Armistice Day in Paris
It was shortly before eleven o’clock on the morning of November eleventh
when the bells of Paris began pealing.
The following instant a group of young American girls who had been seated
about a tiny fire in a large, bare room, jumped hurriedly to their feet.
“It has come at last, the Germans have signed the armistice! _Vive la
paix!_” one of them exclaimed.
Her words were almost drowned in the noise of the firing of guns, the
thunder of cannon, noises to which Paris had been listening for the past
four years in bitterness, but which she now heard with rejoicing.
“Let us start out at once, Aunt Patricia, to take part in the celebration
before the streets become too crowded,” Peggy Webster suggested. “What
luck to be in Paris today! I should rather be here than in any city in
the world at the present time, for surely the city which has suffered
most through the war must rejoice most!”
As she finished speaking, Peggy walked over to a window and flung it
open. Already they could hear the sounds of cheering. Below Peggy could
see people running into the street, windows of other houses being thrown
open. Voices were calling, vive, vive everything, except, “_la guerre_.”
“Isn’t it a pity Tante is not with us? We shall miss her more than ever
today,” Bettina added. “Yet I am glad she is not too ill to feel the
deepest thankfulness even if she cannot take part in the celebration and
we may manage to see her later this afternoon. Aunt Patricia, do you feel
equal to going with us? The crowds may make you overtired. Don’t worry,
we promise to be as careful as possible, but do let us hurry. I feel as
if I could scarcely bear the four walls of a house ten minutes longer. I
want to shout, weep, laugh over victory. Glorious France, how much she
has suffered and how much she has won!”
“Nevertheless, Bettina Graham, there is no reason to talk in such a
high-flown fashion,” Miss Patricia Lord returned, “as if you were making
a speech on one of the boulevards. I think we had better be saying our
prayers. Just the same please be quiet a moment while I try to think; the
noise outside is sufficient without your increasing it. I am afraid it
will not be safe for you Camp Fire girls to go out into the streets for
at least another twenty-four hours. But most certainly I shall go,
however, I will return as promptly as possible to let you know what I
have seen.”
At this instant Miss Patricia removed the large horned spectacles,
through which she had been reading the morning paper, and wiped the
moisture from them carefully. She then wiped her eyes, but entirely
unconscious of what she was doing.
Nevertheless, she may have remained unaware of the expressions upon the
faces of the half dozen girls who were her present companions.
At this moment an arm encircled her waist.
“Really, truly, Aunt Patricia, you don’t think we can stay indoors when
all the rest of Paris is rejoicing? You wouldn’t be so cruel as to ask it
of us, you who have preached courage in the time of war, would not have
us turn cowards with the approach of peace?”
And Mary Gilchrist looked imploringly into Miss Patricia’s fine eyes,
wise enough not to appear to notice their unusual moisture.
“You come with us, Aunt Patricia, and I think we shall manage to keep
together and not to lose either our heads or our way. Remember we made a
safe retreat to Paris when the Huns believed they were soon to follow
after us and take possession of the city.”
As Mary Gilchrist had just announced, it was true that a number of months
before, after an arduous retreat, first from their farmhouse on the Aisne
and later from the Château Yvonne, the Camp Fire girls and their
guardians had arrived safely in Paris. During the following summer months
they had lived in a French pension not far from the Place de la Concorde,
while the long range German guns vainly endeavored to frighten the city
with a sense of her impending doom.
At present neither Mrs. Burton nor Sally Ashton was with their Camp Fire
group in the pension. Soon after their arrival, not having recovered
sufficiently from her wound to endure the long strain and fatigue of the
retreat, Mrs. Burton had again been seriously ill. By her surgeon’s
advice she had been removed to a hospital nearby, where she had been for
the past few months, and although by this time a great deal better, she
had not yet rejoined her friends.
Sally Ashton, without appearing to be actually ill and indeed always
denying every suggestion of illness, had never from the day of the
retreat from the farmhouse been like her former self. Six weeks before,
influenced more by Miss Patricia’s wish than the doctor’s orders, she had
departed for rest and quiet to a little house in the country a few hours
journey from town.
At this moment, following Mary Gilchrist’s words, the Camp Fire girls
formed an imploring circle about their chaperon, Miss Patricia Lord, who,
in Mrs. Burton’s absence, had no one to dispute her authority.
Never to appear actually to oppose Miss Patricia, the girls had learned
to be the better part of wisdom, therefore the present moment was fraught
with danger. To disobey Miss Patricia’s wish, which might at any moment
be translated into a command, would be disagreeable and perchance
succeeded by uncomfortable consequences. However, not to see Paris in her
carnival of joy and to share in the celebration was not to be considered.
And in all probability Miss Patricia had always appreciated this fact.
“Oh, very well,” she conceded with unexpected suddenness, “and do get
ready as soon as possible. I have only to put on my bonnet. In truth I
have been prepared for this moment ever since our arrival in France. Have
I not always insisted that victory was always a mere question of time!”
A few moments later the throngs in the streets of Paris were increased by
the presence of the half dozen American Camp Fire girls and Miss Lord.
Perhaps not much more than a half an hour had passed since the
announcement of the signing of the armistice and yet already a multitude
had appeared out of doors. Paris was happy and expressing her happiness
as only Paris can.
The air was filled with cheers, with snatches of songs, not so frequent
the “Marseillaise,” as “Madelon,” the song of the poilus, since it was
the French soldier who had brought victory to glorious France.
Through the crowds Miss Patricia engineered the way, Yvonne Fleury
clinging to one arm, Mary Gilchrist to the other, while behind them
followed Vera Lagerloff and Alice Ashton and next came Bettina Graham and
Peggy Webster.
As the crowd in their neighborhood was moving toward the Place de la
Concorde there was no choice but to move with it.
In the Place de la Concorde, filled with statues commemorative of French
history, the girls observed a vast mass of waving flags. Here all the
trophies of war had been placed. Soldiers and young girls were climbing
on the big guns, shouting, laughing, kissing one another.
Save for Miss Patricia’s leadership the Camp Fire girls would never have
moved on with so little difficulty. Like a happy grenadier she marched
with her head up and her old eyes flashing. France had no greater admirer
than the elderly American spinster.
A French soldier, leaning over to kiss Mary Gilchrist, who was gazing
upward and unconscious of him, found Miss Patricia’s hand suddenly
interposed between his lips and Mary’s face. Being a Frenchman, he had
the grace gallantly to kiss Miss Patricia’s hand and then to march off
laughing at the joke on himself.
Finally the little group of Americans found themselves in a temporary
shelter near the statue of Alsace-Lorraine in the Place de la Concorde.
From the close of the Franco-Prussian war this statue of an heroic figure
of a woman, representing the lost provinces, had been draped in mourning.
Today the mourning had been torn away and the statue smothered in
flowers.
It chanced that Bettina Graham and Peggy Webster were crowded close
against the railing surrounding the statue.
“Peggy,” Bettina whispered, “I want to add my little tribute to France’s
victory after forty years of waiting for the return of her provinces. I
have nothing to offer but this little bunch of violets I have been
wearing all morning. And certainly they are a faded tribute! Still there
is no chance of getting any other flowers today.”
“Oh, never mind, it is the sentiment after all, isn’t it, Bettina? The
tribute is no tinier than the effort we Camp Fire girls have been making
in the last year to help France. It is simply that we have given all we
had to give,” Peggy returned.
While she was speaking, Bettina had unfastened a large bunch of Roman
violets, which she was wearing at her waist, and was leaning over the
railing trying to find a place for her small bouquet. At the same instant
a hand, holding an enormous bunch of red and white roses encircled with
deep blue forget-me-nots, was thrust above her head.
Flushing at the contrast, Bettina hurriedly dropped her violets and
glanced upward.
Behind her was a young man, evidently an American, although not a
soldier, as he was not wearing a uniform.
“I beg your pardon, I hope I have not interfered with you,” an American
voice apologized.
But before Bettina was able to do more than shake her head, there was an
unexpected movement in the crowd and she and Peggy were again pushed
onward.
A few feet ahead Miss Patricia was looking back and signaling. They could
see that a girl had been lifted on the shoulders of two soldiers. The
crowd was now following them.
When the girl began singing, the crowd became quieter. Her voice was
clear and beautiful; she was singing the “Marseillaise,” then snatches of
Allied songs.
Evidently the girl, whom the soldiers were bearing along in triumph, was
some celebrated artist, who was giving the best she had to give to the
people as her tribute to France. And the crowd now and then sang with
her, whatever words of whatever national song they knew.
Finally toward dusk, the Camp Fire girls and Miss Patricia found
themselves returning to the neighborhood of their pension. Lights were
beginning to shine along the boulevards, when Paris until tonight had
been in darkness for nearly four long years.
At a street corner where the crowd had thinned, Miss Patricia waited with
Yvonne and Myra until the other four girls had caught up with them.
“You girls, can make your way home from here alone, can’t you?” she
inquired. “I really must see Polly Burton before this day is past. I must
say a few words to her else I shall never feel the day’s celebration has
satisfied me.”
“Of course, Aunt Patricia, but since we all feel exactly as you do, why
not let us go with you?” Peggy answered.
Soon after the Camp Fire girls and Miss Lord found Mrs. Burton seated by
a window in her hospital bedroom, holding a little book in her hand and,
except that she was pale from the excitement of the day, looking
extraordinarily well.
“Oh, I never, never, never have been so glad to see people before!” she
cried, jumping up and embracing Miss Patricia. “If you only knew what it
has meant to stay here in a hospital with my nose glued against the
window pane, when all the world is going mad with joy, you would be truly
sorry for me. I think I should have tried to make my escape, if my doctor
had not telephoned me I was not to think of going out for a moment. I
suppose, Aunt Patricia, you managed to telephone him this instruction
last night because you imagined the armistice would be signed today. But
please everybody tell me at once just what you have seen and done.”
A quarter of an hour later, when the Camp Fire girls had grown silent
through sheer fatigue, Miss Patricia said with unusual gentleness:
“Well, Polly, I am sorry you could not be with us today, although I did
tell the doctor that he was not to allow you to go out for a moment under
any circumstances. What have you been doing with your time?”
Mrs. Burton held up her book.
“Perhaps you could never guess! I have been reading a one-act play by
France’s great Premier, Clemenceau. Did you know the old warrior
statesman was a poet as well? His play is called ‘Le Voile du Bonheur,’
‘The Veil of Happiness.’ It is the story of an old blind Chinese poet who
is happy in the love of his wife and son and the devotion of his friends.
I wish I knew French sufficiently well to be able to act in it. One day
the old poet’s poems are recognized by his Emperor and he is told he may
have any gift. He asks for the release of a friend who is a prisoner.
Then the old man falls asleep and in his sleep his sight is restored. He
wakens to find the friend he has released from prison trying to rob him,
his wife loving some one else and his son mocking at his affliction. And
in the end the poet prays to have his blindness restored that he may
return to happiness. It is a melancholy little play. I have been hoping
all day the world may never wish to be blind again.”
Getting up Mrs. Burton began walking up and down her little room, and a
moment later, coming up behind Miss Patricia, suddenly put both hands on
the older woman’s shoulders, resting her cheek on her hair.
“Aunt Patricia, none of us can leave France now the armistice is signed
until peace is declared. Surely all of you feel as I do; we who have seen
France in her suffering must remain here during her great release. I
presume the peace commission will hold its sessions in Paris; no other
city is apt to be chosen.”
Miss Patricia nodded.
“For once in my life, Polly my dear, I agree with you. Indeed ever since
there has been a possibility of an armistice I have been thinking over
what you have just said! We may be making a mistake, nevertheless, I am
reasonably sure that Paris will be chosen as the place of meeting for the
Peace delegates. Under the circumstances I have just rented a furnished
house in Versailles for the next six months. Paris will soon grow too
crowded to contain unnecessary women. Moreover, Versailles is near enough
to Paris for us to enjoy whatever takes place here and will also be
better for our health and our nerves.”