With those who wait

With Those

Who Wait

ranees wuson nuar

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT
FRANCES WILSON HUAED

UNIV. OP CALIF. LIBRARY. I.OS

WITH THOSE
WHO WAIT

BY

FRANCES WILSON HUARD

AUTHOR OF "MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR,'
"MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY," ETC.

WITH DRAWINGS BY CHARLES HUARD

NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1918,
By George H. Doran Company

Printed in the United States of America

A MES AMIES FRANCAI8ES,
HEROINES TOUTES

2130322

ILLUSTRATIONS

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT Frontispiece

PAGE

VIEW OF CHATEAU-THIERRY 22

MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH His GAS MASK. . 54

A VILLAGE ON THE FRONT 78

DOOR OF MADAME HUARD'S HOME — PARIS 102

VIEW OF ST. GERVAIS FROM MADAME HUARD'S
PARIS HOME 118

THE COURTYARD LEADING TO MADAME HUARD'S
CELLAR 144

A COURTYARD IN MONTMARTRE 160

MONSIEUR AMEDE 188

FLOCKING TO READ THE COMING COMMUNIQUE IN
A LITTLE FRENCH CITY 214

MAXENCE.. . 230

[vii]

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ONCE upon a time there wasn't any war.
In those days it was my custom to drive over
to Chateau-Thierry every Friday afternoon.
The horses, needing no guidance, would al-
ways pull up at the same spot in front of the
station from which point of vantage, between
a lilac bush and the switch house, I would
watch for the approaching express that was to
bring down our week-end guests.

A halt at the bridge head would permit our
friends to obtain a bird's-eye view of the city,
while I purchased a measure of fresh-caught,
shiny-scaled river fish, only to be had of the
old boatman after the arrival of the Paris
train. Invariably there were packages to be
called for at Ber jot's grocery store, or Dudru-
met's dry goods counter, and then H. having
discovered the exact corner from which Corot

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painted his delightful panorama of the city, a
pilgrimage to the spot almost always ensued.

A glance in passing at Jean de la Fontaine's
house, a final stop at "The Elephant" on the
quay to get the evening papers, and then pass-
ing through Essommes with its delightful old
church, Bonneil and Romery, our joyful party
would reach Villiers just in time for dinner.

A certain mystery shrouded the locality
where our home was situated. Normandy,
Brittany, the Chateaux of Touraine, the cli-
mate of the Riviera, have, at various seasons
been more attractive, not only to foreigners,
but to the Parisians themselves, so aside from
the art lovers who made special trips to
Rheims, there was comparatively little pleas-
ure travelling in our immediate neighbour-
hood, and yet what particular portion of
France is more historically renowned? Is it
not on those same fertile fields so newly con-
secrated with our blood that every struggle
for world supremacy has been fought?

It would be difficult to explain just why

this neglect of the lovely East; neglect which

afforded us the privilege of guiding our

friends, not only along celebrated highways,

[12]

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but through leafy by-paths that breathed the
very poetry of the XVIIth. century, and
stretched, practically untrodden, through
Lucy-le-Bocage, Montreuil-aux-Lions, down
to the Marne and La Ferte-sous-Jouarre.

It was wonderful rolling country that rip-
pled back from the river; abounding not only
in vegetation, but in silvery green harmonies
so beloved of the Barbizon master, and sym-
pathetic even by the names of the tiny hamlets
which dotted its vine-covered hills.

Our nearest dealer in agricultural machines
lived in a place called Gaudelu. We called
him "MacCormick" because of his absolute
and loquacious partiality for those American
machines, and to reach his establishment we
used to pass through delightful places called
le (Grand Cormont, Neuilly-la-Poterie, Vil-
lers-le-Vaste.

As I write these lines (July, 1918) the sta-
tion at Chateau-Thierry is all of that city that
remains in our hands. The bridge head has be-
come the most disputed spot on the map of
Europe; "The Elephant" a heap of waste in
No Man's Land, while doubtless from the very
place where Corot painted his masterpiece, a
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German machine gun dominating the city is
belching forth its ghastly rain of steel.

That very country whose obscurity was our
pride is an open book for thousands of eager
allies and enemies, while on the lips of every
wife and mother, from Maine to California,
Belleau Woods have become words full of
fearful portent. I often wonder then, if the
brave Americans who are actually disputing
inch by inch my home and its surroundings
have ever had time to think that a little vil-
lage known as "Ecoute s'il pleut," might find
its English equivalent in "Hark -how-it-rains I"

Two touching accounts of the second de-
scent upon our country have come to my
hands. A little orphan peasant lad, under
army age, who fled with our caravan four
years since, now pointer in the French artil-
lery— writes as follows from "Somewhere in
France"— June 6, 1918:

DEAR MADAME:

Just a line to tell you I am alive and well;
unfortunately I cannot say as much for my
grandparents, for you doubtless know what
has again befallen our country. All the in-
habitants have been evacuated.
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I am absolutely without news of my grand-
parents. I learned to-day through a word
from my brother Alfred that they had been
obliged to leave home and had fled in an un-
known direction. In spite of the rumour of
a new invasion they did not intend to leave
Villiers.

My sister left the first, with some of the
young girls of the village. After twenty-four
hours in Paris they were evacuated to a vil-
lage in the Yonne.

My brother was obliged to go the next day,
and at the present time is at Rozoy-en-Brie.
I believe we made a halt there in 1914 when
we fled as refugees. After three days at
Rozoy, Alfred could stand it no longer, and
with three companions they started home on
bicycles, in order to see what had happened.
They reached Villiers to find every house
empty, and were almost instantly expulsed by
shells. So now we are all scattered to the four
winds of heaven. I am so sad when I think
of my poor grand-parents, obliged to leave
home and to roll along the high-roads at their
age. What misery!

I am afraid our village is going to suffer
much more than it did in 1914. That horde
of scoundrels will spare nothing! And when
will it all be over?

I hope that my letter will find you well and
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happy, and I beg you to believe me gratefully
and respectfully yours,

LEON CHATELAIN
Marechal des Logis
206e Artillerie— 28e Batterie
Secteur 122.

"With the Mayor, and thanks to a neigh-
bour's car, I was able to get away," writes
Monsieur Anian Jean, the well-known painter,
who had a home in Chateau-Thierry. "The
situation was becoming unbearable and we
three were the last to leave our unfortunate
city. Behind us an army engineer blew up the
post and telegraph office, the military build-
ings, the station, the store house, and finally
the bridge. Our eyes were beginning to smart
terribly, which announced the presence of mus-
tard gas, and told us we had left none too
soon.

"I will never forget the sight and the com-
motion of the road leading from Chateau-
Thierry to Montmirail. Interminable lines of
army transports on one side counterbalanced
by the same number of fleeing civilians going
in the opposite direction. Now and then a
farm cart would pull aside to let a heavy mili-

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tary truck get by, and one can hardly imagine
the state of a highway that is encumbered by
a double current of refugees and soldiers has-
tening towards the front. The painful note
was made by the unfortunate civilians who
had put on their Sunday clothes, the only way
they had of saving them. As to the pic-
turesque, it was added by the multitude of
little donkeys trotting beneath the weight of
the machine guns, and by the equipment of
the Italian troops. There were bright splashes
of colour here and there, together with a heroic
and lamentable animation. It impressed me
most violently. It was wonderfully beautiful
and pathetically horrible.

"On one side old people, women and chil-
dren formed a long straggling cortege; while
on the other — brilliant youth constituted a
homogeneous and solid mass, marching to bat-
tle with calm resolution.

"The populations of the East are astonish-
ingly courageous and resigned. That of Cha-
teau-Thierry watched the evacuation of the
Government Offices, the banks, the prefecture
and the post office without the slightest alarm.
The retreat was well advanced ere they
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dreamed of it. When finally the people real-
ised that the enemy was at their very gates,
they moved out swiftly without any commo-
tion."

The German onslaught at the Marne in 1914
had been terrible but brief. The life of our
entire region was practically suspended while
the Hun wreaked his vengeance, not only on
our armies, but our innocent civilians and their
possessions. Shot and shell, organised looting
and cruelty, were employed to cow the intrepid
spirit of the French, but without success.
When, finally their retreat came, hands were
quick to repair material damage, refugees
swiftly returned, and even the September rains
joined in the effort to purify the fields which
had been so ruthlessly polluted.

With the Hun on the Aisne, and a victory to
our credit, there wasn't even a pause for breath.
A new life seemed to surge forth, and all bent
their energies towards effacing every trace of
what had seemed like a hideous nightmare.
Even the Eastern Railway, which had been
closed on account of the destruction of some
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seven or eight bridges over the Marne, broke
all records by repairing or replacing them
in eleven days' time. And while this had no
direct bearing upon our situation, the moral
effect of even hearing the train-loads of men
and munitions passing through our region, was
certainly surprising.

Little by little things began to assume their
normal aspect. Not that they ever entirely re-
gained it, for there was always the dull rum-
bling of the cannon to remind us of bygone
terrors, while the establishment of several
emergency hospitals in the vicinity lent an ani-
mation to the highroads, formerly dotted with
private cars, but now given over entirely to
ambulances and supply trucks.

As to the uniforms, they quickly became
such accustomed sights that a youthful civilian
would have been the novelty.

Buoyed up by the success of our armies,
every one expected an early peace, and even
the busiest of us began making projects for
the fair future. In the odd moments of relief
from my somewhat onerous hospital duties, my
only pleasure and distraction was to build cas-
tles in the air, and in the eternal Winter twi-
[19]

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lights I laid many a plan for a little boudoir
next my bedroom, which I had long desired to
see realised.

When news of H.'s safety reached me, my
imagination knew no limits.

The convalescent patients from all branches
of trade, who at different times had filled the
rooms of the chateau, converted into wards,
had been very deft at repairing everything in
the way of furniture that the Germans had de-
faced or neglected to appropriate. There
were many skilful carpenters and cabinet
makers among them, and I saw visions of em-
ploying them at their own trade, producing
both occupation, which they craved, and funds
which they needed, but were too proud to ac-
cept as gifts, and what a surprise that room
would be for H. !

I even pushed my collector's mania so far
as to pay a visit to an old bourgeois who lived
in a little city called La Ferte-Milon, quite a
bit north of us. The walls of his salon were
ornamented with some charming eighteenth
century paper representing the ports of
France, and in excellent condition. I had long
coveted it for my boudoir, and in days before
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the war had often dickered with him as to
price. I now feared lest it should have been
destroyed or disfigured, and regretted having
wished to drive too keen a bargain, but on find-
ing it intact, I am ashamed to say the collec-
tor's instinct got the better of the woman, and
I used every conceivable argument to persuade
him to come to my price. The old fellow was as
obdurate as ever.

"But," I suggested, "don't you realise what
a risk you are taking? Suppose the Germans
were to get back here again before you sell it?
You're much nearer the front than we! You
will not only lose your money, but the world
will be minus one more good thing, and we've
lost too many of those already."

The withering glance with which this remark
was received was as good as any discourse on
patriotism.

"The Germans back here? Never! Why at
the rate we're going now it will be all over be-
fore Spring and you'll see what a price my
paper will fetch just as soon as peace comes!"

Peace! Peace! the word was on every lip,
the thought in every heart, and yet every in-
telligence, every energy was bent on the prose-
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cution of the most hateful warfare ever known.
In all the universe it seemed to me that the wild
animals were the only creatures really exempt
from preoccupation about the fray. It might
be war for man and the friends of man, but
for them had come an unexpected reprieve, and
even the more wary soon felt their exemption
from pursuit. Man was so busy fighting his
own kind that a wonderful armistice had uncon-
sciously arisen between him and these crea-
tures, and so birds and beasts, no longer
frightened by his proximity, were indulging in
a perfect revel of freedom.

During the first weeks of the conflict, the
"cotton-tails," always so numerous on our
estate, were simply terrified by the booming of
the guns. If even the distant bombardment as-
sumed any importance, they would disappear
below ground completely, for days at a time.
My old foxhound was quite disconcerted. But
like all the rest of us they soon became accus-
tomed to it, and presently displayed a self as-
surance and a familiarity undreamed of, save
perhaps in the Garden of Eden.

It became a common sight to see a brood of
partridges or pheasants strutting along the
[22]

-f-

VIEW OF CHATEAU-THIERRY

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roadside like any barnyard hen and chickens,
and one recalled with amazement the times
when stretching themselves on their claws they
would timidly and fearfully crane their necks
above the grass at the sound of an approaching
step.

At present they are not at all sure that man
was their worst enemy. The Government hav-
ing decreed that there shall be no game shoot-
ing in the army zone, weazels, pole cats and
even fox have become very numerous, and cov-
ey of quail that once numbered ten and fif-
teen, have singularly diminished by this incur-
sion of wild animals, not to mention the hawks,
the buzzards and the squirrels.

One Autumn morning I appeared at our
gateway just in time to see a neighbour's wife
homeward bound, the corpses of four white
hens that Mctitre Renard had borrowed from
their coop, dangling from her arm. Her
husband heard her coming, and on learning the
motive of her wails, the imprecations brought
down on the head of that fox were pic-
turesquely profane to say the least. Presently
the scene grew in violence, and then finally ter-
minated with the assertion that the whole trag-
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edy was the result of the Kaiser's having
thrown open the German prisons and turned
loose his vampires on France.

Be that as it may, there was certainly no
more enchanting way of obtaining mental and
physical relaxation than in wandering through
those wonderful woodlands that abound in our
vicinity, and which breathed so many inspira-
tions to the Master of Fable, who at one time
was their keeper. How I wish that good La
Fontaine might have seen his dumb friends
under present circumstances. What fantasies
would he not have woven about them.

Season and the temperature were of little
importance. There was never a promenade
without an incident — never an incident, no
matter how insignificant, that did not remind
me of the peculiar phase under which every
living creature was existing.

Once in the very early Spring, taking my
faithful Boston bull, we stole away for a con-
stitutional. Suddenly my little companion
darted up close to the hedgerow, and on hurry-
ing to the scene to find out the cause of this
departure from her usual dignified demeanour,
I found her standing face to face with a hare !
[24]

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Both animals, while startled, were rooted to
the spot, gazing at each other in sheer fas-
cination of their own fearlessness. It was so
amazingly odd that I laughed aloud. But
even this did not break the spell. It lasted so
long that presently even I became a little puz-
zled. Finally it was the hare who settled the
question by calmly moving away, without the
slightest sign of haste, leaving my bull dog in
the most comical state of concern that I have
ever seen.

It was about this time that Fil-de-Fer,
our donkey, decided to abandon civilised life in
favour of a more roaming career in the woods,
which he doubtless felt was his only true voca-
tion. He had fared ill at the hands of the Ger-
mans, and during the entire Winter our own
boys had used him regularly to haul dead
wood. This kind of kultur he resented dis-
tinctly, and resolved to show his disgust by be-
coming more independent.

First he tried it out for a day or two at a
time. Then he was gone a week, and finally he
Disappeared altogether.

Being of sociable disposition he joined a lit-
Me herd of deer which was the pride and joy
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of our woods, and one afternoon I came upon
this motley company down by a little lick we
had arranged on the brink of a tiny river that
crosses our estate.

As I approached they all lifted their heads.
A baby fawn, frightened, scurried into the
underbrush. But the others let me come quite
close, and then gently, as though to display
their nimbleness and grace, bounded away mid
the tender green foliage, gold splashed here
and there by the fast sinking sun. Fil-de-Fer
stood a moment undecided. Presently, lifting
his hind legs high into the air he gave vent to
a series of kickings and contortions which
might have been taken for a comical imitation,
while a second later as though realising how
ridiculous he had been, he fell to braying with
despair, and breaking into a gallop fled in the
direction of his new found friends.

Simultaneous with Fil-de-Fer's disappear-
ance came the rumour that the Loup-garou
was abroad and was sowing panic in its wake.
Just what kind of animal the Loup-garou
might be, was somewhat difficult to ascertain.
No one in our vicinity had ever seen him, and
from all I could gather he seemed to be a
"[26]

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strange sort of apocalyptic beast, gifted with
horns, extraordinary force, and the especial
enemy of mankind.

There was something almost uncanny in the
way the peasants would look at one and lower
their voices when speaking of this weird phe-
nomenon, and presently from having suspected
my innocent donkey, I began to wonder if I
were not in the presence of some local popular
superstition.

The rumour was still persistent, when one
evening at dark there was an urgent call from
Headquarters asking that we send down for
four or five patients that were destined for our
hospital. I do not now recall for just what
reason I went alone, save for a twelve-year-old
village lad, but what I do remember was the re-
spectful moral lecture that I received from an
old peasant woman who met our cart on the
high-road just before we turned off into the
Bois du Loup.

Night, black and starless, was upon us be-
fore we had penetrated half a mile into the
woods. My youthful companion began to sing
martial airs, and stimulated his courage by
beating time with his feet on the bottom of the
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cart. A chill Autumn rain commenced to fall,
tinkling against the rare leaves that now re-
mained on the trees, blinding both horse and
driver, and greatly impeding our progress.
Presently I noticed that our lantern had gone
out, and fearing lest we be borne down upon
by some swift moving army truck, I produced
a pocket lamp and descended from my seat.

A handful of damp matches, much time and
good humour were consumed ere I succeeded
in getting a light, and just as I swung the lan-
tern back into place, the air was pierced by a
high-pitched, blood-curdling shriek !

Le Loup . . . /

At the same moment there was a sharp
crackling on the opposite side of the road, and
an instant later a wild boar, followed by her
young, brushed past me and darted into the
obscurity.

My companion was livid. His teeth chat-
tered audibly. He tried to pull himself to-
gether and murmured incoherent syllables.
Personally, I was a bit unnerved, yet somewhat
reassured. If my eyes had not deceived me,
the mystery of the Loup-garou was now
[28]

solved. And yet I felt quite sure that wild
boar were unknown in our region.

At Chateau-Thierry I made enquiries and
from soldiers and foresters learned that here-
tofore inhabitants of the Ardennes forest,
these animals had been driven South when man
had chosen to make the firing line of their
haunts; and that, prolific breeders, they were
now practically a menace to the unarmed ciril-
ian. From these same lovers of nature I gath-
ered that for the first time in their recollection
sea-gulls and curlews had likewise been seen
on the banks of the Marne.

While the country now abounds in new-
comers, many of the old familiar birds and ani-
mals are rapidly disappearing.

Larks are rare visitors these days, and the
thrush which used to hover over our vineyards
in real flocks, have almost entirely vanished.
The swallows, however, are our faithful friends
and have never failed to return to us.

Each succeeding Spring their old haunts are
in a more or less dilapidated condition accord-
ing to the number of successful visits the Ger-
man aviators have chosen to pay us during the
Winter, and I fancy that this upsets them a
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trifle. For hundreds of generations they have
been accustomed to nest in the pinions of cer-
tain roofs, to locate in a determined chimney,
and it is a most amusing sight to see them clus-
ter about a ruined spot and discuss the matter
in strident chirpings.

Last season, after a family consultation,
which lasted well nigh all the morning, and
during which they made repeated visits of in-
spection to a certain favourite drain pipe, I
suddenly saw them all lift wing and sail away
towards the North. My heart sank. Some-
thing near and dear seemed to be slipping from
me, and one has said au revoir so oft in vain.
So they too were going to abandon me !

In one accustomed to daily coping with big
human problems, such emotion may seem triv-
ial, but it was perhaps this constant forced en-
durance that kept one up, made one almost
supersensitively sentimental. Little things
grew to count tremendously.

At lunch time I sauntered forth quite sad at
heart, when an unexpected familiar twittering
greeted my ear, and I turned northward to see
my little friends circling about the stables.
Life closer to the front had evidently not of-
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fered any particular advantages, and in a few
days' time their constant comings and goings
from certain specific points told me that they
had come back to stay.

But if friend swallow may be praised for his
fidelity, unfortunately not so much can be said
for another familiar passerby — the wild duck.
October had always seen them flocking south-
ward, and some one of our household had in-
variably heard their familiar call, as at day-
break they would pass over the chateau on their
way from the swamps of the Somme to the
Marais de St. Gond. The moment was almost
a solemn one. It seemed to mark an epoch in
the tide of our year. Claude, Benoit, George
and a decrepit gardener would abandon all
work and prepare boats, guns and covers on
the Marne.

Oh, the wonderful still hours just before
dawn ! Ah, that indescribable, intense, yet har-
monious silence that preceded the arrival of
our prey!

Alas, all is but memory now. Claude has
fallen before Verdun, Benoit was killed on tKe
Oise, and George has long since been reported
missing.

[31]

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Alone, unarmed, the old gardener and I
again awaited the cry of our feathered friends,
but our waiting, like that of so many others,
was in vain. The wild ducks are a thing of
the past. Where have they gone? No one
knows, no one has ever seen them. And in the
tense hush of the Autumn nights, above the dis-
tant rumble of the cannon rose only the plain-
tive cry of stray dogs baying at the moon.

Dogs, mon Dieu, I wonder how many of
those poor, forgotten, abandoned creatures
having strayed into our barnyard were suc-
cessively washed, combed, fed, cared for and
adopted.

Some of them, haunted by the spirit of un-
rest, remained with us but a moment; others
tried us for a day, a week, and still others, ap-
preciative of our pains, refused to leave at all.

Oh, the heart rending, lonesome, appealing
look in the eyes of a poor brute that has lost
home and master!

It is thus that I came into possession of an
ill tempered French poodle called Crapouil-
lotj which the patients in our hospital insisted
on clipping like a lion with an anklet, a curl
over his nose and a puff at the end of his tail.
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A most detestable, unfortunate beast, always
to be found where not needed, a ribbon in his
hair, and despicably bad humoured.

He was succeeded by a Belgian sheep dog,
baptised Namur, who in time gave place to
one of the most hopelessly ugly mongrels I
have ever seen. But the new comer was so
full of life and good will, had such a comical
way of smiling and showing his gleaming white
teeth, that in memory of the joy caused by the
Charlie Chaplin films, he was unanimously
dubbed Chariot.

The mere sound of his name would plunge
him into ecstasies of joy, accompanied by the
wildest yapping and strange capers, which in-
variably terminated by a double somersault in
the mud so anxious was he to convince us of his
gratitude. Imagine then what might be ob-
tained by a caress, or a bowl of hot soup.

Last in line, but by no means least, was a
splendid English pointer, a superb, finely bred
animal, who day in, day out would lie by the
open fire, lost in a profound revery that ter-
minated in a kind of sob. Poor, melancholy
Mireiile, what master was she mourning? For
what home did she thus pine? How I re-
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spected and appreciated her sadness. How in-
tensely human she became.

Finally when I could resist no longer I would
take her long delicate head into my hands and
gently stroke it, seeking to impart my sympa-
thy. "I know that you never can be mine," I
would murmur, "that you will ever and eter-
nally belong to him to whom you gave yourself
once and entirely. But these are sad anxious
days for us all; we must bear together. And
so as my own dogs have often been my only
consolation in like times of misery and despair,
oh, how I would love to comfort you — beauti-
ful, faithful, disconsolate Mireille!"

II

CITIES, like people, seem to have souls, deep
hidden and rarely ever entirely revealed.
How well must one come to know them, stone
by stone, highways, homes and habitants, ere
they will disclose their secret. I have rejoiced
too often in the splendid serenity of St. Jean
des Vignes, felt too deeply the charm of those
ancient streets, hoped and suffered too in-
tensely within its confines that Soissons should
not mean more to me than to the average zeal-
ous newspaper correspondent, come there but
to make note of its wounds, to describe its
ruins.

Fair Soissons, what is now your fate? In
what state shall we find you? What ultimate
destiny is reserved for your cathedral, your
stately mansions, your magnificent gardens?
What has become of those fifteen or sixteen
hundred brave souls who loved you so well that
they refused to leave you? Qui scut?

One arrived at Soissons in war time by long
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arenues, shaded on either side by a double row
of stately elms, whose centenary branches
stretching upward formed an archway over-
liead. Then came the last outpost of Army
Police, a sentinel stopped you, minutely ex-
amined your passports, verified their vises, and
finally, all formalities terminated, one entered
what might have been the City of Death.

Moss and weeds had sprung up between the
cobble stone pavings; as far as eye could see
not a human soul was astir, not a familiar noise
was to be heard, not a breath of smoke stole
heavenwards from those hundreds of idle chim-
neys: and yet life, tenacious ardent life was
wonderfully evident here and there. A curtain
lifted as one passed, a cat on the wall, a low
distant whistle, clothes drying at a window, a
flowering plant on a balcony, sometimes a door
ajar, through which one guessed a store in
whose dimly lighted depths shadows seemed
to be moving about; all these bore witness to
an eager, undaunted existence, hidden for the
time being perhaps, but intense and victorious,
ready to spring forward and struggle anew in
admirable battles of energy and conscience.

The Hotel du Soleil d'Or offered a most
[36]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

hospitable welcome. It was the only one open
or rather, if one would be exact, the only
one still extant. To be sure there were no
panes in the windows, and ungainly holes were
visible in almost all the ceilings, but the cur-
tains were spotlessly white and the bed linen
smelled sweet from having been dried in the
open air.

A most appreciable surprise was the excel-
lent cuisine, and as ornament to the dining-
room table, between a pair of tall preserre
dishes, and on either side of the central bou-
quet, stood an unexploded German shell. O«e
of them had fallen on to the proprietor's bed,
the second landing in the pantry, while twenty
or thirty others had worked more efficiently, as
could be attested by the ruins of the carriage
house, stables, and what had once been a glass
covered Winter garden.

On a door leading out of the office, and
curiously enough left intact, one might read,
Salon de conversation. If you were to at-
tempt to cross the threshold, however, your
eye would be instantly greeted by a most
abominable heap of plaster and wreckage, and
[37]

the jovial proprietor seeing your embarrass-
ment, would explain :

"My wife and the servants are all for clean-
ing up, but to my mind it's better to leave
things just as they are. Besides if we put all
to rights now, when our patrons return they
will never credit half we tell them. Seeing is
believing! At any rate, it's an out of the way
place, and isn't bothering people for the time
being."

And truly enough this mania for repairing
and reconstructing, this instinct of the active
ant that immediately commences to rebuild its
hill, obliterated by some careless foot, has be-
come as characteristic of the French.

The Sisters of St. Thomas de Villeneuve,
who were in charge of an immense hospital, had
two old masons who might be seen at all times,
trowel in hand, patching up the slightest dam-
age to their buildings; the local manager of a
Dufayel store had become almost a fanatic on
the subject. His stock in trade consisted of
furniture, china and crockery of all kinds,
housed beneath a glass roof, which seemed to
attract the Bodies' special attention, for dur-
ing the four years of war just past, I believe
[38]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

that scarcely a week elapsed during which he
was not directly or indirectly the victim of
their fire.

The effects were most disastrous, but aided
by his wife and an elderly man who had re-
mained in their employ, he would patiently
recommence scrubbing, sweeping and cleaning,
carefully reinstating each object or fragment
thereof, in or as near as possible to its accus-
tomed place.

It was nothing less than miraculous to sur-
vey those long lines of wardrobes that seemed
to hold together by the grace of the Almighty
alone; gaze upon whole rows of tables no one
of which had the requisite number of legs ; be-
hold mere skeletons of chairs, whose seats or
backs were missing; sofas where gaping1
wounds displayed the springs; huge piles of
plates each one more nicked or cracked than
its predecessor ; series of flower pots which fell
to pieces in one's hands if one were indiscreet
enough to touch them.

"I don't see the point in straightening things
out so often" — was my casual comment.

"Why, Madame, what on earth would we do
about the inventory when peace comes, if we
[39]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

were not to put a little order into our stock?"
was the immediate reply.
I was sorry I had spoken.

Among the other numerous places of inter-
est was the store of a dealer in haberdashery
and draperies. An honest, well equipped old
fashioned French concern, whose long oak
counters were well polished from constant use.
The shelves were piled high with piece after
piece of wonderful material, but not a single
one of them had been exempt from the mur-
derous rain of steel; they were pierced, and
pierced, and pierced again.

"So pierced that there is not a length suf-
ficient to make even a cap!" explained
Madame L., "but you just can't live in disor-
der all the time, and customers wouldn't like
to see an empty store. Everything we have to
sell is in the cellar!"

And true enough this subterranean existence
had long ceased to be a novelty, and had be-
come almost a habit.

From the basement windows of every in-
habited dwelling protruded a stove pipe, and
tke lower regions had gradually come to be
[40]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

furnished almost as comfortably as the upper
rooms in normal days. Little by little the
kitchen chair and the candle had given way to a
sofa and a hanging lamp; beds were set up
and rugs put in convenient places.

"We live so close to the trenches that by
comparison it seems like a real paradise to us,"
gently explained Madame Daumont, the pork
butcher. Her charcuterie renowned far and
wide for its hot meat pates, ready just at noon,
had been under constant fire ever since the in-
vasion, but had never yet failed to produce its
customary ovenful at the appointed hour.

"At the time of the battle of Crouy," she
confessed, "I was just on the point of shutting
up shop and leaving. I'm afraid I was a bit
hasty, but three shells had hit the house in less
than two hours, and my old mother was" getting
nervous. The dough for my pates was all
ready, but I hesitated. Noon came, and with
it my clientele of Officers.

' lEh bien, nos pates? What does this mean!'

' 'No, gentlemen, I'm sorry, but I cannot
make up my mind to bear it another day. I'm
leaving in a few moments.'

'What? Leaving? And we who are going
[41]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

out to meet death have got to face it on empty
stomachs ?'

"They were right. In a second I thought
of my own husband out there in Lorraine. So
I said to them 'Come back at four o'clock and
they'll be ready.' "

And then gently, and as though to excuse
herself, she added —

"There are moments though when fear
makes you lose your head, but there doesn't
seem to be anything you can't get used to."

"You soon get used to it" was the identical
expression of a young farmer's aid who sold
fruit, vegetables and flowers beneath an arch-
way that had once been the entrance to the
Hotel de la Clef. She had attracted my at-
tention almost immediately, the brilliant
colours of her display, and her pink and white
complexion, standing out so fresh and clear
against the background of powder-stained
stones and chalky ruin heaps.

The next day, after an extra heavy nocturnal

bombardment, we went out in 'search of a

melon. A shell had shattered her impromptu

showcase, dislocated a wall on one side of the

[42]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

archway, which menaced immediate collapse.
In fact, the place had become untenable.

"Oh, it's such a nuisance to have to look for
another sure spot," was the only lament. "Just
see, there's a whole basket of artichokes gone
to waste — and my roses — what a pity!"

An explosion had gutted the adjacent build-
ing leaving an immense breach opening on to
the street from what had once been an office or
perhaps a store-room.

"Just wait a moment," she pleaded, "until
I get set up inside there. You can't half see
what I've got out here."

Five minutes later I returned and explained
the object of my quest.

"We've only got a very few, Madame, our
garden is right in their range, and we had a
whole melon patch destroyed by splinters, only
day before yesterday. I had three this morn-
ing, but I sold them all to the gentleman of the
artillery, and I've promised to-morrow's to the
Brigade Officers. I hardly think I shall be
able to dispose of any more before the end of
the week. But why don't you go and see
'Pere Francois'? He might have some."
[43]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"You mean old Pere Frar^ois who keeps the
public gardens?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Oh, I know him very well. I've often ex-
changed seeds and slips with him. Does he
still live where he used to?"

"I believe so."

We were not long seeking him out, and in
response to our knocking his good wife opened
the door.

"Oh, he's out in his garden," was her reply
to our queries. "You can't keep him away
from it. But he's going crazy, I think. He
wants to attend to everything all by himself
now. There isn't a soul left to help him, and
he'll kill himself, or be killed at it as sure as
I'm alive. You'll see, the shells won't miss him.
He's escaped so far but he may not always be
so lucky. He's already had a steel splinter in
his thumb, and one of them tore a hole in his
cap and in his waistcoat. That's close enough,
I should think. But there's no use of my
talking; he just won't listen to me. He's mad
about gardening. That's what he is!"

On the old woman's assurance that we would
find him by pounding hard on the gateway
[44]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

leading to the Avenue de la Gare, we hastened
away, leaving her to babble her imprecations
to a lazy tabby cat who lay sunning itself in a
low window box.

The old fellow being a trifle deaf we were
destined to beat a rather lengthy tattoo on the
high iron gate. But our efforts were crowned
with success, for presently we heard his steps
approaching, his sabots crunching on the
gravel path.

His face lighted up when he saw us.

"Oh, I remember you, of course I do.
You're the lady who used to have the American
sweet peas and the Dorothy Perkins. I know
you ! And the dahlias I gave you ? How did
they turn out ?"

I grew red and sought to change the con-
versation. Perhaps he saw and understood.

"Come and see mine anyway!"

That sight alone would have made the trip
worth while.

"I cut the grass this very morning so as
they'd show off better! They're so splendid
this year that I've put some in the garden at
the Hotel de Ville."

Further on the Gloire de Dijon, La France
[45]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

and Marechal Niels spread forth all their mag-
nificent odorous glory onto the balmy air of
this Isle de France country, whose skies are of
such exquisite delicate blue, whose very atmos-
phere breathes refinement.

I felt my old passion rising; — that passion
which in times gone by had drawn us from our
sleep at dawn, and scissors and pruning knife
in hand, how many happy hours had H. and I
thus spent ; he at his fruit trees, I at my flower
beds, cutting, trimming, scraping, clipping ; in-
wardly conscious of other duties neglected, but
held as though fascinated by the most alluring
infatuation in the world — the love of nature.
Here now in this delightful garden kept up
by the superhuman efforts of a faithful old
man, the flame kindled anew.

In an instant H. had discovered the espaliers
where Doyonne du Cornice and Passe Cres-
sane were slowly but surely attaining the re-
quired degree of perfection beneath Pere
Francis' attentive care. As I stood open
mouthed in wonder before the largest bush
of fuchsias I had ever yet beheld, an explosion
rent the air, quickly followed by a second, the
latter much closer to us.
[46]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Boche bombs! Come quick," said Pere
Francis without seeming in the least ruf-
fled.

Led by the old man we hastened to a tiny
grotto, in whose depths we could hear a foun-
tain bubbling. Legion must have been the
loving couples that have visited this spot in
times gone by, for their vows of fidelity were
graven in endearing terms on the stony sides
of the retreat. Leon et Marguerite pour
tou jours, Alice et TUeodore, Georges et Ger-
maine were scrawled above innumerable arrow-
pierced hearts.

"All things considered, I'd rather they'd
send us over a shell or two than bomb us from
above!" ejaculated Pere Fra^ois, who spoke
from experience.

"It was one of those hateful things that hit
my Japanese pepper tree on the main lawn,
and killed our only cedar. The handsomest
specimen we had here ! It makes me sick every
time I throw a log of it on to the fire in the
Winter. I can't tell you how queer it makes
me feel. Of course, it's bad enough for them
to kill men who are their enemies, but think of
[47]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

killing trees that it takes hundreds of years to
grow. What good can that do them?"

The Boche deemed at a safe distance, we
visited the vegetable garden where we pur-
chased our melon and were presented with any
number of little packets containing seeds. We
protested at the old man's generosity and
sought to remunerate him.

"Nothing of the kind ; I wouldn't think of ac-
cepting it. It's my pleasure. Why it's been
ages since I had such a talk as this. I'm so
glad you came. So glad for my roses too !" and
he started to cut a splendid bouquet.

"I've been saying to myself every day," he
continued, "Isn't it a pity that nobody should
see them? But now I feel satisfied."

At the gateway we held out our hands which
he took and shook most heartily, renewing his
protestations of delight at our visit, and beg-
ging us to "Come again soon."

"To be happy one must cultivate his
garden," murmured H., quoting Voltaire as we
made off down the road. And within a day or
two we again had an excellent proof of this
axiom when we discovered that Abbe L. still
resided in his little home whose garden ex-
[48]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

tended far into the shadow of St. Jean des
Vignes.

That worthy ecclesiastic gave over every
moment that was not employed in the exercise
of his sacred functions to the joys of archae-
ological research, and was carefully compiling
a history of the churches in the arrondissement
of Soissons and Chateau-Thierry. He had
been our guest at Villiers, and I remember hav-
ing made for him an imprint of two splendid
low-relief tombstones which date back to the
15th century, and were the sole object and or-
nament of historic interest in our little village
chapel.

This history was the joy and sole distraction
of his entire existence, and he never ceased
collecting documents and photographs, books,
plans and maps, all of which though carefully
catalogued, threatened one day to take such
proportions that his modest dwelling would no
longer suffice to hold them.

We found him comfortably installed behind
a much littered kitchen table in a room that
I had heretofore known as his dining room. I
was a bit struck by its disorder, and the good
man was obliged to remove several piles of pa-
[49]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

pers from the chairs before inviting us to be
seated.

"I trust you will forgive this confusion," he
begged, "but you see a shell hit my study yes-
terday noon, and has forced me to take refuge
in this corner of the house which is certainly
far safer."

"I've had an excellent occasion to work," he
continued. "Our duties are very slight these
days, and the extreme quiet in which we live is
most propitious for pursuing the task I have
undertaken."

"But, Monsieur 1'Abbe," we cried. "What
a paradox! And the bombardment?"

"Really, you know, I've hardly suffered
from it — except when that shell struck the
house the other morning. Of course, the whole
edifice shook, and at one time I thought the
roof was coming through upon my head. My
ink bottle was upset and great streams trickled
to the floor. But Divine intervention saved my
precious manuscript which I was in the very
act of copying, and although my notes and
files were a bit disarranged, they were easily
sorted and set to rights. So you see there was
nothing really to deplore and God has gra-
[50]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

ciously seen fit to let me continue my work. It
is such a joy to be able to do so."

Strange placidity! the immediate country-
side for miles around having long since been
delivered up to brutal destruction, wanton
waste, hideous massacre, and a goodly num-
ber of the churches of which the pious man
was taking so much pains to record the his-
tory, were now but anonymous heaps of stone.

All the way home I could not refrain from
philosophising on the happiness of life, per-
fect contentment, and the love of good. My
reflections, while perhaps not particularly deep
nor brilliant, were none the less imbued with
a sense of gratitude to the Almighty, and filled
with pity and respect for poor human nature.

It is certain that for such people, the idea
of escaping the terrors, the dangers and the
sight of most horrible spectacles, had not
weighed an instant in the balance against the
repugnance of altering life-long habits, or
abandoning an assemblage of dearly beloved
landscapes and faces.

Naturally enough, a certain number of com-
mercial minded had remained behind, tempted
by the possibility of abnormal gain through
[ 51]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

catering to the soldier; and to whatever had
been their habitual merchandise, was soon
added a stock of mandolins, accordions, cheap
jewelry, kit bags, fatigue caps and calico hand-
kerchiefs— in fact all that indispensable, gaudy
trumpery that serves to attract a clientele
uniquely composed of warriors.

But, besides these merchants, there were
still to be counted a certain number of well-to-
do citizens, professors, government employes,
priests and magistrates, all simple honest souls
who had stayed because they were unable to
resign themselves to an indefinite residence
away from Soissons, and there was no sacri-
fice to which they were not resolved in advance,
so long as it procured them the joy of remain-
ing.

I accompanied the President of the local
French Red Cross Chapter on a visit to a lady
who was much interested in an ouvroir, and
who lived in a splendid old mansion located
near the ruins of the Palais de Justice.

The little bell tinkled several times, resound-
ing clearly in the deathlike silence, and pres-
ently a young maid-servant made her appear-
[52]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

ance at a small door that opened in the heavy
portico.

"Is Madame at home?"

"Oh, no, Madame! Why didn't Madame
know that both Monsieur and Madame left
for the seashore last evening? Shall I give
Madame their address at Houlgate? They've
been going there for the last twenty years.
They will be back the first of September as
usual."

"How stupid of me," exclaimed my com-
panion. "I might have known though. We
shall discover what we wish to know from
Madame V."

We found the last mentioned lady and her
daughter in a pretty dwelling on the boule-
vard Jeanne d'Arc. After presentations and
greetings :

"You are not leaving town this Summer?"

"Not this season; unfortunately our country
house is at present occupied by the Germans,
and as the mountains are forbidden, and the
sea air excites me so that I become quite ill, I
fear we shall have to remain at home, for the
time being at least. The garden is really de-
[53]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

lightfully cool though — we sit out there and
sew all day."

I asked permission to admire the exquisite
embroidered initials which both mother and
daughter were working.

"I'm so glad you like them. Do you know
we found that monogram on an old 18th
century handkerchief? We merely enlarged
it, and really feel that we have something quite
unusual. But my table cloths are well worth
it, they were the very last that were left at the
Cour Batave. I doubt if any finer quality will
ever be woven."

"Your daughter will have a wonderful
trousseau."

"She will have something durable at least,
Madame, a trousseau that will stand the test
of time and washing," replied the good mother
smiling blandly, touched by my appreciation.

"I still have sheets which came down to me
from my great grand-mother, and I hope that
my own great grand-sons will some day eat
from this very cloth."

"But they will never guess under what
strange circumstances it was hemmed and em-
broidered," gently proffered the young girl
[54]

•f

MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH
HIS GAS MASK

raising her big blue eyes and smiling sweetly.

"Bah, what difference does that make so
long as they are happy and can live in peace?
That's the principal thing, the one for which
we're all working, isn't it?"

Such is the spirit that pervades all
France. It is simple, undemonstrative hero-
ism, the ardent desire of a race to last in spite
of all. What more imperturbable confidence
in its immortality could be manifested than by
this mother and daughter calmly discussing
the durability of their family linen, within
actual range of Teuton gunfire that might
annihilate them at any moment?

As we were about to leave Monsieur S. came
up the front steps. He had been out in com-
pany of a friend, making his habitual daily
tour of the city. Like most middle aged, well-
to-do bourgeois his attire was composed of a
pair of light trousers, slightly baggy at the
knee, and a bit flappy about the leg; a black
cutaway jacket and a white pique waistcoat.
This classic costume usually comports a pana-
ma hat and an umbrella. Now Monsieur S.
had the umbrella, but in place of the panama
he had seen fit to substitute a blue steel soldier's
[55]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

helmet, which amazing military headgear made
a strange combination with the remainder of
his civilian apparel. Nevertheless he bowed
to us very skilfully, and at that moment I
caught sight of a leather strap, which slung
over one shoulder, hung down to his waist and
carried his gas mask.

For several days I laboured under the im-
pression that this mode was quite unique, but
was soon proved mistaken, for on going to the
Post Office to get my mail (three carriers
having been killed, there were no longer any
deliveries) I discovered that it was little short
of general. Several ladies had even dared risk
the helmet, and the whole assembly took on a
war like aspect that was quite apropos.

Thus adorned, the octogenarian Abbe de
Villeneuve, his umbrella swung across his back,
his cassock tucked up so as to permit him to
ride a bicycle, was a sight that I shall never
forget.

"Why, Monsieur le Cure, you've quite the
air of a sportsman."

"My child, let me explain. You see I can
no longer trust to my legs, they're too old and
too rheumatic. Well then, when a bombard-
[56]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

ment sets in how on earth could I get home
quickly without my bicycle?"

As visitors to the front, we were guests of
the French Red Cross Society while in Sois-
sons. The local president, whose deeds of
heroism have astonished the world at large, is
an old-time personal friend.

A luncheon in our honour was served on a
spotless cloth, in the only room of that lady's
residence which several hundred days of con-
stant bombardment had still left intact. Yet,
save for the fact that paper had replaced the
window panes, nothing betrayed the proximity
of the German. Through the open, vine grown
casement, I could look out onto a cleanly swept
little court whose centre piece of geraniums
was a perfect riot of colour.

Around the congenial board were gathered
our hostess, the old Cure de St. Vast, the Gen-
eral in command of the Brigade, his Colonel,
three Aides-de-Camp, my husband and myself.

Naturally, the topic of conversation was

the war, but strange as it may seem, it was we,

the civilians, that were telling our friends of

the different activities that were afoot and

[57]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

would eventually bring the United States to
the side of the Allies.

Towards the middle of the repast our
enemies began sending over a few shells and
presently a serious bombardment was under
way. Yet no one stirred.

Dishes were passed and removed, and
though oft times I personally felt that the pat-
tering of shrapnel on the tin roof opposite was
uncomfortably close, I was convinced there was
no theatrical display of bravery, no cheap
heroism in our companions' unconsciousness.
They were interested in what was being said —
voild tout.

Presently, however, our hostess leaned to-
wards me and I fancied she was about to sug-
gest a trip cellarward, instead of which she
whispered that on account of the bombardment
we were likely to go without dessert since it
had to come from the other side of town and
had not yet arrived.

Then a shell burst quite close, and at the
same time the street bell rang. The cordon
was pulled, and through the aperture made by
the backward swing of the great door, I caught
sight of a ruddy cheeked, fair haired maiden
[58]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

in her early teens, bearing a huge bowl of fresh
cream cheese in her outstretched hands.

Steadily she crossed the court, approached
the window where she halted, smiled bashfully,
set down her precious burden, and timidly ad-
dressing our hostess :

"I'm sorry, Madame," said she, "so sorry
if I have made you wait."

And so it goes.

I remember a druggist who on greeting me
exclaimed :

"A pretty life, is it not, for a man who has
liver trouble?" And yet he remained simply
because it was a druggist's duty to do so when
all the others are mobilised.

There was also the printer of a local daily,
who continued to set up his type with one side
of his shop blown out ; who went right on pub-
lishing when the roof caved in, and who actu-
ally never ceased doing so until the whole struc-
ture collapsed, and a falling wall had demol-
ished his only remaining press.

Monsieur le Prefet held counsel and de-
liberated in a room against whose outside wall
one could hear the constant patter of machine
gun bullets raining thick from the opposite
[59]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

bank of the river. Monsieur Muzart, the
Mayor, seemed to be everywhere at once, and
was always the first on the spot when anything
really serious occurred.

Add to these the little dairy maids, who each
morning fearlessly delivered the city's milk; or
the old fellow on whom had devolved the entire
responsibility of the street-cleaning department
and who went about, helmet clad, attending to
his chores, now and then shouting a hearty
"Whoa Bijou" to a faithful quadruped who
patiently dragged his dump cart, and over
whose left ear during the entire Summer, was
tied a bunch of tri-colour field flowers.

I had almost forgotten to mention two ex-
traordinary old women, whom I came upon
seated out in a deserted street, making over a
mattress, while gently discussing their private
affairs. It was the end of a warm July af-
ternoon. A refreshing coolness had begun to
rise from the adjacent river, and in the declin-
ing sunlight I could see great swarms of honey
bees hovering about a climbing rose bush whose
fragrant blossoms hung in huge clusters over
the top of a convent wall near by. I could not
resist the temptation. Pressed by the desire to
[60]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

possess I stepped forward and was about to
reach upward when a masculine voice, whose
owner was hidden somewhere near my elbow
called forth:

"Back, I say! Back! you're in sight!"

I quickly dived into the shadow for cover
just in time to hear the bullets from a German
machine gun whizz past my ear!

"You can trust them to see everything,"
murmured one of the old women, not other-
wise disturbed. "But if you really want some
roses just go around the block and in by the
back gate, Madame."

How in the presence of such calm can we be-
lieve in war?

Ah, France ! elsewhere perhaps there may be
just as brave — but surely none more sweetly!

[61]

Ill

THE little village was just behind the lines.
The long stretch of roadway, that following
the Aisne finally passed through its main street,
had been so thoroughly swept by German fire
that it was as though pockmarked by ruts and
shell holes, always half full of muddy water.

A sign to the left said —

Chemin defile de V . —

There could be no choice; there was but to
follow the direction indicated, branch out onto
a new highway which, over a distance of two
or three miles, wound in and out with many
strategic contortions; a truly military route
whose topography was the most curious thing
imaginable. If by accident there happened to
be a house in its way it didn't take the trouble
to go around, but through the edifice.

One arrived thus in the very midst of the
village, having involuntarily traversed not only
the notary's flower garden, but also his draw-
ing-room, if one were to judge by the quality
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

of the now much faded wall paper, and the
empty spots where portraits used to hang.

The township had served as target to the
German guns for many a long month, and was
seriously amoche, as the saying goes. "Coal
scuttles" by the hundred had ripped the tiles
from almost every roof. Huge breaches gaped
in other buildings, while some of them were
completely levelled to the ground. Yet, in
spite of all, moss, weeds and vines had sprung
up mid the ruins, adding, if possible, the pic-
turesque to this scene of desolation. One ro-
bust morning glory I noted had climbed along
a wall right into the soot of a tumble-down
chimney, and its fairylike blossoms lovingly
entwined the iron bars whereon had hung and
been smoked many a succulent ham.

The territorials (men belonging to the older
army classes ) , had installed their mess kitchens
in every convenient corner: some in the open
court-yards and others beneath rickety stables
and sheds, where the sunlight piercing the
gloom caught the dust in its rays and made it
seem like streams of golden powder, whose
brightness enveloped even the most sordid
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

nooks and spread cheer throughout the dingy
atmosphere.

Fatigue squads moved up and down the
road, seeking or returning with supplies, while
those who were on duty, pick and shovel in
hand, moved off to their work in a casual, lei-
surely manner one would hardly term military.

Of civilians there remained but few. Yet
civilians there were, and of the most deter-
mined nature: "hangers-on" who when met
in this vicinity seemed almost like last speci-
mens of an extinct race, sole survivors of the
world shipwreck.

At the moment of our arrival an old peasant
woman was in the very act of scolding the
soldiers, who to the number of two hundred
and fifty (a whole company) filled to over-
flowing her modest lodgings, where it seemed
to me half as many would have been a tight
squeeze. It was naturally impossible for her
to have an eye on all of them. In her distress
she took me as witness to her trials.

"Just see," she vociferated, "they trot

through my house with their muddy boots,

they burn my wood, they're drying up my

well, and on top of it all they persist in smok-

[64]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

ing in my hay-loft, and the hay for next Win-
ter is in! Shouldn't you think their Officers
would look after them? Why, I have to be a
regular watch-dog, I do!"

"That's all very well, mother," volunteered
a little dried up Corporal. 'TBut how about
their incendiary shells ? You'll get one of them
sooner or later. See if you don't!"

"If it comes, we'll take it; we've seen lots
worse than that! Humph! That's no reason
why you should mess up a house that belongs
to your own people, is it? I'd like to know
what your wife would say if she caught you
smoking a pipe in her hay loft?"

Shouts of laughter from the culprits. Then
a tall, lean fellow, taking her side, called out:

"She's right, boys, she had a hard enough
job getting the hay in all by herself. Put out
your pipes since that seems to get on her
nerves. Now then, mother, there's always a
way of settling a question between honest peo-
ple. We won't smoke in your hay any more;
that is, provided you'll sell us fresh vegetables
for our mess."

The old woman was trapped and had to sur-
render, which she did, but most ungraciously,
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

all the while moaning that she would more than
likely die of starvation the following Winter.
So a moment later the group dispersed on
hearing the news that the "Auto-bazaar" had
arrived.

This auto-bazaar certainly contained more
treasures than were ever dreamed of in ancient
Golconda. There was everything the soldier's
heart might desire, from gun grease and cig-
arette paper down to wine and provisions ; the
whole stored away in a literal honey-comb of
shelves and drawers with which the sides were
lined.

The men all hurried forward. Loaded with
water bottles, their hands full of coppers, they
clustered about it.

From his dominating position at the rear
end of the truck, the store-keeper announced:

"No more pork pie left!"

This statement brought forth several indig-
nant oaths from the disappointed.

"It's always that way, they're probably
paid to play that joke on us. It was the same
story last time! We'll send in a complaint.
See if we don't."

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

But these grumblings were soon outvoiced
by the announcement —

"Plenty of head-cheese and camembert.
Now then, boys, who's ready?"

The effect was instantaneous.

Smiles broke out on every countenance. The
good news was quickly spread abroad, and
presently the sound of plates and dishes, clink-
ing cups, and joyful laughter recalled a picnic
which we had organised in the vicinity, one
warm July afternoon some four years ago.

A military band rehearsing a march in an
open field just behind us added life and gaiety
to the scene, and reminded me of the "Merry-
go-round," the chief attraction of that defunct
country fair, and upon which even the most
dignified of our friends had insisted riding.

After all, could it be possible that this was
the very midst of war? Was it such a terrible
thing, since the air fairly rung with merriment ?

"Make room there," called a gruff voice,
not far distant.

"Stand aside ! Quick now !"

The crowd parted, and a couple of stretcher
bearers with their sad human burden put an
end to my soliloquy. My afternobn was
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

stained with blood. On their litter they bore
a lad whose bloodless lips, fluttering eyelids,
and heaving breast, bespoke unutterable suf-
fering.

One must have actually witnessed such sights
to realise the enormity of human agony, grasp
the torment that a stupid bit of flying steel can
inflict upon a splendid human frame — so well,
so happy, so full of hope but a second since.
Oh, the pity of it all!

"Who is it?" the men whisper.

"Belongs to the 170th. They replaced us.
He was caught in the Boy an, des Anglais."

"That's a wicked spot, that is!"

"Is he one of ours?" questioned a man from
an upper window, stopping an instant in the
act of polishing his gun.

"No," answers some one.

The enquirer recommenced his work, and
with it the refrain of his song, just where he
had left off.

"Sur les bords de la Riviera" sang he
blithely.

Little groups formed along the wayside.
Seated on the straw they finished their after-
noon meal, touching mugs, and joking to-
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

gether. Near them the artillerymen greased
and verified their axles; others brushed and
curried the horses. In one spot a hair dresser
had set up his tonsorial parlor in the open, and
his customers formed in line awaiting their
turns.

Further on the permissionaires blacked their
boots and furbished their raiment, making
ready to leave for home. Swarms of hum-
ming birds and bees clustered about a honey-
suckle vine which clung to the fragments of
a fence near by, and whose fragrance saturated
the air.

The friend, whose regiment number we had
recognised, and stopped to see, came up from
behind and touched me on the shoulder.

"Well, of all things ! What on earth are you
doing here?"

We explained our mission, and then in-
quired about mutual acquaintances.

"Pistre? Why he's with the munitions in
the 12xth. We'll go over and see him. It's
not far. But hold on a minute, isn't Lorrain
a friend of yours?"

We acquiesced.

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Well, his son's my lieutenant. I'll go and
get him. He'd be too sorry to miss you."

He disappeared and a few moments later
returned followed by his superior, a handsome
little nineteen year old officer, who came run-
ning up, his pipe in his mouth, his drinking
cup still in his hand. The lad blushed scar-
let on seeing us, for he doubtless recalled, as
did I, the times not long gone by, when I used
to meet him at a music teacher's, his long curls
hanging over his wide sailor collar.

The idea that this mere infant should have
command over such a man as our friend Nour-
rigat, double his age, and whose life of work
and struggle had been a marvel to us all, some-
what shocked me.

I think the little chap felt it, for he soon left
us, pleading that he must be present at a con-
ference of officers.

"A brave fellow and a real man," com-
mented Nourrigat, as the boy moved away.
"His whole company has absolute confidence
in him. You can't imagine the calm and pres-
tige that kid possesses in the face of danger.
He's the real type of leader, he is! And let
me tell you, he's pretty hard put sometimes."
[70]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

And then in a burst of genuine enthusiasm,
he continued:

"It's wonderful to be under twenty, with
a smart little figure, a winsome smile, and a
gold stripe on your sleeve. The women will-
ingly compare you to the Queen's pages, or
Napoleon's handsome hussars. That may be
all very well in a salon, or in the drawings you
see in 'La Vie Parisienne,' but it takes some-
thing more than that to be a true officer. He's
got to know the ropes at playing miner, bom-
barder, artilleryman, engineer, optician, ac-
countant, caterer, undertaker, hygienist, car-
penter, mason — I can't tell you what all. And
in each particular job he's got to bear the ter-
rible responsibility of human lives; maintain
the discipline and the moral standard, assure
the cohesion of his section. Moreover, he's
called upon to receive orders with calm and
reserve under the most difficult and trying cir-
cumstances, must grasp them with lightning
speed and execute them according to rules
and tactics. A moment of hesitancy or forget-
fulness, and he is lost. The men will no longer
follow him. I tell you it isn't everybody that's
born to be a leader!"

[71]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"But, was he educated for the career?" we
questioned.

"I don't think so. I imagine he's just wait-
ing for the end of the war to continue his
musical studies— rthat is if he comes out alive."

"And you?"

"I? Why I've no particular ambition. I
suppose I could have gone into the Camou-
flage Corps if I'd taken the trouble to ask.
But what's the use of trying to shape your own
destiny?"

"You've gotten used to this life?"

"Not in the least. I abominate and adore
it all in the same breath. Or, to be more ex-
plicit, I admire the men and abhor the mili-
tary pictures, the thrilling and sentimental
ideas of the warrior with which the civilian
head is so generously crammed. I love mili-
tary servitude, and the humble life of the men
in the ranks, but I have a genuine horror of
heroes and their sublimity.

"Just look over there," he went on, waving
his hand towards a long line of seated poilus
who were peacefully enjoying their pipes,
while wistfully watching the smoke curl up-
ward. "Just look at them, aren't they
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

splendid? Why they've got faces like the
'Drinkers' in the Velasquez picture. See that
little fellow rolling his cigarette ? Isn't he the
image of the Bacchus who forms the centre of
the painting? That's Brunot, and he's think-
ing about all the god-mothers whose letters
swell out his pockets. He can't make up his
mind whether he prefers the one who lives in
Marseilles and who sent him candied cherries
and her photograph; or the one from Laval
who keeps him well supplied with devilled ham
which he so relishes. The two men beside him
are Lemire and Lechaptois — both peasants.
When they think, it's only of their farms and
their wives. That other little thin chap is a
Parisian bookkeeper. I'd like to bet that he's
thinking of his wife, and only of her. He's
wondering if she's faithful to him. It's al-
most become an obsession. I've never known
such jealousy, it's fairly killing him.

"That man Ballot, just beyond" — and our
friend motioned up the line — "that man Bal-
lot would give anything to be home behind his
watch-maker's stand. In a moment or so he'll
lean over and begin a conversation with his
neighbour Thevenet. They've only one topic,
[73] '

and it's been the same for two years. It's
angling. They haven't yet exhausted it.

"All of them at bottom are heartily wishing
it were over; they've had enough of it. But
they're good soldiers, just as before the war
they were good artisans. The metier is
sacred — as are the Family and Duty. 'The
Nation, Country, Honour' are big words for
which they have a certain repugnance.

'That's all rigmarole that somebody hands
you when you've won the Wooden Cross and a
little garden growing over your tummy,' is the
way they put it in their argot. 'The Mar-
seillaise, the Chant du Depart are all right for
the youngsters, and the reviews — and let me
tell you, the reviews take a lot of furbishing and
make a lot of dust. That's all they really
amount to.'

"When they sing, it's eternally 'The Moun-
taineers' who, as you know, are always 'there,*
'Sous les Fonts de Paris/ 'Madelon' and other
sentimental compositions, and if by accident,
in your desire to please, you were prone to com-
pare them to the heroes of Homer, it's more
than likely your pains would be rewarded by
the first missile on which they could lay their
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

hands and launch in your direction. They will
not tolerate mockery.

"No," he went on, filling his pipe, and enun-
ciating between each puff. "No, they are
neither supermen nor heroes; no more than
they are drunkards or foul mouthed black-
guards. No, they are better than all that —
they are men, real men, who do everything
they do well; be it repairing a watch, cabinet-
making, adding up long columns of figures or
peeling potatoes, mounting guard, or going
over the top ! They do the big things as though
they were small, the small things as though
they were big!

"Two days ago the captain sent for two
men who had been on patrol duty together.
He had but one decoration to bestow and both
chaps were in hot discussion as to who should
not be cited for bravery.

" 'Now, boys, enough of this,' said the cap-
tain. 'Who was leading, and who first cut the
German barbed wire?'

" 'Dubois.'

'Well then, Dubois, what's all this non-
sense? The cross is yours.'

' 'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic!
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

I'm a foundling, haven't any family. What's
a war cross more or less to me? Now Paul
here keeps a cafe; just think of the pleasure it
will give his clientele to see him come back
decorated.'

"The captain who knows his men, under-
stood Dubois' sincerity, and so Paul got the
medal.

"I believe it was Peguy who said that 'Joan
of Arc has the same superiority over other
saints, as the man who does his military serv-
ice has over those who are exempt.' But 'it's
only the soldiers who really understand that,
and when they say On les aura, it means
something more from their lips, -than when ut-
tered by a lady over her tea-cups, or a reporter
in his newspaper."

During this involuntary monologue we had
strolled along the road which Nourrigat had
originally indicated as the direction of our
friend Pistre. Presently he led us into the
church, a humble little village sanctuary. A
shell had carried away half the apse, and sadly
damaged the altar. The belfry had been de-
molished and the old "bronze bell split into four
pieces had been carefully fitted together by
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

some loving hand, and stood just inside the
doorway.

St. Anthony of Padua had been beheaded,
and of St. Roch there remained but one foot
and half his dog. Yet, a delightful sensation
of peace and piety reigned everywhere. From
the confessional rose the murmur of voices, and
the improvised altar was literally buried be-
neath garlands of roses.

In what had once been a chapel, a soldier
now sat writing. His note books were spread
before him on a table, a telephone was at his
elbow.

Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate in-
dicate that this is the "Bureau de la 226"

An old bent and withered woman, leaning
on a cane, issued from this office-chapel as we
approached.

"Why that's mother Tesson," exclaimed
Nourrigat. "Good evening, mother; how's
your man to-day?"

"Better, sir. Much better, thank you.
They've taken very good care of him at your
hospital."

The old couple had absolutely refused to
evacuate their house. The Sous-Prefet, the
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

Prefet, all the authorities had come and in-
sisted, but to no avail.

"We've lost everything," she would explain.
"Our three cows, our chickens, our pigs. Kill us
if you like, but don't force us to leave home.
We worked too hard to earn it!"

And so they had hung on as an oyster
clings to its rock. One shell had split their
house in twain, another had flattened out the
hayloft. The old woman lay on her bed crip-
pled with rheumatism, her husband a victim
of gall stones. Their situation was truly most
distressing.

But there were the soldiers. Not any special
company or individual — but the soldiers, the
big anonymous mass — who took them in charge
and passed them on from one to another.

"We leave father and mother Tesson to your
care," was all they said to the new comers as
they departed. But that was sufficient, and so
the old couple were nursed, clothed and fed by
those whom one would suppose had other oc-
cupations than looking after the destitute.

Three times the house was brought to
earth. Three times they rebuilt it. The last
time they even put in a stove so that the old
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A VILLAGE ON THE FRONT

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

woman would not have to bend over to reach
her hearth. New beds were made and installed,
the garden dug and planted. The old man was
operated upon at the Division Hospital, and
when he became convalescent they shared the
contents of their home packages with him.

Who were they? This one or that one?
Mother Tesson would most surely have been at
a loss to name the lad who returned from his
furlough bringing two hens and a rooster to
start her barnyard. She vaguely remembered
that he was from the south, on account of his
accent, and that he must have travelled across
all France with his cage of chickens in his
hand.

They entered her home, smoked a pipe by
her fireside, helped her to wash the dishes or
shell peas ; talked a moment with her old man
and left, saying au revoir.

Another would come back greeting her
with a cordial "Bonjour, mere Tesson"

"Good day, my son," she would reply.

And it was this constantly changing new
found son who would chop wood, draw water
from the well, write a letter that would exempt
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

them from taxes, or make a demand for help
from the American Committees.

Thus the aged pair had lived happily, loved
and respected, absolutely without want, and
shielded from all material worry. And when
some poor devil who has spent four sleepless
nights in the trenches, on his return steals an
hour or two from his well earned, much craved
sleep, in order to hoe their potato patch, one
would doubtless be astonished to hear such a
man exclaim by way of excuse for his con-
duct—

"Oh, the poor old souls! Just think of it!
At their age. What a pity."

We found Pistre making a careful toilet
with the aid of a tin pail full of water.

"This is a surprise, on my soul!"

We hastened to give him news of his family
and friends.

Presently he turned towards Nourrigat.

"How about your regiment? Stationary?"

"I fancy so. We were pretty well thinned
out. We're waiting for reinforcements."

"What's become of Chenu, and Morlet and
Panard?"

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Gone! all of them."

"Too bad! They were such good fellows!"

And our friends smiled, occupied but with
the thought of the living present. Paris, their
friends, their families, their professions, all
seemed to be forgotten, or completely over-
shadowed by the habitual daily routine of
marches and halts, duties and drudgery. They
were no longer a great painter and a brilliant
barrister. They were two soldiers; two
atoms of that formidable machine which shall
conquer the German; they were as two monks
in a monastery — absolutely oblivious to every
worldly occupation.

We understand, we feel quite certain that
they will be ours again — but later — when this
shall all be over — if God spares them to return.

At that same instant two boys appeared at
the entrance to the courtyard. They may
have been respectively ten and twelve years
of age. The perspiration trickled from their
faces, and they were bending beneath the
weight of a huge bundle each carried on his
back.

"Hello, there, fellows," called one of them.

A soldier appeared on the threshold.
[81]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Here Lefranc — here are your two boxes
of sardines, and your snuff. There isn't any
more plum jam to be had. Oh, yes, and here's
your writing paper."

The child scribbled something in an old ac-
count book.

"That makes fifty-three sous," he finally an-
nounced.

Other soldiers now came up.

The boys were soon surrounded by a group
of eager gesticulating poilus.

"Oh, shut up, can't you? How can a fellow
think if you all scream at once? Here—
Mimile" — and he turned to his aid. "Don't
you give 'em a thing."

Then the tumult having subsided, he con-
tinued—

"Now then, your names, one at a time —
and don't muddle me when I'm trying to
count!"

Pistre quickly explained that this phenome-
non was Popaul called "Business" — and Mi-
mile, his clerk, both sons of a poor widow who
washed for the soldiers. In spite of his tender
years "Business" had developed a tendency
for finance that bespoke a true captain of in-
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

dustry. He had commenced by selling the
men newspapers, and then having saved
enough to buy first one and then a second
bicycle, the brothers went twice a day to Vil-
lers C otter ets, some fifteen miles distant, in
quest of the orders given them by the soldiers.
At first the dealers tried to have this com-
merce prohibited, but as the lads were scrupu-
lously honest, and their percentage very mod-
est, the Commandant not only tolerated, but
protected them.

Mimile was something of a Jonah, having
twice been caught by bits of shrapnel, which
necessitated his being cared for at the dressing
station.

"All his own fault too," exclaimed Business,
shrugging his shoulders. "He's no good at
diving. Doesn't flatten out quick enough.
Why I used to come right over the road last
Winter when the bombardment was on full
tilt. I was then working for the Legion and
the Chasseurs. No cinch let me tell you! It
used to be — 'Popaul here — Popaul there —
where's my tobacco? How about my eau-de-
Cologne?' There wasn't any choice with those
fellows. It was furnish the goods or bust — and
[83]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

I never lost them a sou's worth of merchandise
either!"

Business knew everything and everybody;
all the tricks of the trade, all the tricks of the
soldiers. He had seen all the Generals, and all
the Armies from the British to the Portuguese,

He had an intimate acquaintance with all
the different branches of warfare, as well as a
keen memory for slang and patois. He nour-
ished but one fond hope in his bosom — a hope
which in moments of expansion he imparts, if
he considers you worthy of his confidence.

"In four years I'll volunteer for the avia-
tion corps."

"In four years? That's a long way off, my
lad. That's going some, I should say," called
a poilu who had overheard the confession.

"Look here, Business, did I hear you say it
won't be over in four years?" asked another.

"Over? Why, it'll have only just begun. It
was the Americans on the motor trucks who
told me so, and I guess they ought to know!"

We watched him distribute his packages,
make change and take down his next day's or-
ders, in a much soiled note-book, and with the
aid of a stubby pencil which he was obliged to
[84]

wet every other letter. When he had finished
a soldier slipped over towards him.

"I say, Paul," he called out to him, "would
you do us the honour of dining with us ? We've
got a package from home. Bring your brother
with you."

Business was touched to the quick.

"I'm your man," he answered. "And with
pleasure. But you must let me furnish the
aperatif."

"Just as you say, old man."

Brusquely turning about, the future trades-
man sought for his clerk who had disappeared.

"Mimile," he shouted, "Mimile, I say, run
and tell mamma to iron our shirts and put some
polish on our shoes. I'll finish to-day's job by
myself."

[85]

IV

NOT satisfied with the havoc wrought in
Soissons and other cities of the front, the
Boche is now trying to encircle the head of
Paris with the martyr's crown. The capital,
lately comprised in the army zone, has been
called upon to pay its blood tax, and like all
the other heroic maimed and wounded, has
none the less retained its good humour, its con-
fidence and its serenity.

"It will take more than that to prevent us
from going to the cafes," smiled an old Pa-
risian, shrugging his shoulders.

And this sentiment was certainly general if
one were to judge by the crowd who literally
invaded the terr asses between five and seven,
and none of whom seemed in the least preoccu-
pied or anxious.

Aperatifs have long since ceased to be any-
thing save pleasant remembrances — yet the
custom itself has remained strong as a tradi-
tion. Absinthes, bitters and their like have not
[86]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

only been abolished, but replaced — and by
what? Mineral waters, fruit syrups and tea!

The waiters have been metamorphosed into
herbalists. Besides, what am I saying, there
are really no more waiters, save perhaps a few
decrepit specimens whom flatfoot has relegated
beyond the name, their waddling so strangely
resembles that of ducks. All the others are
serving — at the front.

From my seat I could see two ferocious
looking, medal bespangled warriors ordering,
the one a linden flower and verbena, the other
camomile with mint leaf. And along with the
cups, saucers and tea-pots, the waiter brought
a miniature carafFe, which in times gone by
contained the brandy that always accompanied
an order of coffee. At present its contents was
extract of orange flower !

There may be certain smart youth who brag
about having obtained kirsch for their tilleul,
or rum in their tea, but such myths are scarcely
credited.

Naturally there is the grumbling element

who claim that absinthe never hurt any one,

and cite as example the painter Harpignies,

who lived to be almost a hundred, having ab-

[87]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

sorbed on the average of two a day until the
very last.

But all have become so accustomed to mak-
ing sacrifices that even this one is passed off
with a smile. What can one more or less mean
now? Besides, the women gave up pastry,
didn't they?

One joked the first time one ordered an in-
fusion or a lemon vichy, one was even a bit dis-
gusted at the taste. And then one got used to
it, the same as one is ready to become accus-
tomed to anything; to trotting about the dark-
ened streets, to going to bed early, to getting
along without sugar, and even to being
bombed.

There is a drawing by Forain which in-
stantly obtained celebrity, and which repre-
sents two French soldiers talking together in
the trenches.

"If only they're able to stick it out!"

"Who?"

"The civilians!"

And now at the end of four long years it
may be truly said of the civilian that he has
"seen it through/' Not so gloriously, perhaps,
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but surely quite as magnificently as his broth-
ers at the front.

In a country like France, where all men
must join the army, the left-behind is not an
indifferent being; he is a father, a brother, a
son, or a friend; he is that feverish creature
who impatiently waits the coming of the post-
man, who lives in a perpetual state of agony,
trembles for his dear ones, and at the same
time continues his business, often doubling,
even trebling his efforts so as to replace the
absent, and still has sufficient sense of humour
to remark:

"In these days when every one is a soldier,
it's a hard job to play the civilian."

Last summer an American friend said to
me:

"Of course, there are some changes, but as
I go about the streets day in and day out, it
hardly seems as though Paris were conscious
of the war. It is quite unbelievable."

But that very same evening when slightly
after eleven, Elizabeth and I sauntered up the
darkened, deserted Faubourg St. Honore —

"Think," she said, catching my arm, "just
think that behind each and every one of those
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

fa9ades there is some one suffering, hoping,
weeping, perhaps in secret ! Think of the
awful moment when all the bells shall sol-
emnly toll midnight, every stroke resounding
like a dirge in the souls of those who are torn
with anxiety, who crave relief, and patiently
implore a sleep that refuses to come."

The soldiers know it, know but too well the
worth of all the energies expended without
thought of glory; appreciate the value of that
stoicism which consists in putting on a bold
front and continuing the every-day life, with-
out betraying a trace of sorrow or emotion.

Many a husband is proud of his wife, many
a brother of his sister, and many a son of his
father and his mother.

Even those, who all things considered would
seem the farthest from the war, suffer untold
tortures. How often last autumn did H. and
I pay visits to old artist friends, men well into
the sixties with no material worries, and no one
at the front ; only to find them alone in one cor-
ner of their huge studios, plunged in profound
reveries, and utterly unconscious of the oncom-
ing night, or the rain that beat against the sky-
lights.

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"I know, I know, it's all very well to shake
yourself and say you must work. It's easy
enough to recall that in 1870 Fantin Latour
shut himself up and painted fruit and flowers,
and by emulation, buoyed up perhaps by this
precedent, you sit down and sketch a still life.
What greater joy than to seek out a harmony,
find the delicate suave tones, and paint it in
an unctuous medium. Yes, it's a joy, but only
when head and heart are both in it! The mu-
seums too, used to be a source of untold pleas-
ure, but even if they were open you wouldn't
go, because the head and the heart are 'Out
there' where that wondrous youth is being1
mowed down — 'Out there' where lies our every
hope, 'Out there' where we would like to be,
all of us ! 'Tis hardly the moment to paint ripe
grapes and ruddy apples, and to feel that
you're only good for that! It's stupid to be
old!"

And many, many a dear old man has passed
away, unnoticed. When one asks the cause of
a death friends shrug their shoulders,

"We scarcely know, some say one thing,
some another — perhaps the war!"

"In proportion you'll find that there are as
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many deaths on the Boulevard as in the
trenches," said our friend, Pierre Stevens, on
returning from Degas' funeral.

I would you might go with me, all you \vho
love France, into one of those Parisian houses,
where after dinner when the cloth has been
removed, the huge road maps are spread out
on the dining-room table, and every one eager-
ly bends over them with bated breath, while the
latest commivnique is read. Fathers, mothers,
grandmothers, and little children, friends and
relatives, solemnly, anxiously await the name
of their secteurs — the secteurs where their
loved ones are engaged. How all the letters
are read, re-read and handed about, each one
seeking a hidden sense, the meaning of an al-
lusion; how dark grows every brow when the
news is not so good — what radiant expanse at
the word victory.

And through fourteen hundred long days
this same scene has been repeated, and no one
has ever quailed.

The theatres have cellars prepared to receive

their audiences in case of bombardment, and

one of our neighbours, Monsieur Walter, has

just written asking permission in my absence

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

to build an armoured dug-out in the hallway
of my home.

"It is precisely the organisation of this dug-
out that prompts my writing to you, chdre
Madame.

"So much bronchitis and so many other ills
have been contracted in cellars, that I hesitate
to take my children down there; but on the
other hand, I dare not leave them upstairs,
where they would be altogether too exposed.
It is thus that I conceived the idea of asking
your permission to transform into a sort of
'Dug-out dormitory' — (if I may be permitted
the expression) the little passage way, which
in your house separates the dining-room from
the green room. To have something absolutely
safe, it would be necessary to give the ceiling
extra support, then set steel plates in the floor
of the little linen room just above and sandbag
all the windows.

"Naturally, I have done nothing pending
your consent. Useless to say, we will put
everything in good order if you return, un-
less you should care to use the dug-out yourself.
My wife and I shall anxiously await your re-

ply."

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

And this in Paris, June 28th, 1918!

I do not know what particular epoch in
world war events served as inspiration to the
author of a certain ditty, now particularly pop-
ular among the military. But decidedly his in-
junction to

"Pack all your troubles in an old kit bag,
And smile, smile, smile,"

has been followed out to the letter, in the case
of the Parisian, who has also added that other
virtue "Patience" to his already long list of
qualities.

With the almost total lack of means of com-
munication, a dinner downtown becomes an
expedition, and a theatre party a dream of the
future.

During the Autumn twilights, on the long
avenues swept by the rain, or at street cor-
ners where the wind seizes it and turns it into
miniature water spouts, one can catch glimpses
of the weary, bedraggled Parisian, struggling
beneath a rebellious umbrella, patiently wait-
ing for a cab. He has made up his mind to
take the first that goes by. There can be no
[94]

question of discrimination. Anything will be
welcome. Yes, anything, even one of those
evil-smelling antiquated hackneys drawn by a
decrepit brute who will doubtless stumble and
fall before having dragged you the first five
hundred yards, thereby bringing down the piti-
less wrath of his aged driver, not only on his
own, but your head.

Taxis whizz by at a rate which leads one to
suppose that they had a rendezvous with dame
Fortune. Their occupants are at the same time
objects of envy and admiration, and one calls
every latent cerebral resource to his aid, in
order to guess where on earth they were to
be found empty. And how consoling is the
disdainful glance of the chauffeur who, having
a fare, is hailed by the unfortunate, desperate
pedestrian that has a pressing engagement at
the other end of town.

If one of them ever shows signs of slowing
up, it is immediately pounced upon and sur-
rounded by ten or a dozen damp human beings.

Triumphantly the driver takes in their
humble, supplicating glances (glances which
have never been reproduced save in pictures of
[95]

the Martyrs), and then clearing his throat he
questions :

"First of all I've got to know where you
want to go. I'm bound for Crenelle."

Nobody ever wants to go to Crenelle.

If some one tactfully suggests the Avenue
de Messine, he is instantly rebuffed by a steady
stare that sends him back, withered, into the
second row of the group. A shivering woman,
taking all her courage into her hands, sug-
gests the Palais d'Orsay, but is ignored while
a man from behind calls forth "Five francs if
you'll take me to the Avenue du Bois."

The chauffeur's glance wavers, it seems pos-
sible that he might entertain the proposal.
The gentleman steps forward, already has his
hand on the door handle, when from somewhere
in the darkness, helmet clad, stick in his hand,
kit bag over one shoulder, a poilu permission-
cdre elbows his way through the crowd. There
is no argument, he merely says,

"Look here, old man, I've got to make the
6.01 at the Care du Nord; drive like hell!"

"You should worry. We'll get there."

Now, the Care du Nord is certainly not in
the direction of Crenelle. On the contrary
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it is diametrically opposite, geographically
speaking. But nobody seems to mind. The
chauffeur is even lauded for his patriotic sen-
timents, and one good-hearted, bedraggled
creature actually murmurs :

"I only hope the dear fellow does make it !"

"What does it matter if we do have to wait
a bit — that's all we've really got to do, after
all," answers an elderly man moving away.

"It would be worse than this if we were in
the trenches," chimes in some one else,

"My son is in water up to his waist out there
in Argonne," echoes a third, as the group dis-
bands.

And yet people do go to the theatre.

Gemier has made triumphant productions,
with the translations of the Shakesperean So-
ciety, and true artist that he is, has created
sensational innovations by way of mise-en-
scene in the "Merchant of Venice" and "An-
thony and Cleopatra."

It's a far cry now to the once all too popu-
lar staging a la Munich.

Lamy and Le Gallo were excruciatingly
funny in a farce called "My God-son," but the
real type of theatrical performance which is
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unanimously popular, which will hold its own
to the very end, is the Review.

How on earth the authors manage to scrape
up enough comic subjects, when sadness is so
generally prevalent, and how they succeed in
making their public laugh spontaneously and
heartily, without the slightest remorse or ar-
riere pensee, has been a very interesting ques-
tion to me.

Naturally, their field is limited, and there
are certain subjects which are tabooed com-
pletely ; so the trifling event, the ridiculous side
of Parisian life, have come to the fore. Two
special types, the slacker and the profiteer,
or nouveau niche, are very generally and
very thoroughly maltreated. If I am any
judge, it is the embusque, who is the spe-
cial pet, and after him come the high cost of
living, the lack of fuel, the obscurity of the
streets, the length of women's skirts, etc. — all
pretexts for more or less amusing topical
songs.

As to the war itself, they have made some-
thing very special of it. Thanks to them the
trenches become a very delightful spot popu-
lated by a squadron of nimble footed misses,
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who, "booted, spurred, helmet-crowned and cos-
tumed in horizon blue, sing of the heroism and
the splendid good humour of the poilu while
keeping time to a martial rhythm.

There is invariably a heavy comedian who
impersonates the jovial chef — preparing a
famous sauce in which to dish up "Willy" the
day he shall be captured; the soldier on fur-
lough who is homesick for the front; the
wounded man who stops a moment to sing
(with many frills and flourishes) the joys of
shedding one's blood for his country.

Attacks are made to well known accom-
paniments— Bombardments perpetrated in
the wings by the big bass drum, and both
though symbolic, are about as unreal as pos-
sible.

Nobody is illusioned, no one complains. On
the contrary, they seem delighted with the
show they have paid to see. Furthermore,
the better part of the audience is composed of
soldiers, wounded men, convalescents, and per-
missionaires, and they all know what to expect.

Near me sat two of the latter — healthy look-
ing lads, wind burned and tanned, their uni-
forms sadly faded and stained, their helmets
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scarred and indented. Both wore the Croix de
Guerre, and the Fourragere or shoulder strap,
showing the colours of the military medal,
which at that time being quite a novelty, caught
and held the eyes of all who surrounded them.

From scraps of their conversation I learned
that they had left the battle front of the
Somme that very morning, were merely cross-
ing Paris, taking a midnight train which would
land them home some time the following day.

I even managed to gather that their papers
had reached them at the very moment when
they came out of the trenches, that they had
not even had time to brush up, so great was
their fear of missing the last train.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, then, they
had really been in it — standing out there in
the mud, surrounded by rats and the putrid
odour of dead bodies, the prey not only of the
elements, but of enemy bombs and shells, ex-
pecting the end at any instant; or curled up,
half frozen in a humid, slimy dug-out, not
long enough to permit stretching out — scarcely
deep enough to be called a shelter.

Would they not be disgusted? Ready to
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protest against this disfigured travesty of their
war?

I feel quite certain they never gave it a
thought. Blissfully installed in their comfort-
able orchestra seats they didn't intend to miss
a word of the entire performance. And when
finally in an endless chain of verses, a come-
dian, mimicking a poilu with his kit on his back,
recited his vicissitudes with the army police,
and got mixed up in his interpretation of
R.A.T., G.Q.G. — etc., they burst into round
after round of applause, calling and recalling
their favourite, while their sides shook with
laughter, and the tears rolled down their
cheeks.

These same faces took on a nobly serious
aspect, while a tall, pale, painted damsel
draped in a peplum, evoked in ringing tones
the glorious history of the tri-colour. I looked
about me — many a manly countenance was
wrinkled with emotion, and women on all sides
sniffed audibly. It was then that I understood,
as never before, what a philosopher friend calls
"the force of symbols."

An exact scenic reproduction of the war
would have shocked all those good people; just
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as this impossible theatrical deformation, this
potpourri of songs, dances and orchestral
tremolos charmed and delighted their care-sat-
urated souls.

Little girls, in Alsatian costume, and the
eternally sublime Red Cross nurse played upon
their sentimentality; the slacker inspired them
with disgust; they shrieked with delight at the
nouveau riche; and their enthusiasm knew no
bounds when towards eleven-fifteen arrived
the "Stars and Stripes" accompanied by a
double sextette of khaki-coloured female am-
bulance drivers. Tradition has willed it thus.

If the war continue any length of time
doubtless the United States will also become
infuriated with the slacker, and I tremble to
think of the special brand of justice that
woman in particular will have in store for the
man who does not really go to the front, or
who, thanks to intrigue and a uniform, is
spending his days in peace and safety.

Alas, there are embusques in all countries,
just as there are nouveaux-riches. In Paris
these latter are easily discernible. They have
not yet had time to become accustomed to their
new luxuries; especially the women, who wear
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

exaggerated styles, and flaunt their furs and
jewels, which deceive no one.

"They buy everything, so long as it is ex-
pensive," explained an antiquity dealer. "They
want everything, and want it at once!"

The few old artisans still to be found who
are versed in the art of repairing antiques, are
rushed to death, and their ill humour is almost
comic, for in spite of the fact that they are
being well paid for their work, they cannot
bear to see these precious treasures falling into
the hands of the vulgar.

"This is for Mr. or Mrs. So-and-So," they
inform you with an ironical smile, quite certain
that you have never heard the name before.

It would almost seem as if a vast wave of
prosperity had enveloped the country, were
one to judge of the stories of millions made in
a minute, fortunes sprung up over night, new
factories erected where work never ceases;
prices paid for real estate, monster strokes on
the Bourse. Little wonder then that in May
just past, with the Germans scarcely sixty
miles from Paris, the sale of Degas' studio at-
tained the extraordinary total of nearly two
million dollars; an Ingres drawing which in
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1889 brought eight hundred and fifty francs,
selling for fourteen thousand, and a Greco por-
trait for which Degas himself gave four hun-
dred and twenty francs in 1894, fetching
eighty-two thousand francs.

Yes, such things happen even in France, and
one hears but too often of fortunes accumu-
lated in the past four years — but alas! how
much more numerous are those which have been
lost. The nouveaiuc-pauvres far outnumber
the nouveaux-riches; but these former seem to
go into hiding.

The Parisian bourgeois was essentially a
property owner. His delight was in houses;
the stone-front six-story kind, the serious rent-
paying proposition, containing ten or a dozen
moderate-priced apartments, and two good
stores, from which he derived a comfortable
income. Such was the ultimate desire of the
little shop-keeper, desire which spurred him on
to sell and to economise.

A house, some French rentes, government
bonds (chiefly Russian in recent years) and a
few city obligations, were the extent of his in-
vestments, and formed not only the nucleus
but the better part of many a French fortune.
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Imagine then the predicament of such peo-
ple under the moratorium. Few and far be-
tween are the tenants who have paid a sou of
rent since August, 1914, and the landlord has
no power to collect. Add to this the ever in-
creasing price of living, and you will under-
stand why many an elderly Parisian who
counted on spending his declining years in
peace and plenty, is now hard at work earning
his daily bread.

Made in a moment of emergency, evidently
with the intention that it be of short duration,
this law about rentals has become the most per-
plexing question in the world. Several at-
tempts have been made towards a solution,
but all have remained fruitless, unsanctioned ;
and the property owners are becoming anxious.

That men who have been mobilised shall not
pay — that goes without saying. But the oth-
ers. How about them?

I happen to know a certain house in a bour-
geois quarter of the city about which I have
very special reasons for being well informed.

Both stores are closed. The one was occu-
pied by a book-seller, the other by a boot-
maker. Each dealer was called to the army,
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and both of them have been killed. Their es-
tates will not be settled until after the war.

The first floor was rented to a middle-aged
couple. The husband, professor in a city
school, is now prisoner in Germany. His wife
died during the Winter just passed.

On the second landing one entered the home
of a cashier in a big National Bank. He was
the proud possessor of a wife and three pretty
babies. The husband, aged thirty-two, left for
the front with the rank of Lieutenant, the first
day of the mobilisation. His bank kindly con-
sented to continue half salary during the war.
The lieutenant was killed at Verdun. His
employers offered a year and a half's pay to
the young widow — that is to say, about six
thousand dollars, which she immediately in-
vested in five per cent government rentes. A
lieutenant's yearly pension amounts to about
three hundred dollars, and the Legion of Hon-.
our brings in fifty dollars per annum.

They had scarcely had time to put anything
aside, and I doubt if he carried a life insurance.
At any rate the education of these little boys
will take something more than can be econo-
mised after the bare necessities of life have
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been provided. So how is the brave little
woman even to think of paying four years'
rent, which when computed would involve
more than two-thirds of her capital?

The third floor tenant is an elderly lady who
let herself be persuaded to put her entire in-
come into bonds of the City of Vienna, Turkish
debt, Russian roubles, and the like. I found
her stewing up old newspapers in a greasy
liquid, preparing thus a kind of briquette, the
only means of heating which she could afford.
Yet the prospect of a Winter without coal,
possibly without bread, did not prevent her
from welcoming me with a smile, and explain-
ing her case with grace and distinction, which
denoted the most exquisite breeding. Her
maid, she apologised as she bowed me out, was
ill of rheumatism contracted during the pre-
ceding Winter.

The top apartment was occupied by a gov-
ernment functionary and his family. As cap-
tain in the infantry he has been at the front
since the very beginning. His wife's family
are from Lille, and like most pre-nuptial ar-
rangements when the father is in business, the
daughter received but the income of her dowry,
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which joined to her husband's salary permitted
a cheerful, pleasant home, and the prospect of
an excellent education for the children.

The salary ceased with the Captain's depart-
ure to the front; the wife's income stopped
when the Germans entered Lille a few weeks
later. They now have but his officer's pay,
approximately eighty dollars per month, as en-
tire financial resource. Add to this the death
of a mother and four splendid brothers, the
constant menace of becoming a widow, and I
feel certain that the case will give food for re-
flection.

All these unfortunate women know each
other; have guessed their mutual misfortunes,
though, of course, they never mention them.
Gathered about a single open fire-place whose
welcome blaze is the result of their united econ-
omy, they patiently ply their needles at what-
ever handiwork they are most deft, beading
bags, making filet and mesh laces, needle-work
tapestry and the like, utilising every spare mo-
ment, in the hope of adding another slice of
bread to the already too frugal meals.

But orders are rare, and openings for such
work almost nil. To obtain a market would
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demand business training which has not been
part of their tradition, which while it tempts,
both intimidates and revolts them. Certain
desperate ones would branch out in spite of all
— but they do not know how, dare not seem so
bold.

And so Winter will come anew — Winter
with bread and sugar rations at a maximumy
Winter with meat prices soaring far above
their humble pocket books.

Soup and vegetable stews quickly become
the main article of diet. Each succeeding year
the little mothers have grown paler, and more
frail. The children have lost their fat, rosy
cheeks. But let even a local success crown
our arms, let the communique bring a little bit
of real news, tell of fresh laurels won, let even
the faintest ray of hope for the great final tri-
umph pierce this veil of anxiety — and every
heart beat quickens, the smiles burst forth ; lips
tremble with emotion. These people know the
price, and the privilege of being French, the
glory of belonging to that holy nation.

[109]

V

WHEN after a lengthy search our friends
finally discover our Parisian residence, one of
the first questions they put is, "Why on earth
is your street so narrow?"

The reason is very simple. Merely because
la rue Geoff roy L'Asnier was built before car-
riages were invented, the man who gave it its
name having doubtless dwelt there during tha
fourteenth or fifteenth century, as one could
easily infer after inspecting the choir of our
parish church. But last Good Friday, the
Germans in trying out their super-cannon,
bombarded St. Gervais. The roof caved in,
killing and wounding many innocent persons,
and completely destroying that choir.

Elsewhere a panic might have ensued, but
residents of our quarter are not so easily dis-
turbed. The older persons distinctly recall the
burning of the Hotel de Ville and the Arch-
bishop's Palace in 1870. And did they not wit-
ness the battles in the streets, all the horrors of
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the Commune, after having experienced the
agonies and privations of the Siege ? I have no
doubt that among them there are persons who
were actually reduced to eating rats, and I feel
quite certain that many a man used his gun to
advantage from between the shutters of his
own front window.

Their fathers had seen the barricades of
1848 and 1830, their grandfathers before them
the Reign of Terror — and so on one might con-*
tinue as far back as the Norman invasion.

The little cafe on the rue du Pont Louis-
Philippe serves as meeting place for all the
prophets and strategists of the quarter, who
have no words sufficient to express their dis-
dain for the Kaiser's heavy artillery.

"It's all bluff, they think they can frighten
us! Why, I, Madame, I who am speaking to
you — I saw the Hotel de Ville, the Theatre
des Nations, the grain elevators, all in flames
and all at once, the whole city seemed to be
ablaze. Well, do you think that prevented
the Parisians from fishing in the Seine, or
made this cafe shut its doors? There was a
barricade at either end of this street — the
blinds were up and you could hear the bullets

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

patter against them. The insurgents, all cov-
ered with powder, would sneak over and get a
drink — and when finally their barricade was
taken, it was the Republican soldiers who sat
in our chairs and drank beer and lemonade 1
Their guns, humph! Let them bark!"

It is at this selfsame cafe that gather all the
important men of our district, much as the
American would go to his club. They are se-
rious bourgeois, well along in the fifties, just
a trifle ridiculous, perhaps on account of their
allure and their attire. But should one grow
to know them better he would soon realise that
most of them are shrewd, hard-working busi-
ness men, each burdened with an anxiety or a
sorrow which he never mentions.

They too love strategy. Armies represented
by match safes, dominoes and toothpicks have
become an obsession — their weakness. They
are thorough Frenchmen and their critical
sense must be unbridled. They love their ideas
and their systems. They would doubtless not
hesitate to advise Foch. Personally, if I were
Foch, I should turn a deaf ear. But if I were
a timid, vacillating, pessimistic spirit, still in
doubt as to the final outcome, I should most
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certainly seat myself at a neighbouring table
and listen to their conversation that I might
come away imbued with a little of their pa-
tience, abnegation, and absolute confidence.

Nor does the feminine opinion deviate from
this course. I found the same ideas prevalent
in the store of a little woman who sold umbrel-
las. Before the war Madame Coutant had a
very flourishing trade, but now her sales are
few and far between, while her chief occupa-
tion is repairing. She is a widow without chil-
dren, and no immediate relative in the war.
Because of this, at the beginning she was
looked down upon and her situation annoyed
and embarrassed her greatly. But by dint of
search, a most voluminous correspondence, and
perhaps a little bit of intrigue, she finally man-
aged to unearth two very distant cousins, peas-
ant boys from the Cevennes, whom she frankly
admitted never having seen, but to whom she
regularly sent packages and post cards ; about
whom she was at liberty to speak without
blushing, since one of them had recently been
cited for bravery and decorated with the Croix
de Guerre.

This good woman devotes all the leisure and
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energy her trade leaves her, to current events.
Of course, there is the official communique
which may well be considered as the national
health bulletin; but besides that, there is still
another, quite as indispensable and fully as in-
teresting, made up of the criticism of local
happenings, and popular presumption.

This second communique comes to us direct
from Madame Coutant's, where a triumvirate
composed of the scissors-grinder, the woman-
who-rents-chairs-in-St.-Gervais, the sacristan's
wife, the concierge of the Girls' School, and the
widow of an office boy in the City Hall, get
their heads together and dispense the news.

The concierges and cooks while out market-
ing, pick it up and start it on its rounds.

"We are progressing North of the Marne";
"Two million Americans have landed in
France," and similar statements shall be ac-
cepted only when elucidated, enlarged and em-
bellished by Madame Coutant's group. Each
morning brings a fresh harvest of happenings,
but each event is certified or contradicted by a
statement from some one who is "Out there,"
and sees and knows.

Under such circumstances an attack in
[114]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

Champagne may be viewed from a very differ-
ent angle when one hears that Bultot, the elec-»
trician, is telephone operator in that region;
that the aforesaid Bultot has written to his
wife in most ambiguous phraseology, and that
she has brought the letter to Madame Cou-
tant's for interpretation.

But it is more especially the local moral
standards which play an important part and
are subject to censorship in Madame Coutant's
circle. The individual conduct of the entire
quarter is under the most rigid observation.
Lives must be pure as crystal, homes of glass.
It were better to attempt to hide nothing.

That Monsieur L., the retired druggist, is
in sad financial straits, there is not the slightest
doubt; no one is duped by the fact that he is
trying to put on a bold face under cover of
war-time economy.

That the grocer walks with a stick and drags
his leg on the ground to make people think
he is only fit for the auxiliary service, deceives
no one ; his time will come, there is but to wait.

Let a woman appear with an unaccustomed
furbelow, or a family of a workman that is
earning a fat salary, eat two succulent dishes
[115]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

the same week, public opinion will quickly
make evident its sentiments, and swiftly put
things to rights.

The war must be won, and each one must
play his part — do his bit, no matter how hum-
ble. The straight and narrow paths of virtue
have been prescribed and there is no better
guide than the fear of mutual criticism. That
is one reason why personally I have never
sought to ignore Madame Coutant's opinion.

It goes without saying that the good soul
has attributed the participation of the United
States in this war entirely to my efforts. And
the nature of the advice that I am supposed to
have given President Wilson would make an
everlasting fortune for a humourist. But in
spite of it all, I am proud to belong to them)
proud of being an old resident in their quarter.

"Strictly serious people," was the opinion
passed upon us by the sacristan's wife for the
edification of my new housemaid.

It is a most interesting population to exam-
ine in detail, made up of honest, skilful Pa-
risian artisans, frondeurs at heart, jesting
with everything, but terribly ticklish on the
point of honour.

[116]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"They ask us to 'hold out'," exclaims the
laundress of the rue de Jouy; "as if we'd ever
done anything else all our lives!"

These people were capable of the prodigious.
They have achieved the miraculous !

With the father gone to the front, his pay-
roll evaporated, it was a case of stop and think.
Of course, there was the "Separation fee,"
about twenty-five cents a day for the mother,
ten cents for each child. The French pri-
vate received but thirty cents a month at the
beginning of the war. The outlook was any-
thing but cheerful, the possibility of making
ends meet more than doubtful. So work it was
— or rather, extra work. Eyes were turned to-
wards the army as a means of livelihood. With
so many millions mobilised, the necessity for
shirts, underwear, uniforms, etc., became evi-
dent.

Three or four mothers grouped together
and made application for three or four hun-
dred shirts. The mornings were consecrated
to house work, which must be done in spite of
all, the children kept clean and the food well
prepared. But from one o'clock until mid-
[117]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

night much might be accomplished; and much
was.

The ordinary budget for a woman of the
working class consists in earning sufficient to
feed, clothe, light and heat the family, besides
supplying the soldier husband with tobacco and
a monthly parcel of goodies. Even the
children have felt the call, and after school,
which lasts from eight until four, little girls
whose legs must ache from dangling, sit pa-
tiently on chairs removing bastings, or sewing
on buttons, while their equally tiny brothers
run errands, or watch to see that the soup does
not boil over.

Then when all is done, when with all one's
heart one has laboured and paid everything
and there remains just enough to send a
money-order to the poilu, there is still a happi-
ness held in reserve — a delight as keen as any
one can feel in such times ; i.e., the joy of know-
ing that the "Separation fee" has not been
touched. It is a really and truly income; it
is a dividend as sound as is the State! It has
almost become a recompense.

What matter now the tears, the mortal anx-
[118]

VIEW OF ST. GERVAJS FROM MADAME
HUARD'S PARIS HOME
(BOMBARDED BY GERMAN SUPER
CANNON, APRIL, 1918)

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

ieties that it may have cost? For once again,
to quote the laundress of the rue de Jouy —

"Trials? Why, we'd have had them any-
way, even if there hadn't been a war !"

In these times of strictest economy, it would
perhaps be interesting to go deeper into the
ways of those untiring thrifty ants who seem
to know how "To cut a centime in four" and
extract the quintessence from a bone. My
concierge is a precious example for such a
study, having discovered a way of bleaching
clothes without boiling, and numerous recipes
for reducing the high cost of living to almost
nothing.

It was in her lodge that I was first intro-
duced to a drink made from ash leaves, and
then tasted another produced by mixing hops
and violets, both to me being equally as pal-
atable as certain brands of grape juice.

Butter, that unspeakable luxury, she had re-
placed by a savoury mixture of tried out
fats from pork and beef kidney, seasoned with
salt, pepper, allspice, thyme and laurel, into
which at cooling was stirred a glass of milk.
Not particularly palatable on bread but as a
seasoning to vegetable soup, that mighty
[119]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

French stand-by, I found it most excellent.
Believe me, I've tried it!

Jam has long been prepared with honey, and
for all other sweetening purposes she used a
syrup of figs that was not in the least disagree-
able. The ration of one pound of sugar per
person a month, and brown sugar at that, does
not go very far.

The cold season is the chief preoccupation of
all Parisians, and until one has spent a war
winter in the capital he is incapable of realis-
ing what can be expected from a scuttle full of
coal.

First of all, one commences by burning it
for heating purposes, rejoicing in every second
of its warmth and glow. One invites one's
friends to such a gala! Naturally the coal
dust has been left at the bottom of the recipient,
the sack in which it was delivered is well shaken
for stray bits, and this together with the sift-
ings is mixed with potter's clay and sawdust,
which latter has become a most appreciable
possession in our day. The whole is then
stirred together and made into bricks or balls,
which though they burn slowly, burn surely.

The residue of this combustible is still so
[120]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

precious, that when gathered up, ground anew
with paper and sawdust, and at length amalga-
mated with a mucilaginous water composed of
soaked flax-seed, one finally obtains a kind of
pulp that one tries vainly to make ignite, but
which obstinately refuses to do so, though ex-
amples to the contrary have been heard of.

The fireless cooker has opened new horizons,
for, of course, there is still enough gas to start
the heating. But none but the wealthy can af-
ford such extravagance, so each one has in-
vented his own model. My concierge's husband
is renowned for his ingenuity in this particular
branch, and people from the other side of the
Isle St. Louis, or the rue St. Antoine take the
time to come and ask his advice. It seems to
me he can make fireless cookers out of almost
anything. Antiquated wood chests, hat boxes,
and even top hats themselves have been utilised
in his constructions.

"These are real savings-banks for heat" — he
explains pompously — for he loves to tackle
the difficult — even adjectively. His shiny bald
pate is scarce covered by a Belgian fatigue cap,
whose tassel bobs in the old man's eyes, and
when iie carried his long treasured gold to the
[121]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

bank, he refused to take its equivalent in notes.
It was necessary to have recourse to the princi-
pal cashier, who assured him that if France
needed money she would call upon him first.
Then and then only would he consent to accept.

He is a Lorrainer — a true Frenchman, who
in the midst of all the sorrows brought on by
the conflict, has known two real joys: the first
when his son was promoted and made lieuten-
ant on the battle field; the second when his
friends the Vidalenc and the Lemots made up a
quarrel that had lasted over twelve years.

"I was in a very embarrassing position," he
explained, "for I held both families in equal
esteem. Fortunately the war came and settled
matters. When I say fortunately, of course,
you understand, Madame, what I mean. 'A
quelquechose malheur est bon/J

And in truth the original cause of difference
between the Lemots, drapers, and the Vidalenc,
coal and wood dealers, had been lost in the
depths of time. But no hate between Mon-
tague and Capulet was ever more bitter. The
gentle flame of antipathy was constantly kept
kindled by a glance in passing, a half audible
sneer, and if the Vidalenc chose the d-^y of the
[122]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

White Sale to hang out and beat their stock
of coal sacks, one might be certain that the
Lemots would be seized with a fit of cleanliness
on the coldest of winter days, and would play
the hose up and down the street in the freezing
air about an hour or so before the Vidalencs
would have to unload their coal wagons.

The younger generation, on leaving school
every afternoon, would also see to it that the
family feud be properly recognised, and many
and bitter were the mutual pummelings.

Reconciliation seemed an impossibility, and
yet both were hardworking, honest families,
economical and gracious, rejoicing in the
friendship of the entire quarter, who, of course,
were much pained by the situation.

Even the mobilisation failed to bring a truce
and the unforgettable words of "Sacred
Unity" fell upon arid ground.

But how strange, mysterious and far reach-
ing are the designs of Providence. Young
Vidalenc was put into a regiment that was
brigaded with the one to which belonged Mon-
sieur Lemot.

The two men met "Out there," and literally
fell into each other's arms.
[123]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

A letter containing a description of this
event arrived in the two shops at almost the
same moment. That is to say the postman first
went to Father Vidalenc's, but by the time the
old man had found his spectacles, Madame
Lemot had received her missive, and both were
practically read at once. Then came the dash
for the other's shop, the paper waving wildly
in the air.

Of course, they met in the street, stopped
short, hesitated, collapsed, wept and embraced,
to the utter amazement of the entire quarter
who feared not only that something fatal had
happened, but also for their mental safety.

Later in the day the news got abroad, and
by nightfall every one had heard that Father
Vidalenc had washed Madame Lemot's store
windows, and that Madame Lemot had prom-
ised to have an eye to Vidalenc's accounts,
which had been somewhat abandoned since the
departure of his son.

When Lemot returned on furlough there
was a grand dinner given in his honour at
Vidalenc's, and when Vidalenc dined at Le-
mot's, it was assuredly amusing to see the lat-
ter's children all togged out in their Sunday
[124]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

best, a tri-colour bouquet in hand, waiting on
their doorstep to greet and conduct the old
man.

Unfortunately there was no daughter to give
in matrimony so that they might marry and
live happily ever after. But on my last trip
home I caught a glimpse of an unknown girlish
face behind Madame Lemot's counter, and
somebody told me it was her niece.

It would not only be unfair, but a gross er-
ror on my part to attempt to depict life in our
quarter without mentioning one of the most
notable inhabitants — namely Monsieur Alex-
andre Clouet, taylor, so read the sign over the
door of the shop belonging to this pompous
little person — who closed that shop on August
2nd, 1914, and rallied to the colours. But un-
like the vulgar herd he did not scribble in huge
chalk letters all over the blinds — "The boss has
joined the army." No, indeed, not he!

Twenty four hours later appeared a most
elaborate meticulous sign which announced:

MONSIEUR CLOUET

wishes to inform his numerous cus-
tomers that he has joined the ranks
[125]

of the 169th infantry, and shall do
his duty as a Frenchman.

His wife returned to her father's home, and
it was she who pasted up the series of neat
little bulletins. First we read:

MONSIEUR CLOUET

is in the trenches but his health is
excellent.

He begs his customers and friends
to send him news of themselves.
Postal Sector 24X.

I showed the little sign to my friends who
grew to take an interest in Monsieur Clouet's
personal welfare, and passing by his shop they
would copy down the latest news and forward
it to me, first at Villiers, and afterwards to the
States.

It is thus that I learned that Monsieur
Clouet, gloriously wounded, had been cared for
at a hospital in Cahors, and later on that he
had recovered, rejoined his depot and finally
returned to the front.

One of my first outings during my last trip
sent me in the direction of Monsieur Clouet's
abode. I was decidedly anxious to know what
[126]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

had become of him. To my surprise I found
the shop open, but a huge announcement hung
just above the entrance.

MONSIEUR CLOTJET

gloriously wounded and decorated
with the Military Medal, regrets to
state that in future it will be impos-
sible for him to continue giving his
personal attention to his business.

His wife and his father-in-law will
hereafter combine their efforts to give
every satisfaction to his numerous
customers.

I entered. For the moment the wife and
the father-in-law were combining their efforts
to convince a very stout, elderly gentleman
that check trousers would make him look like
a sylph.

"Ah, Madame, what a surprise," she cried,
on seeing me.

"But your husband?" I queried. "Is it
really serious — do tell me !"

"Alas, Madame, he says he'll never put his
foot in the shop again. You see he's very sen-
sitive since he was scalped, and he's afraid
somebody might know he has to wear a wig!"
[127]

VI

THE Boche aeroplane was by no means a
novelty to the Parisian. Its first apparitions
over the capital (1914) were greeted with curi-
ous enthusiasm, and those who did not have a
field glass handy at the time, later on satisfied
their curiosity by a visit to the Invalides, where
every known type of enemy machine was dis-
played in the broad court-yard.

The first Zeppelin raid (April 15th, 1915)'
happened toward midnight, and resulted in
a good many casualties, due not to the bombs
dropped by the enemy, but to the number of
colds and cases of pneumonia and bronchitis
caught by the pa jama-clad Parisian, who
rushed out half covered, to see the sight,
thoughtlessly banging his front door behind
him.

But the first time that we were really driven

to take shelter in the cellar was after dinner at

the home of a friend who lives in an apartment

house near the Avenue du Bois. We were en-

[128]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

joying an impromptu concert of chamber
music, when the alarm was given, swiftly fol-
lowed by distant but very distinct detonations,
which made hesitation become imprudence.

The descent to the basement was accom-
plished without undue haste, or extraordinary
commotion, save for an old Portuguese lady
and her daughter who lost their heads and un-
consciously gave us a comic interlude, worthy
of any first-class movie.

Roused from her sleep, the younger woman
with self preservation uppermost in her mind,
had slipped on an outer garment, grabbed the
first thing she laid her hands on, and with hair
streaming over her back, dashed down five long
flights of stairs.

At the bottom she remembered her mother,
let forth an awful shriek, and still holding her
bottle of tooth wash in her hands, jumped into
the lift and started in search of her parent.

In the meantime, the latter on finding her
daughter's bed empty, had started towards the
lower floors, crossing the upward bound lift,
which Mademoiselle was unable to stop.

Screams of terror, excited sentences in
Portuguese — in which both gave directions that
[129]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

neither followed, and for a full ten minutes
mother and daughter raced up and down in the
lift and on the stairway, trying vainly to join
one another.

A young lieutenant home on leave, at length
took pity on them and finally united the two
exhausted creatures who fell into each other's
arms shrieking hysterically:

"If we must die — let us die together!"

The concierges and the servants began ar-
ranging chairs and camp stools around the
furnace ; the different tenants introduced them-
selves and their guests. Almost every one was
still about when the signal was given, and this
cellar where the electric lamps burned brightly
soon took on the aspect of a drawing-room, in
spite of all. One lone man, however, stood dis-
consolate, literally suffocating beneath a huge
cavalry cape, hooked tight up to his throat. As
the perspiration soon began rolling from his
forehead, a friend seeking to put him at his
ease, suggested he open up his cloak.

The gentleman addressed cast a glance over
the assembled group, broadened out into a
smile, and exclaimed —

[130]

"I can't. Only got my night shirt under-
neath."

The hilarity was general, and the conversa-
tion presently became bright and sparkling
with humorous anecdotes.

The officers held their audience spellbound
with fear and admiration; the women talked
hospital and dress, dress and hospital, finally
jesting about the latest restrictions. One lady
told the story of a friend who engaged a maid,
on her looks and without a reference, the which
maid shortly became a menace because of her
propensity for dropping and breaking china.

One day, drawn towards the pantry by the
sound of a noise more terrible than any yet
experienced, she found the girl staring at a
whole pile of plates — ten or a dozen — which
had slipped from her fingers and lay in thou-
sands of pieces on the floor.

The lady became indignant and scolded.

"Ah, if Madame were at the front, she'd see
worse than that!" was the consoling response.

"But we're not at the front, I'll have you
understand, and what's more neither you nor I
have ever been there, my girl."

"I beg Madame's pardon, but my last place
[131]

was in a hospital at Verdun, as Madame will
see when my papers arrive."

General laughter was cut short by the sound
of two explosions.

"They're here. They've arrived. It will
soon be over now," and like commentaries were
added.

A servant popped the cork of a champagne
bottle, and another passed cakes and candied
fruit.

An elderly man who wore a decoration, ap-
proached the officers.

"Gentlemen," said he, "excuse me for inter-
rupting, but do any of you know the exact
depth to which an aeroplane bomb can pene-
trate?"

The officers gave him a few details, which,
however, did not seem to satisfy the old fellow.
His anxiety became more and more visible.

"I wouldn't worry, sir, if I were you. There's
absolutely no danger down here."

"Thank you for your assurance, Messieurs,"
said he, "but I'm not in the least anxious about
my personal safety. It's my drawings and my
collection of porcelains that are causing me
such concern. I thought once that I'd box
[132]

AVITH THOSE WHO WAIT

them all up and bring them down here. But
you never can tell what dampness or change
of temperature might do to a water colour or
a gouache. Oh! my poor Fragonards! My
poor Bouchers! Gentlemen, never, never col-
lect water colours or porcelains ! Take it from
me!"

At that moment the bugle sounded — "All's
well," and as we were preparing to mount the
stairs, the old man accosted the officers anew,
asking them for the titles of some books on
artillery and fortification.

"That all depends to what use you wish to
apply them."

"Ah, it's about protecting my collection. I
simply must do something! I can't send them
to storage, they wouldn't be any safer there,
and even if they were I'd die of anxiety so far
away from my precious belongings."

"Good-nights" were said in the vestibule,
and the gathering dispersed just as does any
group of persons after a theatre or an ordinary
reception. But once in the street, it was ab-
solutely useless to even think of a taxi. Peo-
ple were pouring from every doorway, heads
stuck out of every window.
[133]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Where did they fall ? Which way ?"
In the total obscurity, the sound of feet all
hurrying in the same direction, accompanied
by shouts of recognition, even ripples of laugh-
ter, seemed strangely gruesome, as the caravan
of curious hastened towards the scene of
tragedy.

"No crowds allowed. Step lively," called
the sergeants-de-vitte, at their wits' end. "Bet-
ter go back home, they might return. Step
lively, I say!"

It happened thus the first few visits, but
presently the situation became less humorous.
One began to get accustomed to it. Then one
commenced to dislike it and protest.

Seated by the studio fire, we were both
plunged deep in our books.

"Allons!" exclaimed H. "Do you hear the
pompiers? The Gothas again!"

We stiffened up in our chairs and listened.
The trumpets sounded shrilly on the night air
of our tranquil Parisian quarter.

"Right you are. That means down we go!
They might have waited until I finished my
[134]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

chapter, hang them! There's no electricity in
our cellar," and I cast aside my book in dis-
gust.

Taking our coats and a steamer rug we pre-
pared to descend. In the court-yard the clat-
ter of feet resounded.

The cellar of our seventeenth century dwell-
ing being extremely deep and solidly built, was
at once commandeered as refuge for one hun-
dred persons in case of bombardment, and we
must needs share it with some ninety odd less
fortunate neighbours.

"Hurry up there. Hurry up, I say," calls
a sharp nasal voice.

That voice belonged to Monsieur Leddin,
formerly a clock maker, but now of the Serv-
ice Auxiliare, and on whom devolved the po-
licing of our entire little group, simply because
of his uniform.

His observations, however, have but little
effect. People come straggling along, yawn-
ing from having been awakened in their first
sleep, and almost all of them is hugging a
bundle or parcel containing his most precious
belongings.

It is invariably an explosion which finally
[135]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

livens their gait, and they hurry into the stair-
way. A slight jam is thus produced.

"No pushing there! Order!" cries another
stentorian voice, belonging to Monsieur Vidal-
enc, the coal dealer.

"Here! here!" echo several high pitched
trebles. "Tres bien, tres bien. Follow in line
— what's the use of crowding?"

Monsieur Leddin makes another and still
shriller effort, calling from above:

"Be calm now. Don't get excited."

"Who's excited?"

"You are!"

"Monsieur Leddin, you're about as fit to be
a soldier as I to be an Archbishop," sneered the
butcher's wife. "You'd do better to leave us
alone and hold your peace."

General hilarity, followed by murmurs of
approval from various other females, which
completely silenced Monsieur Leddin, who
never reopened his mouth during the entire
evening, so that one could not tell whether he
was nursing his offended dignity or hiding his
absolute incompetence to assume authority.

Places were quickly found on two or three
long wooden benches, and a few chairs pro-
[136]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

vided for the purpose, some persons even
spreading out blankets and camping on the
floor.

The raiment displayed was the typical neg-
ligee of the Parisian working class; a dark
coloured woollen dressing gown, covered over
with a shawl or a cape, all the attire showing
evidence of having been hastily donned with no
time to think of looking in the mirror.

An old lantern and a kerosene lamp but
dimly lighted the groups which were shrouded
in deep velvety shadows.

Presently a man, a man that I had never
seen before, a man with a long emaciated face
and dark pointed beard, rose in the back-
ground, holding a blanket draped about him
by flattening his thin white hand against his
breast. The whole scene seemed almost bib-
lical, and instantly my mind evoked Rem-
brandt's masterpiece — the etching called 'The
Hundred Florin Piece,' which depicts the
crowds seated about the standing figure of our
Saviour and listening to His divine words.

But the spell was quickly broken when an
instant later my vision coughed and called —
[137]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Josephine, did you bring down the 'Petit
Parisien,' as I told you?"

Ten or fifteen minutes elapsed, and then a
rather distant explosion gave us reason to be-
lieve that the enemy planes were retiring.

"Jamais de la vie! No such luck to-night.
Why we've got a good couple of hours ahead of
us, just like last time. You'll see! Much bet-
ter to make yourself as comfortable as possible
and not lose any sleep over it."

The tiny babies had scarcely waked at all,
and peacefully continued to slumber on their
mothers' knees, or on improvised cots made
from a blanket or comforter folded to several
thicknesses.

The women soon yawned, and leaning their
backs against the wall nodded regularly in
spite of their efforts not to doze off, and each
time, surprised by the sudden shock of awaken-
ing would shudder and groan unconsciously.

Tightly clasped in their hands, or on the
floor between their feet lay a bag which never
got beyond their reach, to which they clung as
something sacred. Certain among them were
almost elegant in their grey linen covers.
Others had seen better days, while still others
[138]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

dated back to the good old times of needlework
tapestry. There were carpet, kit and canvas
bags, little wooden chests with leather handles,
and one poor old creature carefully harboured
a card-board box tied about with a much
knotted string.

What did they all contain? In France amid
such a gathering it were safe to make a' guess.

First of all, the spotless family papers —
cherished documents registering births, deaths
and marriages. A lock of hair, a baby tooth,
innumerable faded photographs, a bundle of
letters, a scrap of paper whereon are scrawled
the last words of a departed hero, and way
down underneath, neatly separated from all
the rest, I feel quite sure the little family
treasure lies hidden. Yes, here is that hand-
ful of stocks and bonds, thanks to which their
concierge bows to them with respect; those
earnings that permit one to fall ill, to face old
age and death without apprehension, the assur-
ance the children shall want for nothing, shall
have a proper education — the certitude that the
two little rooms occupied can really be called
home; that the furniture so carefully waxed
and polished is one's own forever. Bah! what
[139]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

terrors can lack of work, food shortage, or war
hold for such people? Thus armed can they
not look the horrid spectres square in the
face? The worst will cost but one or two blue
bank notes borrowed from the little pile, but
because of the comfort they have brought they
will be replaced all the more gayly when bet-
ter days shall come.

All this ran through my brain as I watched
those hands — big and small, fat and thin,
young and old, clasping their treasure so
tightly, and I couldn't help feeling that gi-
gantic convulsive gesture of thousands of other
women, who all over the great Capital at that
same moment were hugging so lovingly their
little all ; the fruit of so much toil and so much
virtue.

My reflections were cut short by a deafening
noise that roused my sleeping companions.
The children shrieked, and the women openly
lamented.

"That was a close call," commented Mon-
sieur Neu, our concierge.

Five or six boys wanted to rush out and
see where the bomb had fallen. They were dis-
suaded, but with difficulty.
[ 140 ]

An elderly man had taken his six year old
grandson on to his knee, and that sleepy little
Parisian urchin actually clapped his hands and
crowed over the shock.

"Jiminy, that was a fine one!"

"That's right, my child," pompously ex-
claimed the grandsire. "Never, never forget
the monsters who troubled your innocent sleep
with their infamous crimes."

"Oh, cut it out, grandpop," was the some-
what irreverent reply. "Aren't you afraid
you might miss forty winks?" and then turning
to his mother, "I say, mamma, if one of them
lands on our house, you promise you'll wake
me up, won't you? I want to see everything,
and last time and the time before, I missed
it!"

"Yes, darling, of course, but go to sleep,
there's a good boy."

A tall, good-looking girl over in one corner
openly gave vent to her sentiments.

"The idiots! the idiots! if they think they can
scare us that way ! They'd far better not waste
their time, and let us sleep. It isn't a bit funny
any more, and I've got to work just the same
to-morrow, Boche or no Boche!"
[141]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

Two rickety old creatures clasped each other
in arms, and demanded in trembling voices if
there was any real danger! This produced a
ripple of merriment.

Monsieur Duplan, the butcher, then asked
the ladies' permission to smoke, the which
permission was graciously accorded.

"Why, if I'd only thought, I'd have
brought down another lamp and my work.
It's too bad to waste so much time."

"I have my knitting. You don't need any
light for that."

"Where on earth did you get wool? How
lucky you are!"

From Monsieur Leddin's lips now rose a
loud and sonorous snore.

"Decidedly that man is possessed of all the
charms," giggled a sarcastic neighbour.

"Yes, it must be a perfect paradise to live
with such an angel, and to feel that you've got
him safe at home till the end of the war. I
don't wonder his poor little wife took the
children and went to Burgundy."

"Why isn't he at the front?" hissed some
one in a whisper.

"Yes— why?"

[142]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"There are lots less healthy men than he out
there. The fat old plumber who lived on the
rue de Jouy, and who can hardly breathe, was
taken "

''And the milkman who passed a hundred
and three medical inspections and finally had
to go."

"If you think my husband is overstrong,
you're mistaken."

"And mine, Madame, how about him?"

Something told me that Monsieur Leddin's
fate was hanging in the balance on this event-
ful evening.

"Shake him up, Monsieur Neu, he doesn't
need to sleep if we can't. We've all got to
work to-morrow and he can take a nice long
nap at his desk."

"Oh, leave him alone," put in Monsieur Lau-
rent, the stationer, who was seated near me.
"Just listen to those fiendish women. Why
they're worse than we are about the slackers.
After all, I keep telling them there must be a
few, otherwise who's going to write history?
And history's got to be written, hasn't it?"

"Most decidedly," I replied.

And having at length found a subject of
[143]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

conversation that I had deigned approve, he
continued,

"Just think of what all the poor kids in gen-
erations to come will have to cram into their
heads ! The names of all the battles on all the
Fronts and the dates. It makes me dizzy I
I'm glad it's not up to me. I like history all
well enough, but I'd rather make it than have
to learn it."

Monsieur Laurent did not speak lightly.
He had veritably helped to make history, hav-
ing left his right foot and part of his leg "Out
there" on the hills of Verdun.

I asked him how he was getting along since
his return.

"Better than ever! Excellent appetite —
never a cold — never an ill. I'll soon be as spry
as a rabbit. Why, I used to be too heavy, I al-
ways fell asleep after luncheon. That cam-
paign set my blood to rights. I'm ten years
younger," he exclaimed, pounding his chest.

"That's a good strong-box, isn't it?" and he
coughed loudly to thoroughly convince of its
solidity.

"France can still count on me! I was ready
for war, and I shall be prepared for peace."
[144]

THE COURTYARD LEADING TO
MADAME HUARD'S CELLAR

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Ifust wait till it gets here," murmured some
woman.

"It'll come, it's bound to come some time,"
he cried, evidently pursuing a favourite theme.
"And we'll like it all the better for having
waited so long."

Monsieur Laurent has firm faith in the im-
mediate business future.

"Voila! all we've got to do is to lay Ger-
many out flat. Even then the economical
struggle that will follow the war will be ter-
rible," he prophesies. "The French must come
to the fore with all the resources of their na-
tional genius. As to myself, I have my own
idea on the subject."

We were fairly drinking in his words.

"You've all doubtless seen the sign that I
put up in my window?"

We acquiesced.

"Well, it was that sign that opened my
eyes."

I was all attention by this time, for I dis-
tinctly remembered the above mentioned sign.
It had puzzled and amused me immensely.
Painted in brilliant letters, jt ran as follows :
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

EXCEPTIONAL BARGAIN:

For men having their left foot ampu~
tated and wearing size No. 9.
3 shoes for the right foot — two
black and one tan; excellent
quality, almost like new.
For sale, or exchange for shoes be-
longing to the left foot. Must be
of same quality and in like condition.

"I haven't yet made any special effort to
ascertain whether there are more amputations
of the left than of the right foot," continued
Monsieur Laurent; "I suppose it's about equal.
Well, my plan is just this. As soon as there's
peace I'm going to set up shop on the rue St.
Antoine, or the Place de la Bastille. I'll call
it 'A la botte de 1'ampute,' and I sell my shoes
separately instead of in pairs. There's a
fortune in it inside of five years."-

"Just hear him raving," sighed his wife.
"You know well enough, Laurent, that just so
soon as the war is over we're going to sell out,
and with the money, your pension, and what
we've saved up, we'll go out to the Pare St.
Maur, buy a little cottage and settle down. I'll
[146]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

raise a few chickens and some flowers, and you
can go fishing in the Seine all day long."

"But the economical struggle?"

"You let the economical struggle take care
of itself. Now, with your mad idea, just sup-
pose those who had a right foot all wanted tan
shoes, and those who had a left couldn't stand
anything but black? I'd like to know where
you'd be then? Stranger things than that have
happened."

Laurent gazed at his wife in admiration.

"With all your talk about the future, it
seems to me we've been down here a long time
since that last explosion."

One woman looked for her husband but
could not find him. The Rembrandt Christ-
head had also disappeared.

A tall fifteen year old lad who stood near
the door informed us that they had slipped out
to see.

"So has Germain."

"Then you come here ! Don't you dare leave
me," scolded the mother. "Can you just see
something happening to him with his father out
there in the trenches?"

[147]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

Monsieur ISTeu and two other men soon fol-
lowed suit.

The big boy who had so recently been ad-
monished managed to crawl from beneath his
mother's gaze and make his escape.

"If ever I catch him, he'll find out what my
name is," screamed the excited woman, dashing
after him into the darkness.

Then, presently, one by one we took our way
towards the hall, and the cellar seemed empty.

The tall boy came back to the entrance, all
excitement.

"We saw where it fell!" he panted. "There
are some wounded. The police won't let you
go near. There's lots and lots of people out
there. Where's mamma?"

"She's looking for you!"

He was off with a bound.

The instinct to see, to know what is going on
is infinitely stronger than that of self preserva-
tion. Many a soldier has told me that, and I
have often had occasion to prove it personally.

Some of the women started towards the
street.

"We're only going as far as the door," said
they by way of excuse. "You're really quite
[148]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

safe beneath the portico." And they carried
their babies with them.

So when the final signal of safety was
sounded, there remained below but a few old
women, a couple of very small children, and
Monsieur Leddin, whom nothing seemed to dis-
turb.

The mothers returned to fetch their children.
The old ladies and Monsieur Leddin were
aroused.

"C'estfini! Ahf

And in the courtyard one could hear them
calling as they dispersed.

"Good-night, Madame Cocard."

"Good-night, Madame Bidon."

"Don't forget."

"I won't."

"Till next time."

"That's it, till next time."

A young woman approached me.

"Madame, you won't mind if I come after
them to-morrow, would you?" she begged with
big wistful eyes. "The stairway is so dark and
so narrow in our house, I'm afraid something
might happen to them."

[149]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Mercy me! you're surely not thinking of
leaving your babies alone in the cellar?"

"Oh, Madame, it's not my babies. Not yet,"
and she smiled. "It's my bronze chimney orna-
ments!"

"Your what?"

"Yes, Madame, my chimney ornaments. A
clock and a pair of candlesticks. They're over
there in that wooden box all done up beauti-
fully. You see Lucien and I got married af-
ter the war began. It was all done so quickly
that I didn't have any trousseau or wedding
presents. I'm earning quite a good deal now,
and I don't want him to think ill of me so I'm
furnishing the house, little by little. It's a
surprise for when he comes home."

"He's at the front?"

"No, Madame, in the hospital. He has a
bad face wound. My, how it worried him. He
wanted to die, he used to be so handsome ! See,
here's his photograph. He isn't too awfully
ugly, is he? Anyway I don't love him a bit
less; quite the contrary, and that's one of the
very reasons why I want to fix things up — so
as to prove it to him !"

[150]

VII

THE Moulin Rouge no longer turns. The
strains of sounding brass and tinkling cymbal
which once issued incessantly from every
open cafe, and together with the street
cries, the tram bells and the motor horns of
the Boulevards Exterieurs, formed a gigantic
characteristic medley, have long since died
away. The night restaurants are now turned
into workrooms and popular soup kitchens.
Montmartre, the heart of Paris, as it used to
be called, Montmartre the care-free, has be-
come drawn and wizened as a winter apple,
and at present strangely resembles a little
provincial city.

If it were true that "There is no greater sor-
row than recalling happy times when in
misery," doubtless from France would rise but
one long forlorn wail. The stoic Parisian
poilu, however, has completely reversed such
philosophy, and unmindful of the change his
absence has created, delights in the remem-
[151]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

brance of every instant, dreams but of the mo-
ment when he shall again be part of the light-
hearted throngs who composed the society of
the Butte. Time and again I have seen heavy
army trucks lumbering down the avenue, bear-
ing in huge chalk letters on either side of the
awning-covered sides, such inscriptions as —
Bon jour, Montmartre. A bientotla CigdLe —
Greetings from the Front — and like non-
sense, denoting not only a homesick heart, but a
delicate attention towards a well beloved.

A few months might have made but little dif-
ference, but each succeeding year of war has
brought indelible changes. Gone forever, I
fear, are the evenings when after dinner at the
Cuckoo, we would stand on the balcony and
watch the gradual fairy-like illumination of the
panorama that stretched out before us. The
little restaurant has closed its doors, but the
vision from the terrace is perhaps more majes-
tic, for as the last golden rays of twilight dis-
appear, a deep purple vapour rising from the
unknown, rolls forward and mysteriously en-
velops the Ville Lumiere in its sumptuous
protecting folds. Alone, overhead the star
lamp of a scout plane is the only visible light.
[152]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

The old Moulin de la Galette has cast
aside its city airs and taken on a most rural
aspect, while the maquis, or jungle on whose
site a whole new white stone quarter had been
projected, is now but a mass of half finished,
abandoned foundations, wherein the children
of the entire neighbourhood gather to play at
the only game which now has a vogue, i.e.,
"War."

La petite guerre they call it.

We came upon them quite by accident one
afternoon, and discovered two hostile bands oc-
cupying first line trenches.

Of course, as no one wished to be the Boche,
it looked for a time as though the campaign
would have to be deferred, but so violent was
the love of fray that it was soon decided that
the opposite side in both cases would be con-
sidered Hun, and thus the difficulty was solved.

It goes without saying that the school which
is first dismissed occupies the better positions.
The others must rely upon their strength and
valour to win out.

The first attack was with hand grenades in
the form of pebbles. Patrols advanced into
No Man's Land, crawling and crouching until
[153]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

with a yell the belligerents met. Prisoners
were taken on both sides.

"What forces have we in front of us?" de-
manded an important looking twelve year old
General of an enemy soldier who was brought
before him.

Dead silence ensued.

"If he refuses to answer, turn him upside
down until he does."

The order was executed.

From the opposite trench came shrieks of
"Boche ! Boche ! — it's only the Boche who mal-
treat prisoners."

The aforementioned who was rapidly de-
veloping cerebral congestion, made sign that
he would speak.

"Turn him right side up !"

The young executioner obeyed, but still held
a firm grip on the unfortunate lad's collar.

"Now, then, how many of you are there in
your trenches?"

"Enough to make jelly out of your men if
there are many like you!" shrieked the captive,
struggling to escape.

"Take him behind the lines, don't be rough
with him. Respect is due all prisoners," or-
[154]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

dered the General, whose eye had caught a
glimpse of his army being menaced by the
blond headed enemy.

"Look out, boys! Down with your heads!
They're sending over some 'coal scuttles.' Dig
in I say and keep a sharp look out! What's
the matter back there?"

"It's little Michaud. He's wounded!"

"Don't cry, Michaud, go out by the connect-
ing trench to the dressing station. It's not
far."

The hail of "coal scuttles" having subsided,
the General mounted to his observation post.

"Hey! Michel! Gaston! hey there, the ar-
tillery !" he yelled. "Get in at them quick. Go
to it, I say. Don't you see they're going to at-
tack! What's artillery for, anyway?"

"We can't fire a shot. They're pounding
on our munitions dump."

"What difference does that make?"

Under heavy fire the artillery achieved the
impossible, which actually resulted in blood-
shed. But their determination was soon re-
warded, for the patent "Seventy Fives," rep-
resented by huge slabs of sod, soon rained into
the enemy trenches, sowing panic and disorder.
[155]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

Profiting by the confusion, our General
grabbed up a basket and began distributing
munitions.

"Attention! Listen to me! Don't any one
fire until I give the word. Let them approach
quite close and then each one of you choose
your man. Dentu, if you're too short, stand
on a stone or something!"

The artillery wreaking havoc in his midst,
the enemy decided to brusque matters and at-
tack. He left his trenches shouting, "Vive la
France! En avant! Aux armes, mes citoyens!
A bos le Bochef3

"Attention! Are you ready? Fire!" com-
manded our General.

Bing! bang! a veritable tornado of over-ripe
tomatoes deluged the astonished oncomers, who
hesitated an instant and then fell back. The
standard bearer having received one juicy mis-
sile full in the face, dropped his emblem and
stared wild-eyed about him. From the head
and hair of the enemy General, whose card-
board helmet had been crushed to a pulp,
streamed a disgusting reddish mess. The other
unfortunate wounded were weeping.

"En avant a la bayonette! Vive la France!
[156]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

We've got them, they're ours," shrieked the de-
lighted commander, who owed his rank to the
fact that his parents kept a fruit stand.

It was victory for certain, and a proudly won
triumph. The melee was hot and ferocious,
many a patch or darn being put in store for
certain patient, all-enduring mothers.

The dressing station was full to overflowing.
Here the feminine element reigned supreme,
their heads eclipsed beneath a stolen dish cloth,
a borrowed towel, or a grimy handkerchief.
And here too, little Michaud, his pate en-
veloped in so many yards of bandage that he
seemed to be all turban, sat on an impromptu
cot, smiling benignly while devouring a three
sou apple tart, due to the generosity of the
Ladies' Red Cross Emergency Committee,
which had taken up a collection in order to al-
leviate the sufferings of their dear hero.

To be perfectly frank, ahnost all the sup-
ply of dressings had been employed on Mich-
aud's person at the very outbreak of hostilities,
so, therefore, when the stock ran short and
more were needed, they were merely unrolled
from about his head.

Leaving him to his fate, we advanced a bit
[157]

in order to communicate with one of the glori-
ous vanquished.

"They think they've got us," he explained,
"but just you wait and see! I know a shop
on the Avenue de Clichy where you can get
rotten eggs for nothing! They don't know
what's coming to them — they don't!"

Thus for these little folks the very state of
their existence is the war. They do not talk
about it because they are living it. Even those
who are so fortunate as to recall the happy
times when there was no conflict, scarcely as-
sume a superiority over their comrades who
cannot remember that far distant epoch.

"My papa'll be home next week on furlough
if there isn't an attack," or "Gee, how we
laughed down cellar the night of the bombard-
ment," are common phrases, just as the words,
"guns, shells, aeroplanes and gas," form the
very elements of their education. The better
informed instruct the others, and it is no un-
common occurrence to see a group of five or
six little fellows hanging around a doorway,
listening to a gratuitous lecture on the 75,
given by an elder.

"That's not true," cuts in one. "It's not that
[158]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

at all, the correcteur and the debouchoir are
not the same thing. Not by a long sight! I
ought to know, hadn't I, my father's chief gun-
ner in his battery."

"Ah, go on! Didn't Mr. Dumont who used
to teach the third grade, draw it all out for us
on the blackboard the last time he was home
on leave? What do you take us for? Why
he's even got the Croix de Guerre and the
"Bananna." *

Nor is the communique ignored by these
budding heroes. On the contrary, it is read
and commented upon with fervour.

In a little side street leading to the Seine, I
encountered a ten year old lad, dashing for-
ward, brandishing the evening paper in his
hand.

"Come on, kids, it's time for the communi-
que/' he called to a couple of smaller boys who
were playing on the opposite curb. The chil-
dren addressed (one may have been five, the
other seven, or thereabouts) immediately aban-
doned their marbles, and hastened to join their

* The "Bananna" — slang for the Medaille Militaire
— probably on account of the green and yellow ribbon
on which it hangs.

[159]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

companion, who breathlessly unfolded the
sheet.

"Artillery combats in Flanders " he

commenced.

The little fellows opened their big candid
eyes, their faces were drawn and grave, in an
intense effort of attention. Their mouths
gaped unconsciously. One felt their desire to
understand, to grasp things that were com-
pletely out of reach.

"During the night a spirited attack with
hand grenades in the region of the Four de-
Paris," continued the reader. "We progressed
slightly to the East of Mort Homme, and took
an element of trenches. We captured two
machine guns, and made several prisoners."

"My papa's in Alsace," piped one listener.

"And mine's in the Somme."

"That's all right," inferred the elder. "Isn't
mine at Verdun?" and then proudly, "And
machine gunner at that!"

Then folding his paper and preparing to
move on :

"The news is good — we should worry."

Yes, that's what the little ones understood
best of all, "the news is good," and a wonder-
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A COURTYARD IN MONTMARTRE

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

ful, broad, angelic smile spread out over their
fresh baby faces; a smile so bewitching that I
couldn't resist embracing them — much to their
surprise.

"I just must kiss you," I explained, "be-
cause the news is good!"

From one end to the other of the entire
social scale the children have this self same
spirit.

Seated at the dining-room table, a big spot
of violet ink on one cheek, I found little Jules
Gauthier carefully copying something in a note
book.

"What are you doing there, Jules?"

"Writing in my book, Madame."

"What are you writing?"

"About the war, everything I can remem-
ber."

At that particular moment he was inscribing
an anecdote which he had just heard some one
telling in his mother's drawing room.

"The President of the Republic once asked
General de Castelnau, 'Well, General, what
shall you do after the war is over ?'

'Weep for my sons, Mr. President.' "
[161]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"But, Jules, why do you write such things?"
I queried.

"Because it's splendid, and I put down
everything I know or hear that's beautiful or
splendid."

And true enough, pele mele with portraits-
he had cut out and pasted, plans for aeroplanes
that he had drawn, were copies of extraordi-
nary citations for bravery, memorable dates
and descriptions of battles.

In the Summer of 1915, my friend Jeanne
took her small baby and her daughter Annette,
aged five, to their little country home on the
seashore in Brittany. The father, over military
age, remained in town to look after some pa-
triotic work.

Help was hard to get, and Jeanne not over
strong was torn between household duties and
her infant son, so that Annette, clad in a bath-
ing suit and sweater, spent most of her time
on the beach in company with other small
people of her own years.

Astonished at seeing the little one so much
alone, certain kind-hearted mothers invited
her to partake of their bread, chocolate and
[162]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

other dainties provided for the gouter of
their own offspring, and as the child gladly
and continually accepted, her apparent aban-
don became a subject of conversation, and
they decided to question Annette.

"Where is your mother, dear?"

"She's home, very ill."

"Oh, really. I'm so sorry, what's the
trouble — nothing serious, I hope?"

"I think it must be — you see she has had her
three brothers killed and now grandpa has
enlisted."

"Dear me, how terrible! And your papa?"

"Oh, he's in town working for the govern-
ment. One of his brothers was killed and the
other is blind. Poor old grandma died of the
shock."

Moved by the lamentable plight of so young
a mother, the good ladies sought to penetrate
her seclusion, offer their condolences, and help
lift the cloud of gloom.

Imagine then their surprise at being re-
ceived by my smiling, blond-haired friend, who
failed to comprehend their mournful but as-
tonished looks.

At length Annette's story was brought to
[163]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

light, and Jeanne could but thank them for
their trouble, at the same time explaining that
neither she nor her husband had ever had
brothers, and that their parents had been dead
these many years.

"You naughty, wicked girl!" scolded
Jeanne, as her tearful progeny was led for-
ward. "You wicked, wicked girl — what made
you tell such lies?"

The culprit twisted her hands; her whole
body fairly convulsed with restrained sobs.

"Answer me at once ! Do you hear me?"

Annette hesitated, and then throwing her-
self in her mother's arms, blurted out, "Oh,
mamma, I just couldn't help it! All the
others were so proud of their poilus, and I
haven't any one at the front; not even a god-
son!"

It seems highly probable that children who
have received such an education will ulti-
mately form a special generation. Poor little
things who never knew what "play" meant,
at a time when life should have been all sun-
shine and smiles; tender, sensitive creatures
brought up in an atmosphere of privation and
tears.

[164]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

Those who were between ten and fifteen
years of age at the outbreak of the war have
had a particularly hard time.

In the smaller trades and industries, as well
as on the farms, with a father or an elder
brother absent, these youngsters have been
obliged to leave school or college, and hasten
to the counter or the plough. And not only
have they been called upon to furnish the help-
ing hand, but in times of moral stress they
have often had to give proof of a mature judg-
ment, a courage, a will power, and a fore-
bearance far beyond their years.

After a ten months' absence, when I opened
up my Parisian home, I found it necessary to
change or replace certain electric lighting ar-
rangements. As usual I called up the Maison
Bincteux.

"Bien, Madame, I shall send some one to
look after it."

The next morning my maid announced La
Maison Bincteux.

When I reached the hallway, I found the

aforesaid Maison to be a lad some fifteen years

old, who might easily have passed for twelve,

so slight was his build. His long, pale, oval

[165]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

face, which seemed almost unhealthy, was re-
lieved by a pair of snapping blue eyes.

"Did you bring a letter?"

"Oh, no, Madame, I am Monsieur Binc-
teux's son."

"Then your father is coming later?"

"Oh, no, Madame, he can't, he is mechani-
cian in the aviation corps at Verdun. My
oldest brother is in the artillery, and the second
one has just left for the front — so I quit school
and am trying to help mother continue the
business."

"How old are you?"

"I belong to the Class of 1923," came the
proud reply.

"Oh, I see. Come right in then, I'll show
you what I need."

With a most serious and important air he
produced a note book, tapped on the parti-
tions, sounded the walls, took measures and
jotted down a few lines.

"Very well, Madame, I've seen all that's
necessary. I'll be back to-morrow morning
with a workman."

True to his word he appeared the next day,
accompanied by a decrepit, coughing, asth-
[166]

matic specimen of humanity, who was hardly
worthy of the honorable title his employer had
seen fit to confer.

Our studio is extremely high, and when it
was necessary to stretch out and raise our
double extension ladder, it seemed as though
disaster were imminent.

We offered our assistance, but from the
glance he launched us, I felt quite certain
that we had mortally offended the manager
of the Mcdson Bincteux. He stiffened every
muscle, gave a supreme effort, and up went
the ladder. Truly his will power, his intelli-
gence and his activity were remarkable.

After surveying the undertaking, he made
his calculations, and then addressing his aid:

"We'll have to bore here," he said. "The
wires will go through there, to the left and
we'll put the switches to the right, just above;
go ahead with the work and I'll be back in a
couple of hours."

The old man mumbled something disoblig-
ing.

"Do what I tell you and don't make any
fuss about it. You're better off here than in
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the trenches, aren't you ? We've heard enough
from you, old slacker."

The idea that any one dare insinuate that
he ought to be at the front at his age, fairly
suffocated the aid electrician, who broke into
a fit of coughing.

"Madame, Madame," he gasped. "In the
trenches? Why I'm seventy- three. I've
worked for his father and grandfather before
him — but I've never seen his like! Why only
this very morning he was grumbling because
I didn't ride a bicycle so we could get to places
faster!"

At noon the Mcdson Bincteux reappeared,
accompanied by the General Agent of the
Electric Company. He discussed matters in
detail with this awe inspiring person — ob-
jected, retaliated, and finally terminated his
affairs, leaving us a few moments later, hav-
ing accomplished the best and most rapid job
of its kind I have ever seen.

With the Class of 1919 now behind the lines,
by the time this volume goes to press, there is
little doubt but that the class of 1920 shall
have been called to the colours. All these lads
are the little fellows we used to know in short
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

trousers; the rascals who not so many sum-
mers since climbed to the house-tops, swung
from trees, fell into the river, dropped tor-
pedoes to frighten the horses or who when
punished and locked in their rooms, would
jump out the window and escape.

Then, there were those others, "the good
boys," whose collars and socks were always
immaculate, romantic little natures that would
kiss your hand with so much ceremony and
politeness, blushing if one addressed them af-
fectionately, spending whole days at a time
lost in fantastic reveries.

To us they hardly seem men. And yet they
are already soldiers, prepared to make the
supreme sacrifice, well knowing from father,
brothers or friends who have gone before, all
the grandeur and abnegation through which
their souls must pass to attain but an uncertain
end.

Any number of what we would call mere
children have been so imbued with the spirit
of sacrifice, that they have joined the army
long before their Class was called. Madame
de Martel's grandson, the sons of Monsieur
Barthou, JL<ouis Morin, Pierre Mille, to men-
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

tion but a few in thousands, all fell on the
Field of Honour before attaining their eigh-
teenth year.

And each family will tell you the same
pathetic tale:

"We tried to interest him in his work — we
provided all kinds of amusements; did every-
thing to keep him here ; all to no avail. There
was just one thought uppermost in his mind —
Enlist — Serve. He was all we had!"

Little Jacques Krauss promised his mother
he would not go until he had won his bac-
calaureate, and my friend lived in the hope
that all would be over by the time the "baby"
had succeeded. But, lo! the baby, unknown
to his parents, worked nights, skipped a
year, passed his examination, and left for the
front, aged seventeen years and three months !
He had kept his word. What could they do?

In another household — my friends the G's.,
where two elder sons have already been killed,
there remained as sole heir, a pale, lanky youth
of sixteen.

With the news of his brothers' death the
flame of vengeance kindled, and then began
a regime of overfeeding, physical exercises,
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

and medical supervision, that would have
made many a stouter heart quail.

Every week the family is present when the
chest measure is taken.

"Just one more centimetre, and you'll be
fit!" exclaims the enthusiastic father, while
on the lashes of the smiling mother form two
bright tears which trickle unheeded down her
cheeks.

There reigns a supernatural enthusiasm
among all these youths; an almost sacred fire
burns in their eyes, their speech is pondered
but passionate. They are so glad, so proud
to go. They know but one fear — that of ar-
riving too late.

"We don't want to belong to the Class that
didn't fight."

And with it all they are so childlike and so
simple — these heroes.

One afternoon, in a tea room near the Bon
Marche, I noticed a soldier in an obscure
corner, who, his back turned to us, was finish-
ing with vigorous appetite, a plate of fancy
cakes and pastry. (There was still pastry in
those days — 1917.)

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Good!" thought I. "I'm glad to see some
one who loves cakes enjoying himself!"

The plate emptied, he waited a few minutes.
Then presently he called the attendant.

She leaned over, listened to his whispered
order, smiled and disappeared. A moment
later she returned bearing a second well laden
dish.

It was not long before these cakes too had
gone the way of their predecessors.

I lingered a while anxious to see the face
of this robust sweet tooth, whose appetite had
so delighted me.

He poured out and swallowed a last cup of
tea, paid his bill and rose, displaying as he
turned about a pink and white beardless coun-
tenance, that might have belonged to a boy of
fifteen — suddenly grown to a man during an
attack of measles. On his breast was the Me-
daille Militaire^ and the Croix de Guerre, with
three palms.

This mere infant must have jumped from

his school to an aeroplane. At any rate, I feel

quite certain that he never before had been

allowed out alone with sufficient funds to

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

gratify his youthful passion for sweetmeats
and, therefore, profiting by this first occasion,
had indulged himself to the limit. Can you
blame him?

[ 173 J

VIII

To go from Le Mans to Falaise, from
Falaise to St. Lo; from St. Lo to Morlaix,
and thence to Poitiers would seem very easy
on the map, and with a motor, in times gone
by it was a really royal itinerary, so vastly
different and picturesque are the various
regions crossed. But now that gasolene is
handed out by the spoonful even to sanitary
formations, it would be just as easy for the
civilian to procure a white elephant as to
dream of purchasing sufficient "gas" to make
such a trip.

There is nothing to do but take the train,
and that means of locomotion not only re-
quires time, but patience and considerable
good humour. Railway service in France has
been decidedly reduced, and while travelling
is permitted only to those persons who must
needs do so, the number of plausible motives
alleged has greatly augmented, with the result
that trains are crowded to the extreme limit.
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

To tell the truth, a good third of the popula-
tion is always moving. For how on earth is
one to prevent the parents of a wounded hero
from crossing the entire country to see him, or
deny them the right to visit a lad at his train-
ing camp?

This then accounts for the appearance of
the Breton peasant's beribboned hat and em-
broidered waistcoat on the promenades of the
Riviera, the Arlesian bonnet in the depths of
Normandy, the Pyrenese cap in Lorraine.

All this heterogeneous crowd forms a long
line in front of the ticket office, each one en-
cumbered with a basket or a bag, a carpetsack
or a bundle containing pates and sausages,
pastry and pickles, every known local dainty
which will recall the native village to the dear
one so far away.

It is thus that from Argentan to Caen I
found myself seated between a stout motherly
person from Auvergne, and a little dark man
from whose direction was wafted so strong an
odour of garlic that I had no difficulty discern-
ing from what region he hailed. Next to him
were a bourgeois couple whose mourning at-
tire, red eyes and swollen faces bespoke
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plainly enough the bereavement they had just
suffered. Silent, indifferent to everything
and everybody, their hands spread out on their
knees, they stared into the ghastly emptiness,
vainly seeking consolation for their shattered
dream, their grief -trammelled souls.

A heavily built couple of Norman farmers
occupied the seats on either side of the door,
and then came a tall young girl and her
mother, a Belgian soldier, and finally a
strange old creature wearing an antiquated
starched bonnet, a flowered shawl, and carry-
ing an umbrella such as one sees but in en-
gravings illustrating the modes and customs
of the eighteenth century. She was literally
buried beneath a monumental basket which she
insisted upon holding on her knees.

Every available inch of floor space was cov-
ered with crocks and kits full of provisions,
and in the rack above our heads were so many
boxes and bundles, bags and bales, remaining
aloft by such remarkable laws of equilibrium
that I feared lest any moment they fall upon
our heads, and once this catastrophe occurred
there seemed to be little hope of extricating
oneself from beneath the ruins.
[176]

The conversation was opened by the Nor-
man farmer who offered to relieve the little
old woman of her basket and set it safely be-
tween his feet.

"Oh, non merci" she piped in a thin little
wavering treble, and an inimitable accent
which made it impossible to guess her origin.

"Oh, no, Monsieur, thank you," she con-
tinued. "It's full of cream tarts and cherry
tarts, and custard pies made right in our own
home. I'm taking them to my boy, and as we
stayed up very late to make them so that they
would be quite fresh, I should hate to have
any of them crushed or broken. He did love
them so when he was little!"

"Our son was just the same. As soon as
he was able to eat he begged them to let him
have some brioche. But his fever was too
high when we got there, and he couldn't take
a thing. 'That doesn't matter,' he said to his
mother. 'Just the sight of them makes my
mouth water, and I feel better already.' '

My Provencal neighbour could no longer re-
sist. His natural loquaciousness got the better
of his reserve.

"Well, the first thing my son asked for was
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

olives, so I brought him enough to last, as well
as some sausage which he used to relish. Oh,
if only I could bring him a little bit of our
blue sky, I'm sure he would recover twice as
quickly."

The mother of the young girl now sat for-
ward and asked the Norman farmer's wife
where and how her son had been wounded.

"He had a splinter of shell in his left thigh.
He'd been through the whole campaign with-
out a scratch or a day of illness."

The woman's eyes sparkled with pride and
tenderness.

The short man beside me, who informed me
he was a native of Beaucaire on the Rhone,
had one son wounded and being cared for in
a hospital at Caen, a second prisoner in Ger-
many, and two sons-in-law already killed.

According to a letter which the dear old
flowered shawl spelled out to us word by
word, her grandson had been wounded in
seven diif erent places, and had had one hand
and one leg amputated. But he hastened to
add that he was not worrying a bit about it.

The young girl's mother had one son in the
ranks, and a second, aged seventeen, had en-
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

listed and was about to leave for the front.
She and her daughter were on their Way to
embrace him for the last time.

The Belgian soldier, was just getting about
after an attack of typhoid fever, and the
motherly person on my left was travelling
towards her husband, a territorial of ripe years
whose long nights of vigil beneath bridges and
in the mud of the Somme had brought him
down with inflammatory rheumatism. Their
son, they prayed, was prisoner — having
been reported missing since the 30th of
August, 1914. This coarse, heavy featured
woman of the working classes, cherished her
offspring much as a lioness does her young.
She told us she had written to the President
of the Republic, to her Congressman, her
Senator, to the King of Spain, the Norwegian
Ambassador, to the Colonel of the Regiment,
as well as to all the friends of her son on whose
address she had been able to lay hand; and
she would keep right on writing until she ob-
tained some result, some information. She
could not, would not, admit that her boy was
lost; and scarcely stopping to take breath she
would ramble on at length, telling of her hopes
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

and her disappointments to which all the com-
partment listened religiously while slowly the
train rolled along through the smiling, undu-
lating Norman country.

Each one did what he could to buoy up the
mother's hopes.

The little Southerner seemed to possess a
countless number of stories about prisoners,
and he presently proceeded to go into minute
detail about the parcels he sent to his own son,
explaining the regulation as to contents, meas-
ures and weights, with so much ,volubility that
the good soul already saw herself preparing a
package to be forwarded to her long lost dar-
ling.

"You can just believe that he'll never want
for anything — if clothes and food will do him
any good. There's nothing on earth he can't
have if only we can find him, if only he comes
back to us."

And growing bolder as she felt the wealth
of sympathy surrounding her, she looked over
and addressed the woman in mourning, who at
that moment smiled gently at her.

"We thought we knew how much we loved
them, didn't we, Madame? But we'd never
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

have realised how really deep it was if it hadn't
been for this war, would we?"

The woman continued to smile sadly.

"More than likely you've got somebody in
it too," persisted the stout Auvergnate, whose
voice suddenly became very gentle and trem-
bled a trifle.

"I had three sons. We have just buried the
last one this morning."

All the faces dropped and a ghastly silence
fell upon the group. Each one looked straight
into the distance ahead of him, but the bond
of sympathy was drawn still tighter, and in
the moment of stillness that ensued I felt that
all of us were communing with Sorrow.

Between Folligny and Lamballe, we were
quite as closely huddled between three soldiers
on furlough, a stout old priest, a travelling
salesman, and a short gentleman with a
pointed beard, a pair of eyeglasses and an up-
turned nose.

At one moment our train halted and waited
an incredible length of time vainly whistling
for the tower-man to lift the signal which im-
peded our progress.

[181]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

The travelling salesman who was cross and
weary finally left his seat, grumbling audibly.

"We'll never in the world get there on time.
It's certain I shall miss my connection! What
a rotten road! What management!"

"It's the war," murmered the priest pulling
out a red checked handkerchief in which he
buried his nose.

"You don't have to look far to see that,"
responded the other, still grumbling.

"Oh, it's plain enough for us all right.
Those who are handling government jobs are
the only fellows who don't know it, I should
say."

"Bah! each of us has his troubles — each of
us has his Cross to bear," murmured the Father
by way of conciliation, casting his eyes around
the compartment, much as he would have done
upon the faithful assembled to hear him hold
forth.

"Pooh! it's you priests who are the cause of
all the trouble. It was you who preached and
got the three year service law voted."

The poor Curate was fairly suffocated with
surprise and indignation. He was so ruffled
he could hardly find a word. In the mean-
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

time the travelling salesman taking advantage
of his silence, continued :

"Yes, it was you and the financiers, and it's
nothing to brag about either!"

The man with the upturned nose now
wheeled about sharply. His blood was up and
he strangely resembled a little bantam cock-
erel.

"Monsieur," he snapped, and his voice was
clear and cutting, "if any one had a right to
express a complaint on any subject whatso-
ever, it would certainly be the soldiers who are
seated in this compartment. Now as they
have said nothing, I cannot admit that you,
a civilian, should take such liberties."

"But, Monsieur—

"Yes, Monsieur, that's exactly what I mean,
and as to the sentiments to which you have
given voice they are as stupid as they are
odious. We all know now that war was in-
evitable. The Germans have been preparing
it for forty years."

"Monsieur!"

"Monsieur!"

The two glared fixedly at each other for an
instant; the one was very red, the other ex-
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

tremely pale. Then they turned about and re-
sumed their places in each corner. The priest
produced his breviary, the soldiers finished
a light repast composed of bread and cheese.

They were all three peasants, easily dis-
cernible from the way they slowly chewed and
swallowed, or caught up a crumb of cheese on
the point of their knives. They had sat silent
and listened to the outbursts without turning
an eyelash. Then presently one of them lifted
his head and addressing his companions in a
deep bass voice:

"Well," said he, "this makes almost two
days now that we've been on the way!"

"What have you got to kick about?" re-
taliated the other, shutting his knife and wiping
his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're
as well off here as you were in the trenches of
Bois Le Pretre, aren't you?"

The third one said nothing, but recom-
menced carving a cane which he had aban-
doned for an instant, and which he was ter-
minating with more patience than art, though
the accomplishment of his task seemed to give
him infinite pleasure.

As the commercial traveller had predicted,
[184]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

we were hours late and in consequence missed
our connection, but the platform of a station
where two lines meet, offers, under such cir-
cumstances, so diverse and diverting a spec-
tacle that we hardly regretted the delay. It
is here that any one interested in physiognomy
can best study and judge the masses, for it
is as though the very texture from which
France is woven were laid bare before him.
This spectacle is constantly changing, con-
stantly renewed, at times deeply moving. No
face can be, or is, indifferent, in these days
and one no longer feels himself a detached
individual observer; one becomes an atom of
the crowd, sharing the anxiety of certain
women that one knows are on their way to a
hospital and who half mad with impatience
are clutching the fatal telegram in one hand,
while with the fingers of the other they thrum
on one cheek or nervously catch at a button or
ornament of their clothing.

Or again one may participate in the hilari-
ous joy of the men on furlough, who having
discovered the pump, stand stripped to the
waist, making a most meticulous toilet, all the
while teasing a fat, bald-headed chap to whom
[185]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

they continuously pass their pocket combs
with audible instructions to be sure to put his
part on the left side.

The waiting-rooms literally overflow with
soldiers — some stretched out on the benches,
some on the floor; certain lying on their laces,
others on their backs, and still others pillowing
their heads on their knapsacks.

One feels their overpowering weariness,
their leaden sleep after so many nights of
vigil; their absolute relaxation after so many
consecutive days in which all the vital forces
have been stretched to the breaking point.

From time to time an employe opens the
door and shouts the departure of a train. The
soldiers rouse themselves, accustomed to being
thus disturbed in the midst of their slumber.
One or two get up, stare about them, collect
their belongings and start for the platform,
noiselessly stepping over their sleeping com-
panions. At the same time newcomers, creep-
ing in behind them, sink down into the places
which they have just forsaken, while they are
still warm.

On a number of baggage trucks ten or a
dozen Moroccan soldiers have seated them-
[ 186 ]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

selves, crosslegged, and draped in their noble
burnous, they gently puff smoke into the air,
without a movement, without a gesture, with-
out a sound, apparently utterly oblivious to
the noisy employes, or the thundering of the
passing trains.

On the platform people walk up and down,
up and down; certain among them taking a
marked interest in the old-fashioned, wheez-
ing locomotives which seem fairly to stagger
beneath the long train of antiquated coaches
hitched behind them.

Here, of course, are to be found the tradi-
tional groups in evidence at every station; a
handful of people in deep mourning on their
way to a funeral; a little knot of Sisters of
Charity, huddled together in an obscure cor-
ner reciting their rosary; families of refugees
whom the tempest has driven from their homes
— whole tribes dragging with them their old
people and their children who moan and weep
incessantly. Their servants loaded down with
relics saved from the disaster in heavy, clumsy,
ill-tied bundles, are infinitely pitiable to be-
hold. They are all travelling straight ahead of
them with no determined end in view. They
[187]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

seem to have been on the way so long, and yet
they are in no haste to arrive. Hunger gnaw-
ing them, they produce their provisions, and
having seated themselves on their luggage,
commence a repast, eating most slowly, the
better to kill time while 'waiting for a train
that refuses to put in an appearance.

The buffet is so full of noise, smoke and
various other odours, that having opened the
door one hesitates before entering. There is
a long counter where everything is sold ; bread,
wine, cider, beer and lemonade; sandwiches,
pates, fruit and sweetmeats. One makes his
choice and pays in consequence. At the side
tables the civilians are lost mid the mass of blue
uniforms.

This is a station in Normandy, and for the
boys of this region nothing can substitute a
good big bowl of hot vegetable soup, seasoned
with the famous graisse normande and
poured over thin slices of bread, the whole
topped off with a glass of cider or "pure
juice" as they call it. It is a joy to see them
seated about the board, their elbows on the
table, their heads bent forward over the steam-
ing bowl, whose savoury perfume as it rises to
[188]

MONSIEUR AMED£

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

their nostrils seems to carry with it a veritable
ecstasy, if one were to judge by the beatific
expression on every countenance.

"That goes right to the spot, doesn't it?"

From another table a voice responds:

"Yes, fellows, it's better than a kick in the
shins, every time !"

The last mouthful gone, the cider bottles
empty, they tighten the straps of their kit bags
and rise regretfully from their seats.

"Allez. Off again, boys! C'est la guerre!''
and they shuffle away humming and filling
their pipes.

From the direction of the buvette, or
bar comes noisy laughter followed by oaths.
The uncertain voice of a seemingly intoxicated
individual dominates all others. Yet nothing
but soft drinks are sold.

"As the Colonel of the 243rd used to say,"
it continues, 'Soldiers of my regiment, repose
upon your arms !' My arms are the bottle ! My
bottle and my wife are the only things worth
while when I'm on furlough. I "

His voice disappeared an instant, dimmed
by the rising tumult. Then suddenly it broke
forth anew —

[189]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Attention! Present arms, here comes a
coal scuttle. Now then, — flatten out on the
back of your stomach!"

An instant later the man appeared at the
threshold of the dining room.

He was a heavily built, big jointed, husky
Norman farmer-soldier, with his helmet
pulled down low over his eyes, so that the
upper part of his face was completely hidden
from view.

Suddenly he pushed it far back on his head,
and casting a sweeping glance over the as-
sembled diners, he called forth in stentorian
tones that made every one turn around :

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!"

The cashier behind the counter, who evi-
dently foresaw trouble, called out to him in
shrill tones:

"You've made a mistake, go back to the
buvette. You've nothing to do out here!"

Removing his helmet, the gallant knight
made the lady a sweeping bow.

"Your servant, Madame. Your humble
servant," he continued. "Cyprien Fremont,
called Cyp for short."

"Did you hear what I said? Now then,
[190]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

take yourself off ," cried the ungracious adored
one.

But the poilu was not to be so silenced.

Putting his hand to his heart and addressing
the assembly:

"Ungrateful country!" he cried, "is it thus
that you receive your sons who shed their blood
for you?"

"That's all right, but go and tell it else-
where. Go on, I say!"

"I've only got one more word to say and
then it will be over."

But before he could utter that word his
companions seized him and dragged him back
from whence he came. As he disappeared
from view, we heard him announce his inten-
tion of "doing some stunts" — which offer was
apparently joyously accepted, followed by
more laughter and several "dares."

Suddenly the most terrific noise of falling
and breaking glass and china brought every
one to his feet. Excited voices could be heard
from the direction in which Cyprien had van-
ished. The army police dashed in, followed
by the station master and all the employes.
A lengthy discussion was begun, and having
[191]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

finished our dinner we left matters to adjust
themselves and sauntered forth onto the plat-
form.

Here we found our Cyprien surrounded by
his companions, who were busy disinfecting
and binding up the wounds that he had re-
ceived when the china cabinet had collapsed
upon him. One of the men poured the tincture
of iodine onto a hand held fast by a friend.
Two others were rolling a bandage about his
head, while the patient, far from subdued,
waved the only free but much enveloped hand
that he possessed, beating time to the air that
he was literally shouting and in whose rather
bald verse the station master's wife was ac-
cused of the grossest infidelity.

"Shh! Cyprien," his friends enjoined; "shut
up a bit, can't you?"

But it was no easy thing to impose silence
upon Cyprien when he had made up his mind
to manifest a thought or an opinion.

"You'll get us all into trouble, old man,
see if you don't. Cut it out, won't you? See,
here comes an officer."

The officer approached them.

"It's not his fault, sir," began one of the
[192]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

fellows, before his superior had time to ask a
question. "I assure you, it's not his fault.
He's just back from Saloniki — his first fur-
lough in a year, sir. It must have gone to his
head. I swear he hasn't had anything but
cider to drink, sir."

"But that's no excuse for making all this
noise. Show me his military book!"

The officer took it, ran through the pages,
and then approached Cyprien.

At the sight of the gold braid Cyprien stood
up and saluted.

"Before you went to Saloniki, I see you
fought at Verdun."

"Yes, sir.".

"And at Beausejour?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Vauquois?"

"Yes, sir."

The eyes of the two veterans met; the offi-
cer's glance seeking to pierce that of the sol-
dier in front of him. Then suddenly, in an
irresistible burst of sympathy and respect, he
thrust out his hand and caught up one of
Cyprien's bandaged pair.

"I was there, too," was all he said.
[193]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

Instantly sobered, our hero straightened
up and literally crushed his superior's fingers
in his mighty fist.

"Come with me," said the officer; "I know
a place where you can rest until it's time to
leave. And you boys here," said he turning
towards them, "you'll see to it that he doesn't
miss his train."

Night, inky black, fathomless night, had
now settled about us. In the distance one
could just discern the red and green signal
lamps — at jcloser range the burning tip of a
cigar or cigarette. The soldiers turned up
their collars. The wind shifting to the north
was piercing cold. One had to walk briskly
up and down to avoid becoming chilled. Way
at the other end of the platform the flare of
fugitive matches revealed shadows moving
about as though searching for something upon
the ground.

"What are you looking for?"

"A third-class return ticket for Royan.
That old lady over there has lost hers."

We turned about to see a poor old wrinkled
soul, in her native Norman costume, wringing
her hands in distress.

[194]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"What a misfortune! Oh dear, oh dear,
what a misfortune ! What will become of me
now? What shall I do?"

And to each inquisitive newcomer she bab-
bled forth her story of a wounded grandson
whom she was on her way to visit. The curate
and another man of her village had seen to her
expenses. They had purchased her ticket and
handed it to her with strict instructions not to
lose it. For safety's sake she had knotted it
in the corner of her handkerchief — and now it
wasn't there!

The inquirer then examined her handker-
chief, made her stand up and shake her cloth-
ing, turn her pockets inside out, empty her
baskets and her handbag; and still not
willing to trust the thoroughness of his pre-
decessors he would begin looking all over the
immediate vicinity, match in hand. So pres-
ently nearly two hundred men, forgetting their
soreness and fatigue, were down on their knees
scouring every nook and cranny. The sleepers
were awakened, the drinkers routed out and
put to work, scanning every inch of ground.

A loud and persistent ringing of an electric
bell sounded on the air.

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Hey there, fellows!" called a tall Zouave.
"Get together, the train is announced, and
since we can't find grandma's ticket we can't
leave the old girl alone in the dark, so come
on, chip in — we'll make it up to her. She says
it cost forty-two francs and ten centimes. Are
you ready?"

And removing his helmet he started to make
the rounds. In an instant coppers and silver
rang in the steel recipient.

"Stop! that's enough."

They retired to count.

"Chic — there's some left over!"

"Never mind, she'll buy something for the
kid with it."

Some one purchased the ticket.

"There now, grandma, a new ticket and
enough to buy your boy a cake with, so you
should worry! But as you're too young to
travel alone, we're going to take you in with
us. We just happen to be going your way.
Here Ballut, Langlois! Quick there — take
her baskets. Now then, don't let go my arm —
here comes the train. Sh! don't cry, there's
nothing to bawl about, we're all good fellows —
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

all of us got grandmas who'd make just as big
fools of themselves if they had to travel."

And with infinite care and tenderness a
dozen hands hoisted their precious burden into
the dimly lighted wooden-benched compart-
ment.

Yes, travelling in France under such circum-
stances is to me more interesting than ever, for
when it is not one's fellow passengers who hold
the attention, there are always those thousand
and one outside incidents which the eye retains
involuntarily. War factories and munition
plants sprung from the ground as though by
magic; immense training camps in course of
construction, aviation fields over which so clev-
erly hover those gigantic, graceful war birds,
who on catching sight of the train fly low and
delight the astonished passengers by throwing
them a greeting, or, challenging the engineer,
enter into a race. •

But above all, there is the natural pano-
rama; that marvellous succession of hills and
vales, hamlets and rivers, fields and gardens,
so wonderfully harmonious beneath the pearl
tinted sky. How it all charms and thrills, and
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how near the surface is one's emotion on hear-
ing a soldier voice exclaim:
"What a country to die for!"

So the hours sped by, and at length we
reached our destination. P is a flourish-
ing little city, perched on the side of a rocky
hill, with a broad landscape spreading out at
its feet.

The best hotel is called "L'hotel des
Hommes Illustres" — and its fa9ade is adorned
with the statues of the above mentioned gen-
tlemen carved in stone. The proprietor, who
built the edifice and paid the bill, having been
sole judge in the choice of celebrities, the re-
sult is as astonishing as it is eclectic, and
though absolutely devoid of beauty, thoroughly
imposing.

We arrived before our luggage, which was
conveyed by so old and puffy a horse that we
considered it criminal not to leave our cab and
finish the hill on foot. At the top of a monu-
mental staircase we entered the hotel office,
behind whose desk were enthroned two per-
sons of most serious aspect ; the one, stout and
florid of complexion with a long nose and an
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allure worthy of Louis XIV, proudly bore
upon her head such an extraordinary quantity
of blond hair arranged in so complicated a
fashion that I trembled to think of the time
required to dress it. The other, sallow faced,
with a long curved chin, might have been taken
for a Spanish Infanta, pickled in vinegar and
allspice.

The formality of greetings accomplished,
princess number one produced a book in which
we were to sign our names. The dignity and
importance she attached to this ceremony
would certainly not have been misplaced in a
Grand Chamberlain preparing the official reg-
ister for the signature of Peace prelimi-
naries.

This, together with the manner in which
she took note of our names, drying them with
a spoonful of gold sand, gave me the illusion
that I had just performed some important
rite.

"One or two rooms?" she queried.

"One big room, Madame."

"With or without bath?" demanded the co-
adjutor, whose voice possessed a contralto
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quality utterly out of keeping with her pale
blond hair and complexion.

"With bath, please."

A new register was opened. Both bent over
it closely, each showing the other a different
paragraph with her fore finger. Finally they
murmured a few inaudible syllables and then
shook their heads.

"Would you prefer number six or number
fourteen?" finally asked the Infanta.

We looked at each other in astonishment,
neither being superstitious about numbers, but
it would have been painful to announce to these
ladies that /the matter was totally indifferent to
us. They had been so condescending as to
allow us a choice.

"Number six has a balcony and two win-
dows. Number fourteen has one window and
a bathroom," the princess informed us.

"But," continued the Infanta, "it is our
duty to inform you that hot water has been
forbidden by the municipal authorities, and
that cold water is limited to two pitchers per
person, per room."

I said I would take number six, which ar-
rangement terminated the ladies' mental in-
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

decision, and seemed to please them greatly.
They smiled benignly upon us.

The smaller one, whom I have called the
coadjutor, because her throne was less ele-
vated than the princess', put her finger on a
button and a violent ringing broke the silence
of the vast hallway. No one answered.

Three times she repeated the rings, with an
imperious movement.

"Be kind enough to go and call Monsieur
Amede, Mademoiselle Laure."

On her feet, Mademoiselle Laure was even
smaller than when seated. She crossed the
vestibule, opened a door, and her strong voice
resounded along an empty corridor from
which issued the odour of boiling cauliflower.

"Monsieur Amede!" she shouted anew, but
not even an echo responded.

"Mademoiselle Laure, ask for the head
waiter."

Mademoiselle Laure recrossed the vestibule
and opening a door diametrically opposed to
the other, called:

"Monsieur Balthazard!"

Monsieur Balthazard appeared, his shirt
sleeves rolled up beyond his elbow, wiping his
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

hands on a blue gingham apron. He was a
little slim man who may have been sixty years
old. A glass eye gave him a sardonic, comic
or astonished air, according to the way he used
his good one, which was constantly moving, at
the same time that it was clear and piercing.

"Monsieur Balthazard — what an attire for a
head waiter!"

"Madame/ 1 was just rinsing the wine bar-
rels."

"And how about the errands for the people
in rooms twenty-four and twenty-seven."

A noise at the hall door attracted our at-
tention. It was as though some one were
making desperate and fruitless attempts to
open it.

"There he is now," exclaimed Monsieur
Balthazard. "I'll go and let him in. He's
probably got his hands full."

Monsieur Amede, literally swamped be-
neath his bundles, staggered into the vesti-
bule. To the different errands confided to
his charge by the hotel's guests had undoubt-
edly been added the cook's list, for an enor-
mous cabbage and a bunch of leeks completely
[202]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

hid his face, which was uncovered only as he
let them fall to the ground.

When he had finally deposited his treas-
ures, we discovered a small lad about fourteen
or fifteen years of age, dressed in a bellboy's
uniform which had been made for some one far
more corpulent of stature. The sleeves
reached far down over his hands, the tight fit-
ting, gold buttoned jacket strangely resem-
bled a cross between a bag and an overcoat,
and though a serious reef had been taken in
the trousers at the waist line, the legs would
twist and sway — at times being almost as am-
ple as those worn by the Turkish sultanas.

Our coachman now arrived with our lug-

" Monsieur Amede, take this luggage and
accompany Monsieur and Madame to num-
ber six."

The child gathered up his new burden and
started upstairs.

We followed, helping him pick up the va-
rious objects which successively escaped his
grasp.

"Goodness, it seems to me you're awfully
young to be doing such heavy work!"
[203]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Oh," said he, wiping his brow, "I'm very
lucky. My mother is cook here, and Monsieur
Balthazard is my uncle. With old fat Julia,
the maid, and Mathilde, the linen woman, we're
all that's left. All the men have gone to war,
and the women into the powder mills. We
keep the hotel going, we do."

Monsieur Amede was full of good will, and
a desire to help me all he could. He explained
to us that he was now building the solid foun-
dation of a future whose glories he hardly dare
think, so numerous and unfathomable did they
seem. Unfortunately, however, we were
obliged to note that he seemed little gifted for
the various occupations to which he had conse-
crated his youth — and his glorious future—
for in less than five minutes he had dropped a
heavy valise on my toes, and upset an ink-
well, whose contents dripped not only onto the
carpet but onto one of my new bags. In try-
ing to repair damages, Monsieur Amede
spoiled my motor veil and got several large
spots on the immaculate counterpane, after
which he bowed himself out, wiping his hands
on the back of his jacket, assuring us that
there was no harm done, that no one would
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

scold us, nor think of asking us for damages.

We saw him again at dinner time, when
disguised as a waiter he passed the different
dishes, spilling sauce down people's necks,
tripping on his apron and scattering the hand-
some pyramids of fruit hither and yon. Lastly
he took a plunge while carrying out an over-
loaded tray, but before any one could reach
him he was on his feet, bright and smiling, ex-
claiming:

"I'm not hurt. No harm done. I'll just
sweep it up. It won't stain."

In the meantime quiet, skilful Uncle Bal-
thazard strained every nerve in a herculean
effort to keep his temper and serve thirty per-
sons all at once.

It was touching to hear the old man mur-
mur, "Gently, boy — go gently," as his youth-
ful protege stumbled from one blunder to an-
other. "Go gently, you can be so clever when
you're not in a hurry !"

Monsieur Amede almost caused us to miss
the train next evening in spite of the numer-
ous warnings from the princess behind the
desk, who had arranged the hour of our de-
parture. That brilliant young man who had
[205]

been sent ahead with our luggage was no-
where to be found when our train was an-
nounced. My husband, a woman porter, a sol-
dier on furlough who knew him, started out to
scour the immediate surroundings of the sta-
tion, finally locating him in a backyard near the
freight depot, his hands in his pockets, ex-
citedly following a game of nine-pins at which
a group of convalescent African soldiers was
playing.

Of course he immediately explained that
there was no harm done since the train was
twenty minutes late, and when finally it arrived
and he handed our baggage into the compart-
ment, he accidentally let slip a little wooden box
containing an old Sevres vase, which I had
purchased at an antiquity dealer's that very
morning.

He picked it up, exclaiming:

"Lucky it's not fragile."

And lifting his cap, on whose visor one
might read "Hotel des Hommes Illustres," he
cheerfully wished us a Bon voyage.

[206]

IX

BEFORE the war it used to be Aunt Rose's
victoria that met us at the station; a victoria
drawn by a shiny span and driven by pompous
old Joseph, the coachman, clad in a dark green,
gold-buttoned livery and wearing a cockade on
his hat. Aunt Rose's coachman, and the Swiss
at Notre Dame were classed among the curi-
osities of the city, as could be attested by the
numerous persons who hastened to their door-
step to see the brilliant equipage pass by.

But this time we found the victoria relegated
beside the old "Berline" which Aunt Rose's
great-grandmother had used to make a jour-
ney to Italy; the horses had been sent out to
the farm, where they were needed, and Joseph,
fallen from the glory of his box, attired in a
striped alpaca vest, and wearing a straw hat,
half civilian, half servant, seemed a decidedly
puffy old man, much aged since our last visit.

"Monsieur and Madame will be obliged to
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take the omnibus. Will Monsieur kindly give
me the baggage check?"

Then as I fumbled in my purse —

"Monsieur and Madame will find many
changes, I fear."

But in spite of his prophecy to us there
seemed little difference. The rickety old
omnibus rattled and bumped noisily over the
pointed cobble pavements, the tiny city merely
seemed asleep behind its drawn blinds and its
closed shutters. At the corner of the square in
front of the chateau the old vegetable vendor
still sold her products seated beneath her
patched red cotton parasol; the Great Dane
watchdog lay in exactly the same place on the
tinker's doorstep. Around the high church
tower the crows circled and cawed as usual,
while the bell of its clock which, as we passed,
slowly struck three, was echoed by the distant
hills with the same familiar sound.

The omnibus deposited us at the entrance
to the big roomy edifice which Aunt Rose
called "home."

The broad fa9ade, evenly pierced by its
eighteen long French windows, had a genial,
inviting appearance, while the soft rose colour
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

of the bricks, the white stone trimming, the iron
balconies, mingled here and there with bas-
reliefs and sculptures, were in perfect har-
mony with the tall slanting slate roof and ma-
jestic chimneys, the whole forming one of those
delightful ensembles constructed by local
architects during the 17th century for the
pleasure and comfort of a large French bour-
geois family.

Aunt Rose herself, leaning upon an ivory-
headed cane, but bright eyed and alert as ever,
awaited us at the top of the steps. From her
we soon learned that we had missed our friends
the M.'s by but a day, and that little Andre,
son of our cousins in Flers, had announced his
visit for the following Monday.

At this point Friquet, her old Pomeranian
favourite, crept down from his cushion and ap-
proached us.

"He doesn't bark any more, so you knorr
he must be getting old," smiled Aunt Rose,
caressing her pet.

"My poor Victoire is getting on, too, I fear.
Her nephew is stone blind since the battle of
the Marne. Joseph has lost two of his grand-
sons; of course, he didn't tell you — he doesn't
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

want any one to speak of it — but he's very
much upset by it. Nicholas and Armandine do
nothing but worry about their poor little
Pierre, who hasn't given a sign of life for three
months now — so I fear you will have to be very
patient and very indulgent guests."

The delightful old lady led us to our
room, "the psyche room" we, the youngsters,
used to call it on account of the charming
grisaille wall paper, dating from the end
of the Empire period, and representing in
somewhat stiff but none the less enchanting
manner the amorous adventures of that god-
dess.

I have always had a secret feeling that many
a time, urged by her confessor, Madame
de C. had been upon the point of obliter-
ating or removing those extremely chaste
nude images. But at the last moment rose
up the horror of voluntarily changing anything
in the homestead, transforming a whole room
that she always had known thus, and perhaps
the unavowed fear of our ridicule and re-
proach, had made her renounce her project.

"Brush up quickly, and come right down to
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tea. We've got so many things to talk over.
You've so much to tell me!"

So a quarter of an hour later, tea-cup in
hand, we must needs go into the details of our
trips, inform her of our hopes and fears, tell
of all the different things we had seen — what
America was going to do — what it had already
accomplished. And with her marvellously
quick understanding, her vivacious intelli-
gence, the old lady classified the facts and the
anecdotes, asked us to repeat dates and num-
bers, that she might the better retain them in
her splendid memory.

All through dinner and the long evening
she plied us with questions, kept the conversa-
tion running along the same lines, returning
now and then to a certain theme, or certain fig-
ures, and asking us to go into even more
detail.

"I know I'm an abominable old egoist," at
length she apologised. "But you'd forgive
me if only you realised how much happiness
your stories will bring, and to how many peo-
ple. I imagine that you haven't had much
time for correspondence with our family — but
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

that's all an old woman like myself is good for
these days."

"Our family" consisted in relationship to the
'nth degree of all the H's, de C's, B's and F's
that were then in existence, some of them such
distant cousins that Aunt Rose herself would
never have recognised them had they met. And
besides these people there were her friends, her
servants, her farmers, possibly a group of three
hundred persons with whom the good soul cor-
responded, giving news of the ones to the
others, announcing misfortunes or joys — a liv-
ing link between us all.

Left a widow when still quite young, Aunt
Rose had lived with and respected the mem-
ory of her husband. Though she had had
many an offer, she had never cared to remarry.
But unable to stand the damp climate of Nor-
mandy, she had returned to her family home-
stead in this little city of the Bourbonnais, in
whose suburbs she possessed quite a fortune in
farm lands. Alone in the world, with no im-
mediate family, she had devoted herself not
only to her own, but to her husband's relatives.
Her home had always been the havre de grace,
known and venerated by them all; a meeting
[212]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

place for reconciliation between persons whose
self-control had escaped them; the shelter for
prodigal and repentant sons who awaited the
forgiveness of their justly wrathful sires; the
comforting haven that seemed to assuage the
pangs of departure and bereavement. But
above all it was the one spot for properly cele-
brating family anniversaries, announcing en-
gagements, and spending joyous vacations.

The war had been the cause of a great deal
of hard work in this respect.

"Why, I receive more letters than a State
functionary," Aunt Rose informed me when
I came upon her early the next morning, al-
ready installed behind her huge flat-topped
desk, her tortoise-shell spectacles tipped down
towards the end of her very prominent nose.

"For nearly four years I've been writing
on the average of twenty letters a day and I
never seem to catch up with my correspond-
ence. Why, I need a secretary just to sort
out and classify it. You haven't an idea the
different places that I hear from. See, here
are your letters from the United States. Leon
is in the Indo-Chinese Bank in Oceania. Al-
bert is mobilised at Laos, Quentin in Mo-
[213]

rocco. Jean-Paul and Marcel are fighting
at Saloniki; Emilien in Italy. Marie is Su-
perior in a convent at Madrid; Madeline,
Sister of Charity at Cairo. You see I've a
world-wide correspondence.

"Look," she continued, opening a deep
drawer in one side of her desk, "here are the
letters from my poilus and, of course, these
are only the answered ones. The dear boys just
love to write and not one of them misses a
week without doing so. I'm going to keep
them all. Their children may love to have
them some day."

Then she opened a smaller drawer, and my
eye fell upon a dozen or fifteen packages, all
different in size and each one enveloped in
white tissue paper, carefully tied about with
grey silk ribbon.

"These were written by our dear departed,"
she said simply.

In an instant they passed before my eyes,
those "dear departed." Big, tall William,
so gay and so childish, he who used to play the
ogre or the horse, or anything one wished: a
person so absolutely indispensable to their
games that all the little folk used to- gather
[214]

FLOCKING TO READ THE COMING
COMMUNIQUE IN A LITTLE
FRENCH CITY

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

beneath his window early in the morning, cry-
ing in chorus: "Uncle William! Uncle Wil-
liam! do wake up and come down and play!"

Jean-Fran9ois, the engineer; Philippe, the
architect; Honore, whom we dubbed "Des-
honore," because he used always to return
empty-handed when we went hunting together.
Gone, gone forever !

Aunt Rose picked up one of the smaller
packages.

"These were from little Jacques." And two
bright tears trembled on her lashes.

"You remember him, of course, my dear.
He was an orphan, he never knew his mother.
I always supposed that is what made him so
distant and reserved. Jean, his guardian, who
is very severe, used to treat him as he did his
own children — scolding him often about his
indolence, his lack of application to his studies.

"I used to have him here with me during his
vacations. He loved this old house — and I
knew it. Sometimes when you would all start
out for some excursion I'd see him coming
back towards the gate:

'You're not going with them then,
Jacques ?'

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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

" 'No, thank you, Aunt Rose, it's so nice in
your drawing-room.'

"When he was just a little baby I often
wanted to take him onto my lap and laugh and
play with him. But he was so cold and dis-
tant! A funny little mite, even with boys of
his own age. Nobody seemed to understand
him exactly; certain people even thought that
his was a surly nature.

"He spent his last furlough here, and I
found quite a change in him. He was more ro-
bust and tanned. A splendid looking fellow,
and I was so proud of him.

' 'Aunt Rose,' he asked even before we em-
braced, 'is there any one else stopping with
jou?'

'Why no, child, and I'm afraid you'll find
the house very empty. If only I'd known you
were coming I most certainly should have in-
vited your cousins.'

' 'Oh, I'm so glad you didn't! I much pre-
fer being alone with you.'

"He came and went in the house, but never
could be persuaded to go outside the yard. I
should have loved to have taken him with me
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

and shown his War Cross to some of my old
friends. But he wouldn't hear of it.

' 'Pooh!' he would laugh when I would sug-
gest such a thing. 'If ever they come near
me I'll tell them I've got "trench pest" — and
then you'll see them clear out.'

"He went down in the kitchen and I'd hear
him pottering around. I never knew him so
gay and happy.

'Tante Rose, I'm going to sing you "La
Madelon" and the "Refrain de la Mitraille."
It was Planchet, the tinsmith, who composed
it!'

"He'd sit for hours in that big blue arm-
chair, blinking at the fire, and then suddenly
he'd come to earth and explain:

' 'Aunt Rose, what a pleasure to be here.'

"When finally he had to go back, he caught
me and whispered in my ear, as I kissed him:

" 'Next time, Tante, you promise me not to
invite any one, won't you?'

"Poor child, he will never come back, and
his friend Planchet, the tinsmith, saw him fall
with a bullet through his heart. It was he who
wrote me the sad news.

"Well, my dear, what mystery the soul hides
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

within itself! In one of the cupboards of the
room he occupied I found two note books and
a diary filled with verses he had never shown
to any one, never admitted having written.
How little we guessed what he was about when
we scolded him for his indolence and inatten-
tion. If you only knew what accents, what
harmonious phrases he found to depict the
shades of our trees, the rippling of the river,
the perfume of the flowers and his love for us
all.

"There is a whole chapter devoted to the old
homestead. He seemed to feel everything, di-
vine everything, explain everything. None
of us understood him. There is no use pre-
tending we did. Not one among us would ever
have guessed that so splendid and delicate a
master of the pen lived and moved amongst
us."

Aunt Rose looked straight out onto the sun-
lit court, the great tears trickling down her
cheeks.

For a long time neither of us spoke.

Like its mistress, Aunt Rose's home lives to
serve the war. The culinary realm is always
[218]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

busily engaged preparing pates and galan-
tines, rillettes and sausages. "For our boys,"
is the answer almost before the question is put.
"They're so glad to get home-made dainties,
and are always clamouring for more — no mat-
ter how much you send!

"Since they must eat preserved food, we
might as well send them something we make
ourselves, then we're sure it's the best. Why,
I'd be ashamed to go out and buy something
and send it off without knowing who had
handled it." This was the cook's idea of pa-
triotism, which I shared most heartily, having
at one time had nothing but "bully beef" and
dried beans as constant diet for nearly a fort-
night.

The coachman and inside man sealed the
crocks and tins, prepared and forwarded the
packages,

"Oh, there's one for everybody! Even the
boys of the city who haven't got a family to
look after them. They must be mighty glad
Madame's alive. We put in one or two post
cards, views of the town. That cheers them
up and makes them feel they're not forgotten

here in R ."

[219]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

One afternoon on descending into the
kitchen we beheld two sturdy looking fellows
seated at table and eating with ravenous ap-
petite. One was an artilleryman who had but
a single arm, the other a chasseur, whose
much bandaged leg was reposing upon a
stool.

"They are wounded men on convalescent
leave," explained Armandine. "The poor fel-
lows need a little humouring so that they'll
build up the quicker, and an extra meal surely
can't hurt!"

This was certainly the opinion of the two
invalids who had just disposed of a most gen-
erous bacon omelet, and were about to dig
into a jar of pate.

Armandine and Nicholas watched them eat
with evident admiration, fairly drinking up
their words when between mouthsful they
would stop for breath and deign to speak.
Their rustic eloquence was like magic balm
poured onto a constantly burning, ulcerated
sore.

"Your son? Why, of course, he'll turn
up!" the artilleryman assured them.

"But he hasn't written a line!"
[220]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"That's nothing. Now just suppose that
correspondence is forbidden in his sector for
the time being."

"I know, but it's three months since we
heard from him. We've written everywhere,
to all the authorities, and never get any re-
turns— except now and then a card saying that
they're giving the matter their attention.
That's an awfully bad sign, isn't it?"

"Not at all, not at all," chimed in the chas-
seur. "Why, some of the missing have been
found in other regiments, or even in the
depots, and nobody knows how they got there.

"Three months? Why, that's not long.
After the battle of the Marne my poor old
mother had them say Heaven knows how many
masses for the repose of my soul; for four
months and three days she never heard a thing
of me, and I'd written her regularly every
week.

"Yes, and what are you going to do if the
letter carrier gets killed, or the Boche locate
the mail waggon on the road every other de-
livery? Nobody's going to inform you of the
accident."

"And that does happen often?"
[221]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Almost every day."

"Quite a common occurrence; there's noth-
ing for you to worry about yet, really now."

So "hope springs eternal" in the breasts of
the bereaved parents, whose smile gradually
broadens out into a laugh when the artillery-
man recounts some grotesque tale, and gives
his joyous nature free rein.

The convalescents who came to this particu-
lar city must have recuperated in the minimum
of time, if regime had anything to do with
the re-establishment. In every house the cloth
was always on the table, the door open in sign
of welcome.

"Come in and have a bite with us," people
would call to them as they passed by.

Certain among them were being treated for
severe cases and had been in the city a long
time. The townspeople were proud of their
progress and their cure, almost as proud as of
their notary, who on leaving for the front was
only a second lieutenant, but now had com-
mand of a battalion of chasseurs. Nor must
one forget Monsieur de P.'s son, cited for
bravery among the aces, and least of all ignore
Monsieur Dubois, who having lost both sons*
[222]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

shut up his house, settled his business and with-
out telling any one went off and enlisted as a
simple private at sixty-two years of age.

In coming to this distant little city I had
sought to find repose for my somewhat shat-
tered nerves ; dared hope for complete rest be-
neath this hospitable, sympathetic roof. But
the war was everywhere. Yes, far from
the sound of the guns one's eyes are spared the
spectacles of horror and desolation, but there
is not a soul who for a single instant really
escapes the gigantic shiver that has crept over
all the world. Out here, far removed from
the seat of events, life necessarily becomes
serious and mournful. The seemingly inter-
minable hours lend themselves most pro-
pitiously to reflections, foster distress and mis-
givings, and one therefore feels all the more
keenly the absence of the dear ones, the emp-
tiness due to the lack of news.

There are but two moments when real ex-
citement ripples the apparent calm of the lit-
tle city; one in the morning when the paper
boy announcing his approach by blowing his
brass horn, runs from door to door distribut-
[223]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

ing the dailies, while people rush forth and
wait their turns impatiently.

The evening communique arrives at 8 p. M.
An old white-haired postman pastes it upon
the bulletin board outside the post office. Long
before the hour one can hear steps echoing
on the pavement, as men, women and children,
old people on crutches, cripples leaning on
their nurses' arms, hasten in the same direction,
moved by the same anxious curiosity. When
the weather is inclement one turns up his
trousers, or removes her best skirt. It is no
uncommon sight to see women in woollen pet-
ticoats with a handkerchief knotted about
their heads standing there umbrella in hand,
patiently awaiting the news.

A line forms and each one passes in front
of the little square piece of paper, whose por-
tent may be so exhilarating or tragic. Then
some one clears his throat, and to save time
reads the bulletin for the benefit of the assem-
bled group.

Here again the strategists are in evidence.

Monsieur Paquet, the jeweller, having served
his three years some three decades ago at
Rheims, has a wonderfully lucid way of ex-
[ 224 ] .

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

plaining all the operations that may be made in
that region, while Monsieur Morin, the grocer,
whose wife comes from Amiens, yields the
palm to no one when that sector is mentioned.

Each one of these gentlemen has a special
view on the subject, each favours a special
mode of combat, and each, of course, has his
following among the townspeople. But the
masses give them little heed.

Monsieur Paquet's persistent optimism or
Monsieur Morin's equaJlly systematic pessi-
mism do not touch them in the least. The
French soul has long since known how to re-
sist emotions. Sinister rumours shake it no
more than do insane hopes and desires.

''All we know is that there's a war," ex-
claimed a sturdy housewife summing up her
impressions, "and we've got to have victory so
it will stop!"

"Amen," laughs an impudent street gamin.

Slowly the crowd disperses, and presently
when the gathering is considerably diminished
a group steps forward, presses around the bul-
letin board and comments on the communique
in an incomprehensible tongue.

By their round, open faces, their blond hair
[225]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

and that unspeakable air of honesty and calm
resolution, one instantly recognises the Bel-
gians. Yes, the Belgians, come here in 1914,
the Belgians who have taken up their abode,
working anywhere and everywhere, with an in-
comparable good- will and energy. But they
have never taken root, patiently waiting for
the day when once again they may pull out
their heavy drays that brought them down here,
whose axles they have never ceased to grease,
just as they have always kept their magnifi-
cent horses shod and ready to harness, that
at a moment's notice old women and children
may be hoisted into the straw and the whole
caravan thread its way northward towards the
native village; that village of which they have
never ceased to talk, about which they tell the
youngsters, who scarcely remember it now.

"Ah, Madame," exclaimed one poor old soul
in a phrase that might have seemed comic if it
hadn't been so infinitely profound and touch-
ing. "Ah, Madame, even if there isn't any-
thing left, it will be our village just the same!"

Alas! I know but too well the fate of such
villages at the front, occupied by the enemy,
crushed beneath his iron heel, or subjected
to his gun fire. - 226 -

IT was Aunt Rose's custom to spend one
week out of every four at her country seat.
With the war had come the shortage of labour,
and now that her head man had been mobilised
it was necessary for some one to take direct
control, superintend and manage these val-
uable farm lands which must do their share
towards national support.

It needed no urging to persuade us to ac-
company her.

"My farmers haven't the time to make the
trip to town individually, so I get a list of
their wants and my coming saves them so much
trouble."

So early one morning a big break was driven
up to the door, and in less than five minutes
it was so full of bundles and packages that I
had my doubts as to our all fitting in, not to
mention the word "comfortably." And when
finally we did jog away it took every effort of
the broad backed dray horse, who had been
[227]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

sent from the farm, to pull us up the long
sunny hills, so frequent in this region.

The village which would be our ultimate
destination was twelve miles from any station,
and the nearest railway a funny little two-foot-
gauge road, whose locomotives were comic to
behold, their vociferous attempts at whistling
not even frightening the baby calves who stood
and stared at them indifferently as they passed.
Furthermore, the line was no longer in public
service, save on market days at Le Donjon.

Our route lay through an admirable, undu-
lating country which seemed to be totally de-
serted, for not even a stray dog crossed our
path. Far in the distance, however, from time
to time one might hear the throb of a motor.

"They are winnowing almost everywhere to-
day," explained Aunt Rose, "taking advantage
of the good weather. We shall doubtless find
every one very busy at Neuilly."

The thrashing machine had been set up
on the public square, and all along the last mile
before entering the village we met great loads
of wheat and oats, drawn by huge white oxen,
who in turn were led by what seemed to me
to be very small boys. The latter, stick in
[228]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

hand, walked in front of their beasts, and
swelling their youthful voices would intone a
kind of litany which the animals apparently
understood and obeyed.

The brilliant noonday sun shone down and
bathed everything in gold.

In the shadow of the little church the en-
gine, attended by two white-bearded men,
churned along, from time to time sending forth
a shrill whistle. Women with bandana hand-
kerchiefs tied down closely about their heads,
unloaded the carts, and lifting the heavy
sheaves in their brawny arms, would carry them
to the machine, where others, relieving them,
would spread them out and guide them into
the aperture.

Two handsome girls that might have served
as models for goddesses stood, pitch-fork in
hand, removing the chaff. The breeze blowing
through it would catch the wisps and send
them dancing in the air, while the great gen-
erous streams of golden grain flowing from
the machine seemed like rivers of moulten
metal.

The children and tiny babies lay tucked
away in the straw, sound asleep beneath a giant
[229]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

elm that shaded one corner of the square. Now
and again a woman would leave her com-
panions and wiping the perspiration from her
brow, approach this humble cradle, lift her in-
fant in her arms, and seeking a secluded spot,
give it suckle.

I cannot tell how long I stood watching this
wonderful rustic spectacle, so rich in tone and
colouring, so magnificent in its simplicity, so
harmonious in movement. There was no un-
due noise — every motion seemed regulated, the
work accomplished without haste but with an
impressive thoroughness. Here then was the
yery source of the country's vitality. Else-
where the war might crush and destroy lives,
cities and possessions, but this was the bub-
bling spring-head from whence gushed forth,
unrestrained, the generative forces; stronger
than war, stronger than death, life defiantly
persistent. And I was seized with an immense
pride, an unlimited admiration for these noble,
simple women of France who had had the cour-
age to set forth such a challenge !

For it is the women who have done it, of that
there can be no doubt.

The census indicates that in 1914 the total
[230]

*

MAXENCE

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

number of inhabitants within this little village
was seven hundred and fifty. Of these, one
hundred and forty men were mobilised, and
forty-five have already been killed. The mas-
culine element, therefore, has been reducd to
a minimum.

Thevenet, the carpenter, grocery man and
choir leader, gifted with a strong voice and a
shock of curly black hair, but lame in both legs,
is certainly, when seated behind his counter, the
noblest specimen of the stronger sex that the
village possesses.

His pupil, disciple and companion, called
Criquet, is, as his pseudonym indicates, ex-
tremely small of stature, and though he regu-
larly presents himself before the draft boards,
he has invariably been refused as far too small
to serve his country in the ranks.

Of course, there are quite a number of
sturdy old men, who have had ample occasion
to do their bit by helping their daughters or
their sons' wives on their farms. So in the vil-
lage itself there remains 'hardly any one.

Old man Magnier is so bent with rheuma-
tism that each movement is accompanied by
an alarming cracking of his bones, and one is
[231]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

tempted to ask him not to stir for fear of sud-
denly seeing him drop to pieces, as would an
antiquated, over-dry grandfather clock, on
being removed from a long stay in the garret.

Monsiau, the inn-keeper, is ready and will-
ing to do almost anything but he is so ter-
ribly stout that the slightest physical effort
causes him to turn purple and gasp for breath.
He therefore remains seated, nodding like a
big Buddha, half dozing over the harangues of
his friend Chavignon, the tailor, whose first
name, by the way, is Pacifique. But in order
to belie this little war-like appellation, Chavig-
non spends most of the time he owes to the
trade dreaming of impossible plans and pre-
paring ghastly tortures, to which the Kaiser
shall be submitted when once we have caught
him.

Bonnet, the hardware dealer, in spite of his
seventy-eight years, comes and goes at a lively
pace — coughing, grumbling, mumbling — al-
ways in a hurry, though he never has anything
special to attend to.

And finally there is Laigut; Laigut whom
one consults when at his wits' end, simply .be-
cause he knows everything in general, and
[232]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

nothing in particular, his knowledge covering
all the arts and sciences as resumed in the
Grand Encyclopedia. He is a little man with
spectacles, and a short grey beard, costumed
winter and summer alike in the same suit of
worn brown velvet, a rabbit skin cap on his
head, his feet shoved into wooden sabots.

His reputation before the war was not what
one would call spotless. His passion for fowl
(other people's on principle) had led to his be-
ing strongly suspected. He was a poacher,
as well, always ready to bring you the hare
or the pike you needed, at a fixed date and
hour, more especially when the shooting and
fishing seasons were closed.

His was one of those hidden geniuses which
the war had revealed. Otherwise we should
never on earth have suspected him of being so
capable. But be it requested that he repair
a sewing machine, a bicycle or a watch ; sharpen
a pair of scissors, put in a pane of glass, make
over mattresses, shear a horse, a dog or a hu-
man, paint a sign, cover an umbrella, kill a pig
or treat a sprain, Laigut never hesitates,
Laigut is always found competent. Add to
this his commerce in seeds and herbs, his talent
[233]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

for destroying snakes and trapping moles, the
fact that he is municipal bell ringer and choir
boy, and you will have but a feeble idea of the
activities of this man whose field seems so un-
limited.

In a little old shed behind his house he care-
fully stores the innumerable and diverse ob-
jects which are confided to his care, and con-
trary to what one might suppose, he bears no
malice for the lack of esteem bestowed upon
him in times gone by. Not at all. His breadth
of character is equalled only by the diversity
of his gifts. From time to time a fowl may
still disappear, but none save Mcutre Renard
is now accused. In these days there are so
many foxes about !

If I may seem to have gone deep into detail
concerning these people it is only because I
am anxious to make better understood what
life means in a village without men. That is to
say without valid men who care for the cattle,
steer the plough, keep the furrows of equal
depth and straight as a die ; rake, hoe and sow ;
reap, harvest and carry the heavy burdens, in
fact, perform all the hard, fatiguing labour that
the upkeep of the soil requires.
[234]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

And yet, in spite of their absence, not a foot
of ground has been neglected. The cattle are
robust and well cared for, the harvests reaped
and brought to cover, the taxes and the rents
have been paid, and down under the piles of
linen in those big oak cupboards lie many blue
bank notes, or several bonds of the National
Defense. And France has crossed the thresh-
old of her fifth year of war.

To whom is this due? The women.

There were no training schools to teach them
how to sow or reap — no kindly advisors to
take the husbands' places and tell them what
animals to keep and feed, at what time to sell,
or at what price. They had to learn from hard
experience, taxing their intuition and great
common sense to the utmost.

And with it all they are so shy and mod-
est; at heart a little bit ashamed when you
speak to them in terms of admiration for what
they have done.

"We didn't really know what to do at the
end of that first year when we found there
wasn't any one to take care of the ground,"
explained Julie Laisne, who lives just behind
Aunt Rose.

[235]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"I would have tried to plough, been glad
to do it, but I was afraid the others would
make fun of me," said Anna Troussiere.

"That's just the way I felt about it," ex-
claimed Julie. "I nearly went crazy when I
knew time was flying, winter coming, and no
wheat in. I've no doubt it was the same with
all the others. Then one day the news ran
round like lightning that Anna was out
ploughing her fields, with her kid and her
grandfather to help her. Nobody took the
time to go and see if it was true. Each one
got out her plough. Of course, the first fur-
rows were not very straight, but soon we got
used to it, and Lord, how we laughed over my
first attempts, when my husband came home
the next fall on furlough."

I wish that some great master of the pen
might paint in words as simple as the Golden
Legend, in stanzas as pure as the Litanies of
the Holy Virgin, the picture of this little Julie,
up and about with the first rays of dawn,
always hard at work, and whom when night
has closed in I have often come upon, bending
over beneath her tallow candle, writing to the
dear one at the front. To this task as to all
[236]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

the others she concentrates her every effort
and attention, anxious that no news be forgot-
ten,— news which is as fresh and naive as the
events and the nature that inspires it. "The
sow has had twelve little pigs, the donkey has
a nail in its hoof, little Michel has a cold, and
butter now sells for forty-three sous the
pound. "

Her farm is too small and brings in too lit-
tle for her to dream of taking on some one to
help. But she keeps three cows, and three
calves; a dozen or two pigs, a donkey and all
the chickens she can afford to feed. Forty
acres is quite a responsibility for so small a
person, and it requires lots of courage to re-
place the missing muscle, to till the soil, care
for the kitchen garden and the animals, and
send three small children off to school on time,
all of them washed and combed, without a hole
in their stockings or a spot on their aprons. It
needs something more than courage to be
able to sing and dissimulate one's anxieties, to
hide in one corner of that envelope that will be
opened by him "Out there," a little favourite
flower, tenderly cared for, nursed to maturity.

"Bah!" she laughs as I sympathise. "It
[237]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

might be bad if one were all alone in his
troubles. But we're all in the same boat, down
here!"

Yes, all of them have done their duty-
more than their duty, the impossible. In other
villages it is just the same — in other Provinces.
From one end to the other of France such mar-
vels have been accomplished that the govern-
ment decided that so much devotion merited
recompense.

So one fine morning a motor was seen to
stop in front of the Cafe Lacroix, a gentleman
in uniform (some say it was the Prefet) ac-
companied by two other men, got down and
walked over to the town hall that is near the
church.

A few moments later Criquet was dispatched
on bicycle to Anna Troussiere's and Claudine
Charpin's, with orders to bring them back with
him.

He soon returned accompanied by the two
frightened creatures, who fearing ill news had
not unrolled their sleeves nor removed the
handkerchief from their heads, but jumped on
their bicycles and hastened to the town hall.

Then suddenly the gentleman in uniform
[238]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

appeared on the steps, made them a little
speech, and stepping down pinned a medal on
their heaving breasts. He thrust a diploma
which bore their names into their trembling
fingers, shook hands with them most cordially,
and mounting in his car, drove away in a cloud
of dust.

Every one, much excited, gathered around
the two women. The medals were handed
about, commented upon.

"Beautiful," exclaimed Criquet who is some-
thing of a wag. "I think they're made of
bronze. Too bad they're not chocolate so you
might give us all some."

"Claudine," said Anna Troussiere, "it's time
we went home if we don't want to be teased to
death. Goodness, if only we'd known, we
might have brushed up a bit!"

But the incident did not end there. The
government, anxious to show its gratitude, of-
fered to send them help, in the shape of war
prisoners. The proposition was tempting. A
bourgeois who had several big farms said he
would accept four. This almost caused a revo-
lution. The four Germans were quartered in
[239]

a shed and an old territorial mounted guard
over them.

"They were good fellows," Julie explained
when she told me the story. "Hard workers
too. Very kind to the animals and under-
standing everything about a farm. I don't
know — I used to have a funny feeling when I
saw them. But, poor souls, I don't suppose
they wanted the war, they'd probably have
much rather been home and yet they were as
obliging as could be. Always ready to lend
a hand when there was a hard job to be
tackled.

"They made rather a good impression, and
two or three of our women farmers had almost
decided to send for some. Well, this lasted un-
til the next Sunday. As they were all cath-
olics, of course they came to church, and were
seated on the first bench, with their sentinel
at the end. Everything went finely until the
Curate got up to preach, first reading the an-
nouncements for the week. When he asked
that prayers be said for Jules Lefoulon and
Paul Dupont, both from our parish and both
killed on the Field of Honour, and we looked
up we could see the four Boche sitting calmly
[240]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

in front of us — I can't tell you what it meant!
Every one was weeping. Of course, we didn't
let them feel it. They saluted every one most
politely, you could almost see that they weren't
bad men — but every one said, 'No, none of
their help needed. We've got on without them
up till now. I fancy we can see it through.' '

Even Madame Fusil, the baker, who was in
most urgent need of assistance, resolved to be
equal to her task alone. It is her little daugh-
ter who delivers the bread to all the numerous-
patrons, quite a complicated undertaking for
so young a child, who must drive her poor old
nag and his load down many a bumpy side
path. One can hear her little voice all over the
country side. "Here Jupiter — get up, I say."

I met her one morning in the Chemin du
Moulin, whip in hand, pulling old Jupiter by
the bridle. But Jupiter had decided to take
a rest. Nothing could make him budge, noth-
ing, neither cries nor complaints, sweetmeats
nor menaces. Jupiter was as determined as he
was obstinate.

The unfortunate child was red with indigna-
tion, almost on the verge of tears.

"Oui, out/' she fairly sobbed, "he just
[241]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

ought to be sent to the front. That would
teach him a lesson. He does it on purpose, I
do believe. He knows well enough I'll be late
to school! It's already half past seven. I've
got three more deliveries to make, and must
take him home and unharness him!"

"What time did you start out, child?"

"Why, four o'clock as usual, Madame. But
I'm sure to be late this morning."

I promised that as I was passing by the
school I would step in and tell Madame Du-
mont, the head mistress, the reason of her tar-
diness. She felt much better after that, and
presently our combined efforts got Jupiter to
move.

True to my word I sought out Madame
Dumont, and found the good woman already
extremely busy at this early hour.

A peasant mother and her three children all
arrayed in their Sunday best, were grouped
together at one end of the garden, smiling
blandly into the lens of a camera which the
school mistress set up and prepared to oper-
ate.

"There— that's it— smile! Click! It's all
over. Now then, Magloire, climb up on a chair.
[242]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

Hold yourself quite straight, dear, so your papa
will see how much you've grown."

Magloire was photographed with her nose
in the air, her mouth wide open, her other fea-
tures registering the most complete lunacy.
Joseph, her brother, at whom they fairly
shrieked in order to make him smile, produced
the most singular contortion cf the mouth that
I have ever seen, which denoted an extreme gift
for mimicry, rare in so young a child.

Little Marie was taken on her mother's lap,
and I thought of the ecstasy of the brave fel-
low to whom one day the postman would bring
the envelope containing the glorious proofs.
With what pride he will show them to his
companions, how he will gloat over his Ma-
gloire and his Joseph, his petite Marie and his
bonne femme. Then, drawing away from the
others, he will study them again, each one in
turn. Nights when on duty, those cold nights
of vigil, way out there in Saloniki, when
fatigue and homesickness will assail him, he
will slip his hand down into his pocket, and
his rough fingers will touch the grease stained
envelope that contains the cherished faces of
his dear ones.

[243]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

It all recalled other powder-blackened hands
clenched forever about soiled remnants of en-
relopes, from which protruded the edge of a
precious photograph. A shiver ran down my
spine as the brave mother and her three little
ones passed by me on their way to change
their clothes — assume their humble dress.
"Merci, Madame Dumont. Merci bien."
"At your service, Madame Lecourt." And
Madame Dumont turned to examine her mail.
Rather voluminous in size, but with the Mayor,
kis substitute, and her husband at the front,
she had become town clerk, and the quantity
«f paper and printed matter a village like this
daily receives, is quite unbelievable. Quickly
the little school mistress ran through the en-
relopes, finally breathing a deep sigh of re-
lief.

"Ah, nothing this mail, thank Heaven!"
"Why, what were you expecting?"
"Oh, I wasn't expecting anything, but I live
in terror of finding that fatal official bulletin
announcing the death of some man in our com-
munity. Each time I leave the house, the eyes
•f every living soul are fairly glued to me.
[244]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

The women here love me, I know, and yet I
feel that I frighten them.

"If on going out I start up the road, those
who live below here breathe again, relieved.
You cannot imagine the tricks I must resort
to in order not to arouse false suspicions.
Then, as soon as I open their door they know
the reason of my coming, and what poor mis-
erable creatures I often take in my arms and
try vainly to console.

"Ah, Madame, the wives you can cope with,
say things to, put their babies in their arms.
But the mothers, Madame, the mothers!"

"And no one complains, Madame Dumont?"

"No one, Madame, they all know that we're
got to win this war."

All along the road home I walked slowly,
lost in reverie. But I had no time for musing
after my arrival, for Aunt Rose met me at the
doorstep, a small boy by her side.

"Listen, my dear," she cooed, "I've a great
favour to ask you. Would you mind walking
around to the farms and telling them that
Maxence will be here to-morrow morning? His
little boy has just come over to tell me."

The coming of Maxence produced an inde-
[ 245 ]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

scribable enthusiasm wherever I announced the
news. Maxence is the only blacksmith in
Neuilly. Of course he's serving in the artil-
lery, but during his quarterly ten-day per-
missions, he tries to cover all the work that is
absolutely indispensable to the welfare of the
community. He arrived much sun-burned and
tanned, accompanied by two other chaps who
were not expected, having travelled two days
and two nights without stopping.

They seated themselves before a succulent
repast prepared by Madame Maxence, and in
the meantime the crowd began gathering in
the shop.

"Get in line ! Get in line !" he called to them
joyfully. "Give me time to swallow my coffee
and I'll be with you."

Abandoning his uniform, he put on his old
clothes, his sabots and his leather apron, and
for ten long days the hammer beat incessantly
upon the anvil.

Sometimes between strokes he would look
up and smile, calling out :

"Why, they won't even give me time to catch
a mess of fish, or go to see my grandmother at
Paray!"

[246]

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

There is always some tool to be repaired, a
last horse to be shod.

"What do you know about this for a fur-
lough! And every time it's the same old
story."

The others, all those whom I have seen re-
turn from the front, do exactly as did Max-
ence.

Pushing open the gate, they embrace their
pale and trembling wives, cuddle the children
in their arms, and then five minutes later one
can see Jean or Pierre, clothed in his work-
ing suit, seized and subjected by the laws of his
tradition.

Sunday though, the whole family must go to
Mass. The careful housewife has brushed and
cleaned the faded uniform, burnished the hel-
met, put new laces in the great thick-soled
shoes. The children cling to their father, proud
of his warlike appearance. Then afterwards,
of course, there are many hands to be shaken,
but no extraordinary effusions are manifested.

"Ah, home at last, old man!"

"You're looking splendid. When did you
get here?"

[2471

WITH THOSE WHO WAIT

"Did you come across Lucien, and Bataille's
son?"

They hardly mention the war. They talk of
the weather, the crops, the price of cattle, but
never of battle. I have even found a certain
extraordinary dislike for discussion of the sub-
ject. Or when they can be persuaded to speak,
they laugh and tell of some weird feat.

"There are those who make the shells, those
who shoot them, and those who catch them.
We're doing the catching just at present,
There doesn't seem to be much choice!"

They return, just as they came, without
noise, without tears.

"Gigot's son's gone back this morning."

"Is that so? How quickly time flies!"

They take the road with a steady step,
loaded down beneath their bundles. But they
never turn their heads for a last good-bye.

"Aren't you going to mend my pick-axe,
Maxence?" queried an old neighbour.

"Sorry, mother, but I've got to leave."

"Well, then, it'll be for next time."

"If next time there is!"

There is that terrible conditional "If" in all
[248]

such village conversations, just the same as in
every conversation all over France.

Two years ago still another "If" hung on
every lip. The hope that it entertained seemed
so vastly distant that no one dared give it
open utterance. But each in his secret soul
nurtured and cherished the idea, until at length
those whispered longings swelled to a mighty
national desire,

"If only the Americans . . ."

They have not hoped in vain. The Amer-
icans have come.

FINIS

[ 249 J

OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR

"The classic story of the retreat of the
civil population at the Battle of the
Marne." — The Review of Reviews

With drawings by Charles Huard. Net $1.35

MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY;

"Here, if you will, is the material for a ;
million melodramas, but purged of dross
by the quiet heat of a great sincerity."

— Life

With drawings by Charles Huard. m Net $1.35

See pages following

[251]

MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR

Nation-wide tribute to Madame Huard's book
MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR

The New Republic: There are moments of
genuine poignancy in this book, and inter-
spersed with her narrative of tired horses and
frightened domestics are bits of insight into
the reaction of the French provincials to the
war, all the more valuable because unconscious.
One gets a quicker and keener sense of the
reality of the war from this unassuming nar-
rative of a quiet home invaded and then re-
stored, than from the journalist's favourite
massing of casualty lists and summoning of all
his superlatives.

British Weekly: It is an inspiring record of
heroism and fortitude and helps to explain the
undying wonder of the French poilu.

New York Sun: The direct, matter-of-fact
way in which Madame Huard relates her story
makes every point tell, so that it is one of the
most interesting the war has brought out.

New York Evening Sun: The brilliant
achievement of the book is the complete suc-
cess with which the reader is held from begin-
ning to end in a tranced awareness of the swift
[252]

MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR

descent of the world storm. We need such a
book as this. It makes the reader decide that
somehow he did not read as much as he thought
in the newspapers about the charge on Paris
and the Battle of the Marne. The drawings
are exquisitely reproduced, with something of
the mellow effect of certain French prints of
a generation ago.

The Argonaut: Madame Huard would
make an admirable reporter. Her narrative
is of the things she saw and heard and it will
take its place as an extraordinarily vivid page
of war history.

Vogue: Madame Huard has made one of
the most fascinating books that have come out
of this war. It is lively, cheerful, humorous,
but sympathetic, dramatic, and seldom bitter.
Her husband, official painter of the Sixth
French Army, has furnished illustrations of
charm and significance.

The Independent: What this American
woman saw and experienced cannot be passed
over lightly. Its significance should be
grasped by every thinking American woman.

With drawings by Charlet Huard. ISmo. Net tl.35

[2531

MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY

Enthusiastic Critical Reception of Madame Huard's
MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY

New York Times: A book that is breath-
lessly interesting, full of fun in spite of all the
danger and tragedy, lightened with the most
delicious pen pictures of the French poilu in
all sorts of situations. It is a book worth hav-
ing been written and deeply worth reading.
The illustrations by Charles Huard are ex-
quisite drawings, vignettes of battle scenes,
characters in the story, visions of France as
she looks today.

Vogue: Madame Huard is a vivid narra-
tor, picturesque in phrase, not given to exag-
geration and delightfully free from self-
consciousness or vainglory. Her book is well
worth while reading, not only as the record of
the wonderful accomplishment of one woman,
but as an absorbing story of life in a war-rid-
den country with all its unexpected humour,
and inevitable pathos.

Literary Digest: Mme. Huard tells in vivid

language, as only a woman of profound pity

and unfailing womanly resources could, of how

she and her few helpers cared for the wounded

[254]

MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY

and sick French soldiers billeted with her. Her
book is a wonderful record of what has been
possible and imperative because of this war.

Chicago Tribune: Madame Huard has the
zest for life and the power to receive impres-
sions and describe them that makes of her a
natural and powerful realist. This wonder-
fully interesting book is exquisitely illustrated
with drawings by Charles Huard.

Springfield Republican: Madame Huard
does not dwell on unpleasant details. With an
American sense of humour — she is the daugh-
ter of Francis Wilson the comedian — and
with also a touch of dramatic sense, she light-
ens her book with the quaint sayings and do-
ings of the people around her.

Providence Journal: Every word of Ma-
dame Huard's story is intensely absorbing; one
follows with heartfelt admiration the account
}f the miraculous way she and her helpers cared
for three times the number of invalids whom
they would normally have cared for. M.
Huard's charming sketches are a feature of the
book which must be seen to be appreciated.

With drawings by Charles Huard. ISmo. Net 91.35

[255]