in a voice muffled by the bed-clothes, to put the candle out quickly.
But I was haunted by that moaning, though I could not hear it any
longer. I wanted to know what tragedy had caused those sobs. I could
not doubt that the horrible war was at the bottom of it. And yet we
were a long way from the firing line. My curiosity overcame my
fatigue. I put on my jacket and went out, taking the candle with me. I
ran down the two staircases, and my footsteps seemed to wake dismal
echoes in the silent convent.
Just as I came to the hall Sister Gabrielle also arrived, with a small
lantern in her hand. I must have frightened her, for she started and
gave a little scream. But she soon recovered, and guessed what had
disturbed me. She told me all about it in a few simple sentences; a
poor woman had fled from her village, carrying her little girl of
eighteen months. As she was running distractedly along the road from
Lizerne to Boesinghe a German shell had fallen, and a fragment of it
had killed her baby in her arms. She had just come six kilometres in
the dark, clasping the little corpse to her breast in an agony of
despair. She got to Elverdinghe, and knocked at the door of the
convent, knowing that there she would find a refuge. And all along the
road she had passed convoys, relief troops and despatch-riders; but
she took no heed of them; she was obsessed by one thought; to find a
shelter for the remains of what had been the joy and hope of her life.
"Just come," said Sister Gabrielle. "I will let you see her. We have
put the poor little body in the mortuary chamber, and Sister Elizabeth
is watching there."
I followed Sister Gabrielle, who opened a small door, and went down a
few steps; we crossed a paved court. Her lantern and my candle cast
yellowish gleams upon the high walls of the buildings. Heavy drops of
rain were falling, making a strange noise on the stones. And a kind of
anguish seized me when I again heard the continuous wailing of the
unhappy mother. Sister Gabrielle opened a low door very gently, and we
went in.
I must confess that I had been much less moved when, after the first
day of the Battle of the Marne, we passed through a wood where our
artillery had reduced a whole German regiment to a shapeless mass of
human fragments. Here I realised all the horror of war. That men
should kill each other in defence of their homes is conceivable
enough, and I honour those who fall. But it passes all understanding
why the massacre should include these poor weak and innocent
creatures. And sights such as the one I saw in that little mortuary
chapel inspire a fierce thirst for vengeance.
On a kind of large table, covered with a white cloth, the poor body
was laid out. It bore no trace of any wound, and the little white face
seemed to be smiling. The good nuns had covered the shabby clothes
with an embroidered cloth. Upon that they had crossed the little
hands, which seemed to be clasping a tiny crucifix. And over the whole
they had strewn an armful of flowers. On each side they had placed
silver candlesticks, and the reddish candle-light made golden
reflections in the curly locks of the little corpse. Crouching on the
ground by the side of it, I saw a shapeless heap of clothes which
seemed to be shaken by convulsive spasms. It was from this heap that
the monotonous wailing came. It was the young mother, weeping for her
little one. One felt that nothing could console her, and that words
would only increase her suffering. Besides, she had not even raised
her head when we went in. It was best to leave her alone, since they
say that tears bring comfort.
On the other side a young Sister was kneeling at a _prie-Dieu_,
telling her rosary. Sister Gabrielle knelt down on the ground beside
her. I longed to do something to lessen that grief, and help the poor
woman a little. She must have come there in a state of destitution:
her clothes revealed her poverty. But I durst not disturb either her
mourning or their prayers, and I came out quietly on tiptoe.
Outside, the rain, which was now falling heavily, refreshed my fevered
head somewhat. I crossed the courtyard quickly; but my candle went
out, and I had some trouble in relighting it, which was very
necessary, as I had to find my way in a maze of doors and passages. At
last I reached my staircase, and passed the landing and the Sisters'
chapel. I heard a distant clock strike midnight, went up another
storey, and opened our door noiselessly. I thought that B. would
perhaps be waiting for me impatiently, anxious to learn the reason of
all the noise.
But B. was snoring with the bed-clothes over his ears.
At six o'clock some one knocked at our door, and I opened my eyes.
Daylight showed faintly through the only window. I wondered where I
was, and suddenly remembered ... Elverdinghe ... the convent....
"Is it you, Sister Gabrielle?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, it's I. Get up. I have been knocking for more than an hour."
B. sat up in his bed. I did the same, and told him what I had seen the
evening before. He shook his head mournfully, and concluded:
"Well, ... it's war.... I hope they'll have a good breakfast ready for
us."
We hurried through our dressing and ablutions, for we had to get back
quickly to our quarters. As we came out of our room, lively and
refreshed, we met Sister Gabrielle, who seemed to have been waiting
for us. She asked us how we had slept, and, to stop the flood of
eloquence that B. was on the point of letting loose, she said:
"That's right. You shall thank me later on. Come down now; your
breakfast is waiting for you. It will get cold."
But, on passing the chapel, B. would insist on seeing it. Sister
Gabrielle hesitated a moment, and then gave way, as you would to a
child for the sake of peace. She opened the outer door, and smiled
indulgently, as if anxious to humour all our whims. We passed through
an anteroom, and then entered the chapel. It was quite small, only
large enough to hold about twenty people. The walls were white,
without any ornament, and panelled up to about the height of a man.
The altar was extremely simple, and decorated with a few flowers. Some
rush chairs completed the plenishings of the sanctuary where the good
Sisters of Elverdinghe assembled every morning at four o'clock for
prayers.
And, as we came out of this humble chapel, I noticed two mattresses,
laid in a corner of the little anteroom.
"Who sleeps here, then, Sister?" I asked.
Sister Gabrielle turned as red as a poppy. I had to repeat my question
twice, when, lowering her eyes, she answered:
"Sister Elizabeth--Sister Elizabeth ... and I."
"Sister Gabrielle, ... Sister Gabrielle, then that little room and
those two little beds where we slept, were yours?"
"Hush! Please come to breakfast at once."
And, light as a bird, she disappeared down the staircase, so quickly
that her black veil floated high above her, as though to hide her
confusion.
* * * * *
And we saw no more of Sister Gabrielle. It was a very old woman--one
of the inmates--who brought us our hot milk and coffee, our brown
bread and fresh butter, in the dining-room with the high cupboards of
polished wood. She explained that at this hour the nuns were busy
attending to their old folk. It was of no use begging to see our
little hostess again. We were told it would be against the rules, and
we felt that the curtain had now indeed fallen upon this charming act
of the weary tragedy.
Only, just as we were passing out of the convent gate for the last
time, the old lady put into our hands a big packet of provisions
wrapped up in a napkin. She had brought it hidden under her apron.
"Here, she told me to give you this, and ... to say that she will pray
for you."
Our hearts swelled as we heard the heavy door close behind us. And
whilst we went away silently along the broken, muddy road, we thought
of the sterling hearts that are hidden under the humble habits of a
convent.
Sister Gabrielle! I shall never forget you. Never will your delicate
features fade from my memory. And I seem to see you still, going up
the great wooden staircase, lit up by the flickering flame of the
candle, when you and Sister Elizabeth gave up your beds so simply and
unostentatiously to the two unknown soldiers.
VIII. CHRISTMAS NIGHT
"_Mon Lieutenant mon Lieutenant_, it's two o'clock."
My faithful Wattrelot held the flickering candle just in front of my
eyes to rouse me. What torture it is to be snatched from sleep at such
an early hour! It would not be anything in summer; but it was the 24th
of December, and it was my turn to go on duty in the trenches. A nice
way of keeping Christmas!... I turned over in my bed, trying to avoid
that light that tormented me; I collected my thoughts, which had
wandered far away whilst I was asleep, and had been replaced by
exquisite dreams, dreams of times of peace, of welfare, of good cheer,
and of gentle warmth.
Then I remembered: I had to take command of a detachment of a hundred
troopers of the regiment, who were to replace the hundred now in the
trenches. It was nearly a month since we had joined our Army Corps
near R., and every other day the regiment had to furnish the same
number of men to occupy a sector of the trenches. It was my turn, on
the 24th of December, to replace my brother-officer and good friend
Lieutenant de la G., who had occupied the post since the 22nd.
I had forgotten all this.... How cold it was! Brrr!...
Whilst Wattrelot was taking himself off I braced myself for the
necessary effort of getting out of the warm sheets. Like a coward, I
kept on allowing myself successive respites, vowing to rise heroically
after each.
"I will get up as soon as Wattrelot has reached the landing of the
first floor.... I will get up when I hear him walking on the pavement
of the hall, ... or rather when I hear the entrance-door shut, and his
boots creaking on the gravel path...."
But every noise was hushed. Wattrelot was already some way off, and I
still shied at this act, which, after all, was inevitable: to get out
of bed in a little ice-cold room at two o'clock in the morning.
Through the window, which had neither shutter nor curtain, I saw a
small piece of the sky, beautifully clear, in which myriads of stars
were twinkling. The day before, when I came in to go to bed, it was
freezing hard. That morning the frost, I thought, must be terrible.
"Come, up!" With a bound I was on the ground, and rushed at once to
the little pitch-pine washstand. Rapid ablutions would wake me up
thoroughly. Horror! The water in the jug was frozen. Oh! not very
deeply, no doubt; but all the same I had to break a coating of ice
that had formed on the surface. However, I was happy to feel more
nimble after having washed my face. Quick! Two warm waistcoats under
my jacket, my large cloak with its cape, my fur gloves, my campaigning
cap pulled over my ears, and there I was, with a candle in my hand,
going down the grand staircase of the château.
For I was quartered in a château. The very word makes one think of a
warm room, well upholstered, well furnished, with soft carpets and
comfortable armchairs. But, alas! it was nothing of the sort.... The
good lady whose house it was had provided for all contingencies; the
family rooms had been prudently dismantled and double-locked. A
formidable _concierge_ had the keys, and I was happy indeed when I
found the butler's room in the attics. His bed, with its white sheets,
seemed to me very desirable. And then, as we say in time of peace, one
must take things as they come.
The open hall-door let in a wave of cold air, which struck cold on my
face. But I had not a minute to lose. The detachment was to start at
half-past two punctually, and it had, no doubt, already formed up in
the market-place. I hurried into the street. The tall pines of the
park stood out black against the silver sky, whilst the bare branches
of the other trees formed thousands of arabesques and strange patterns
all round. Not the slightest noise was to be heard in the limpid,
diaphanous night, in which the air seemed as pure and rare as on the
summits of lofty mountains. Under my footsteps the gravel felt soft,
but, once I had got outside the iron gate, I found myself on ground as
hard as stone. The mud formed by recent rains and the ruts hollowed by
streams of convoys had frozen, and the road was a maze of furrows and
inequalities which made me stumble again and again.
In front of the Hôtel des Lacs a certain number of the men had already
lined up, in front of their horses. Huddled in their cloaks, with
collars turned up, they were stamping their feet and blowing into
their hands. It must have been real torture for them too to come out
of their straw litter, where they were sleeping so snugly a few
moments before, rolled up in their blankets. They had got a liking for
the kind of comfort peculiar to the campaigner, and had invented a
thousand and one ingenious methods of improving the arrangements of
their novel garrison. Sleeping parties had been gradually organised,
and sets of seven or eight at a time enjoyed delightful nights,
stretched on their clean straw. Many of them would certainly not be
able to get to sleep if they suddenly found themselves in a real bed.
And then it is less difficult to get up when one has gone to bed with
one's clothes on, and when the room is not very warm. Not one of them
complained; not one of them grumbled. We can always count on our brave
fellows.
"All present, _mon Lieutenant!_"
It was the senior non-commissioned officers of the two squadrons
assembled there who reported. Every one had got up and equipped
himself at the appointed hour; not one was missing at roll-call; they
had all assembled of their own accord; the corporals had not needed to
knock at door after door to wake the sleepers. Our Chasseurs had very
quickly established simple customs and rules of their own which
ensured the regularity of the service without written orders. This
intelligent and spontaneous discipline is one of the most admirable
features of this campaign. It has grown up by degrees, without any
special orders or prescriptions from above, with the result that the
hardest labours are carried out almost without supervision, because
each man understands the end in view and the grim necessities which it
involves.
They understood at once that this early hour was the only one at which
the relief could be effected. And every other day, just as on that
December morning, twenty-five men out of each squadron get up at
half-past one, equip themselves, and saddle their horses, whilst the
cooks warm up a good cup of coffee for each man. Then, without any
hurry, but at the exact moment, they form up in fighting order at the
appointed spot, and when the officer arrives, in the dark, rain, wind,
snow, or frost, he is sure of receiving the same report:
"All present, _mon Lieutenant!_"
Quick! Mount. We shall feel the cold less trotting over the hardened
roads this bright night and under this brilliant moon. Two and two, in
silence, we issued from the village in the direction of R. I knew that
I should find a little further on, at the cross-roads where the
crucifix stands, the fifty men of the first half-regiment and
Second-Lieutenant de G., who serves under me.
Yes, there he was, coming to meet me on the hard road. It was a joy to
me that chance had given me this jolly fellow for my trench companion.
I hardly knew him, for he had not been with us more than a few days.
Taken from the Military College directly war was declared, he had
first been sent to a reserve squadron, and had only just been
appointed to an active regiment. But I already knew, through my
comrades of the first squadron, that he was a daring soldier and a
merry companion. So much the better, I thought. War is a sad thing,
and one must learn to take it gaily. A plague on gloomy spirits and
long faces! True, we can no longer wage the picturesque war of the
"good old days." We shall never know another Fontenoy, or Rivoli, or
Eylau. But that is no reason why we should lose the jovial humour of
our forefathers. Thank Heaven! we have preserved their qualities of
dash and bravery. But it is more difficult to keep a smiling face in
this hideous mole warfare, which is imposed even upon us troopers. All
the more reason for liking and admiring the cheery officers who keep
our spirits up, and G. is one of them.
We shook hands without speaking, for it seemed to us that if we opened
our mouths the frost would get into our bodies and freeze them, and we
set off at a sharp trot along the narrow by-road which, crossing the
high-road to Paris, leads to C. There we should have to leave our
horses, cross the zone of the enemy's artillery fire, and get to the
trenches on foot. The horses snorted with pleasure, happy to warm
themselves by rapid movement. Some of them indulged in merry capers,
which were repressed, not too gently, by their more sedate riders.
Their hoofs struck the uneven ground with a metallic ring which must
have echoed far; and the clink of bits and stirrups also disturbed the
sleeping country. Before us the road ran straight amidst the dark
fields, a long pale grey ribbon. No one thought of laughing or
talking; sleep seemed still to hover over the column, and every one
knew that the two days of trench duty would be long and hard to get
through even if the Prussians left us in peace.
We passed a cross, which shone white on the side of the road under the
pale light of the moon, and saluted it. We had known it from the first
days, and had its inscription by heart:
80 NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS,
CORPORALS, AND SOLDIERS
OF THE 39TH AND 74TH REGIMENTS OF
INFANTRY,
KILLED IN ACTION.
PRAY FOR THEM.
We dimly discerned the modest wreaths of green leaves, now faded and
yellow, and the little nosegays of withered flowers attached to the
arms of this cross, left there after the departure of the regiment and
undisturbed by any sacrilegious hand.
We crossed the Paris road, with its double row of trees, which, in the
night, appeared gigantic, and, after answering the challenge of the
Territorial guarding the approach to C., we entered the village.
It appeared to be completely empty, and yet there were two battalions
of the ---- Territorials quartered there. The moon seemed to be
amusing itself by casting the shadows of the houses on one side of the
street upon the walls of the other side in fantastic shapes.
"Dismount."
We had reached the spot where we were to leave our horses. The men
quickly unbuckled the blankets which were to help them to endure the
weary hours of the following night. They slung them over their
shoulders, and we set off towards the towing-path of the canal. We
went very slowly, as we had at least seven or eight kilometres before
us, and a walk of eight kilometres for troopers laden and dressed as
we were is no light matter.
We found the towing-path. Walking at that hour of the night is
certainly not very alluring. However, the view was not lacking in
grandeur. On either side of the canal the dark silhouettes of tall
trees stood out against the sky. Their shadows were reflected in the
water, which gleamed with a metallic lustre in the moonshine. How calm
and silent it was! Who would have thought we were at war? Not a
cannon-shot, not a rifle-shot, disturbed the peace of the night. Yet,
as a rule, there were no long intervals between the reports which
reminded us of the serious work on hand.
That day it seemed as though some agreement had been come to by both
sides to stop killing or trying to kill. However touching such an
agreement might be, it would also be somewhat disturbing, for one must
always beware of an enemy who resorts so freely to tricks and traps of
every kind. It was as well not to celebrate Christmas too obtrusively.
Besides, I did not think we were the only ones keeping vigil at that
hour.
From time to time we passed small groups of infantry, haggard, dusty,
and heavily laden, marching in ranks with their arms slung, by threes
or fours, without speaking, striding slowly, as though they were
trying to measure the length of the road. Some of them were carrying
curious objects fastened to sticks: pots or big cans, perhaps baskets.
Where they were going or what they were doing we did not ask. Every
man has his own job; if those fellows were going that way they had
their orders, and nobody troubled himself about their object. All was
well. The clattering of the Chasseurs on the uneven road lent a little
life to the picture. Perhaps they were talking together; but, if so,
it was in an undertone, a whisper almost.
And suddenly the enemy let us know that he was also keeping watch. Far
ahead of us, near C., a rocket went up into the clear sky and then
fell slowly, very slowly, in the form of an intensely brilliant ball,
lighting up all the surrounding country wonderfully. We knew them
well, those formidable German rockets, which seemed as though they
would never go out and shed a pallid and yet blinding light. We knew
that as soon as they were lighted everybody who happened to be within
range of the enemy's rifle fire had at once to lie flat on the ground,
and not move or raise his head so long as the light was burning.
Otherwise shots would be fired from all directions, mowing down the
vegetation and cutting up the earth all around him. This time we were
well outside the range, and we watched the dazzling star in front of
us without halting.
"The shepherds' star," said G. solemnly.
Strange shepherds indeed must they have been who carried carbines as
their crooks, and were provided with cartridges enough to send a
hundred and twenty of their fellow-creatures into the next world. The
star seemed to hang for a moment some yards from the ground; then
slowly, slowly, as though exhausted by its effort, it fell to the
ground and went out. The night seemed less clear and less diaphanous.
We had now reached the glass-works and it was there that we were to
leave our cooks. No one would have supposed that this large factory
lay idle, and that the hundreds of workmen employed there were
dispersed. On the contrary, it seemed to have retained all the
animation of the prosperous enterprise it had been before the war.
It was a large square of massive buildings, almost a miniature town,
planted on the side of the canal, like an outlying bastion of the
suburbs of R. The low white walls, crowned with tiles, had the stunted
appearance of military works. But a nearer view gave rather the
illusion of the life in a busy factory at night-time. The gateway
opened on a courtyard, with furnace fires shining here and there.
Shadowy forms passed backwards and forwards, enlivening the dim scene
with the bustle of a hive. Men came out by fives or sixes, laden with
different kinds of burdens, and disappeared into the darkness, making
for mysterious goals. In front of the open gate other figures were
unloading heavy cases from vans. These quondam glass-works were now a
depôt for the Army Supply service, and a huge kitchen, which
administered and fed the whole sector of trenches, of which ours
formed a part.
The Germans knew this. So every day and many times a day their guns
fired a few salvoes of shells on the huge quadrilateral. But our good
troopers were none the worse. Instead of working in the large
buildings, part of which had already been destroyed by shells, they
utilised the vast basements of the factory. There were the stores, and
there they had their kitchens, where they worked day and night to
supply their comrades in the trenches with the hot abundant food which
twice a day made them forget for a few minutes the hardships of the
cold, the rain, and the mud.
Our column halted under the bleak wall. At the wide gateway a sentinel
was on duty, standing motionless, muffled in a heavy grey cloak; and
through it our cooks passed, disappearing into the darkness, under the
guidance of the _liaison_ orderly of the preceding detachment. Whilst
waiting for his return from the journey through the labyrinth our
Chasseurs had a short rest before beginning the most difficult part of
their journey--the last stage on the way to the trenches we were to
occupy.
I took the opportunity of talking with an infantry captain who was
there, walking up and down with his face buried in a thick muffler and
his hands in the pockets of his heavy overcoat, on the sleeves of
which three small pieces of gold lace were just discernible.
"_Eh bien, mon Capitaine!_ Anything new?"
"Oh! nothing, except my opinion that you will not be disturbed either
to-day or to-morrow. Since yesterday evening they have not fired one
shot, and they were singing hymns till midnight. You may be pretty
sure they'll redouble their _Oremus_ this Christmas night, so you may
sleep soundly."
"Unless all this is merely a feint, and to-night ..."
"Yes, you're right, unless to-night ..."