_August._--Four days have gone by without anything interesting
happening. The great battle is still impending. The Germans are as
savage as ever, and news of my son comes very seldom. Fortunately his
little fiancée writes to me, and her letters reach me, as they have not
so far to come. These dear children lavish so much affection on me and
are always assuring me how certain they are that we shall win.
* * * * *
M. C. saw at Dinant a lieutenant who had got hold of a machine-gun,
and was mowing down the Germans who were appearing in fours on the
summit of a hill. It required an order from a superior officer to bring
that lieutenant back. He remained there alone, without thinking of
the danger, and only retired when, tired of arguing, they told him,
"Well, if you don't care about your life, we do care about the loss of
a machine-gun."
Every moment one comes across similar acts of heroism.
* * * * *
_August._--Paul has written to me; I have his letter here. It is just
like him, brave boy! Oh, I am sure that he will come back to me!
* * * * *
Old prophecies are being re-published proclaiming the fall of the
German Empire. People gather together to read them aloud, and pass them
on to their neighbors, like so many thirsty travelers happening on a
spring of fresh water.
"Oh, yes! To see the last Prussian at his last gasp, and all due to us.
What a glorious sight!" That is what we are all saying to each other in
France.
These hordes of barbarians who rob the dead, kill the wounded, and
fire on our ambulances; who shoot old men, women, and children, and
girls when they have violated them; who cut off little boys' hands, so
that they shall not fight against them later on--these monsters who
have escaped from Hell will return thither or else there is no Divine
justice.
The news of the atrocities committed in Belgium by the Kaiser's
monsters emptied the villages in the North in a single night, and one
can imagine nothing more dismal than the stream of fugitives along
the roads of France. We saw them passing by our houses, coming from
goodness knows where, piled up on carts with their animals, their
bedding, their old men and their children, and all their household
goods.
They had come through Paris, their horses almost dropping with fatigue,
to seek a refuge in some friendly district, but where that would be
they knew not. For the moment their only idea was to go a long, long
way off to the other ends of the earth, in order to escape from the
blood-thirsty hordes.
From the North right down to the South of France the roads were covered
with thousands of panic-stricken refugees, in carts, in cars, in
carriages, in trains, all in the wildest confusion. Many of them camped
out all night, in their carts, and quite near the house there were some
whom we tried to help a little. The stories they told led us also to
think of flight.
One night the soldiers from the depot at Fontainebleau passed under our
windows, going in the direction of Provins. An officer who is a great
friend of ours had said to us, "When you see the soldiers from the
depot going--go too." It was terrible.
It was a beautiful moonlight night, the regiment in extended formation
marched along the Avenue des Sablons. Their measured tread purposely
muffled, the slight rattling of their mess-tins against their
haversacks, and from time to time a curt command given in a low voice,
threw us into an agony of fear. We could not sleep: and hidden behind
the Venetian blinds we and our maid spent the night in watching them.
We had tried to give the soldiers drinks, but the officers objected. I
thought of all the mothers whose sons were marching through that tragic
night to death, while they, poor women, were sleeping or peacefully
praying for them in some far-off corner of France. I thought of my own
boy, and my heart was wrung with anguish.
When day came I went to lie down, feeling crushed, all my courage gone.
The next day the Mayor sent to say that we ought to go; an enemy force
was at Provins; the Germans were advancing rapidly; communications
would be cut by them, and it would be wisest to be off.
I could not make up my mind to it, although all these stories filled me
with terror, and Paul said in every letter, "For Heaven's sake--go!" I
still shrank from the pang of leaving my house and all that was in it,
and especially my animals, my dogs, my mementoes, all the links that
bind one to one's home.