight closed. Madame shrugged her shoulders
eloquently as if to say, "Men--what worms! I ask you," and turned on
me herself. She led off by making some unflattering guesses as to my
past career, commented forcibly on my present mode of life, ventured
a few cheerful prophecies as to my hereafter and polished off a brisk
ten minutes heart-to-heart talk by snapping her fingers under my nose
and threatening me with the guillotine if I did not instantly remove
my man-eating horses from her barn.
"Observe," she concluded triumphantly, "I have the Church and State on
my side."
"Have you?" I queried. "Have you? Look again."
She turned to the right for the Mayor, but a strong trail of straw
running up the by-way told that that massive but inarticulate
dignitary had slunk home to his threshing. She turned to the left for
the Curé, but the whisk of a skirt and a flannel shank disappearing
into the church-porch showed that the discreet clerk had side-stepped
for sanctuary. I thought it kinder to leave Madame the widow
Palliard-Dubose to herself at this juncture, but something told me I
had not heard the last of her. Nor had I. A week later an imposing
document was forwarded from the orderly-room for my "information
and necessary action, please." It emanated from the French Military
Mission and claimed from me the modest sum of two thousand
three hundred and fourteen francs on behalf of one Madame Veuve
Palliard-Dubose, of the village of Sailly-le-Petit, Pas de Calais,
the claimant alleging that my troopers had stolen unthreshed wheat to
that value wherewith to feed their horses. A prompt settlement would
oblige.
I fled panic-stricken down to stables and wagged the document in
the faces of the thieves. They were virtuously indignant; hadn't
pinched no wheat-straw at all--not in Sailly-le-Petit. Might have
been a bit absent-minded-like at Auchy-en-Artois, and again at
Pressy-aux-Bois mistakes may have been made, but here never--no,
Sir, s'welp-them-Gawd. I wrote to the French Mission denying the
impeachment. They replied with a fresh shower of claims. I answered
with a storm of denials. The sky snowed correspondence. Just when the
French were putting it all over me and my orderly-room was hinting
that I had best pay up and save the Entente Cordiale, the French ran
out of paper and sent one of their missionaries in a car to settle
the matter verbally. I gave him a good lunch, an excellent cigar and
spread all the facts of the case before him as one human to another.
He spent an hour nosing about the village, and the result of his
investigations was that Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose, so far from
having her wheat stolen, had had no wheat to steal, and furthermore
never in the course of her agricultural activities had she harvested
crops to the value of Francs 2314. Virtue triumphant. Evil vanquished.
Madame the widow Palliard-Dubose retired grimly into her cabin,
slamming the door on the world.
Yesterday was New Year's Day. Imagine my surprise when, on visiting
the horses at mid-day, Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose leaned over
the half-door of her dwelling and waved her hand to me. "_Ah, ha,
Monsieur le Lieutenant_", she crowed, "many felicitations on this
most auspicious day! _Bon jour, belle année_!"
I was so staggered I treated her to my _perfecto superfino_, my very
best salute (usually reserved for Generals and Field Cashiers). "The
same to you, Madame, and many of 'em. _Vive la France!_"
Madame bowed and smiled with all her features. "_Vive l'Angleterre_!"
What a lot of weather we were having, weren't we? and what a glorious
victory it had been, hadn't it?--mainly due to the dear soldiers, she
felt sure. She hoped I found myself enjoying robust health.