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Six Women and the Invasion

by Marguerite-Yerta Méléra · English · Gutenberg #34985 · 469,863 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Six Women and the Invasion

Author: Marguerite-Yerta Méléra
        Gabrielle Yerta

Commentator: Mrs. Humphry Ward


        
Release date: January 16, 2011 [eBook #34985]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX WOMEN AND THE INVASION ***




Produced by Moti Ben-Ari and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









  SIX WOMEN AND THE INVASION




  MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
  London . Bombay . Calcutta . Madras
  Melbourne

  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  New York . Boston . Chicago
  Dallas . San Francisco

  THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
  Toronto




  SIX WOMEN
  AND THE INVASION

  BY
  GABRIELLE & MARGUERITE YERTA

  WITH PREFACE BY
  MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

  MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
  ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
  1917




  COPYRIGHT




PREFACE


This little book gives a very graphic and interesting account by an
eye-witness--who knows how to write!--of life in the occupied provinces
of France under the daily pressure of the German invasion. There are
many repulsive and odious incidents recorded here of the German
occupation, but, mercifully, few "atrocities," such as those which make
of the French Governmental Reports, or that of the Bryce Commission,
tales of horror and infamy that time will never wash out. These pages
relate to the neighbourhood of Laon, and the worst brutalities committed
by German soldiers in France seem to have happened farther south, along
the line of the German retreat during the battle of the Marne, and in
the border villages of Lorraine. But the picture drawn of the Germans in
possession of a French country district, robbing and bullying its
inhabitants, and delighting in all the petty tyrannies of their military
regime, is one that writes in large-hand the lesson of this war. "There
must be no next time!" If Europe cannot protect itself in future against
such conduct on the part of a European nation, civilisation is doomed.

And that this little book under-states the case rather than over-states
it, can be proved by a mass of contemporary evidence. I pass for
instance from Madame Yerta's graphic account of the endless
"requisitions," "perquisitions," "inquisitions," to which the
inhabitants of Morny in the Laonnois were subject in 1915, to a
paragraph in this week's _Morning Post_ (Tuesday, September 18), where a
letter found upon a German soldier, and written to a comrade in Flanders
from this very district, gleefully says: "We take from the French
population all their lead, tin, copper, cork, oil, candlesticks, kitchen
pots, or anything at all like that, which is sent off to Germany. I had
a good haul the other day with one of my comrades. In one walled-up room
we found fifteen copper musical instruments, a new bicycle, 150 pairs of
sheets, some towels, and six candlesticks of beaten copper. You can
imagine the kind of noise the old hag made who owned them. I just
laughed. The Commandant was very pleased."

No doubt the Commandant was of the same race as the Von Bernhausens or
the Bubenpechs, whom Madame Yerta pillories in these lively and
sarcastic pages. It would be too much indeed to expect that any
Frenchwoman who had passed through fifteen months of such a life should
write with complete impartiality of her temporary masters. She would be
less than human were it possible. Yet in the sketches of the two German
officers "Barbu" and "Crafleux," billeted on the "six women," there is
no more than a laughing malice, and an evident intention to be fair to
men who had no evident intention to be cruel. But of the bullying
Commandant, Lieutenant von Bernhausen, and of the officer, Lieutenant
Bubenpech, who succeeded him as the absolute master of the French
village which is the scene of the book, Madame Yerta gives us portraits
in which every touch bites. The drunken, sensual manners of such men,
combined with German conceit and German arrogance, make up a type of
character only too real, only too common, to which throughout the
districts where the Germans have passed, French experience bears
inexorable and damning witness.

It is clear, however, that these six brave women--Madame Valaine, her
four daughters and her daughter-in-law, the writer of the book--were
well able to take care of themselves. The tale of their courage, their
gaiety, their resource under the endless difficulties and petty
oppressions of their lot, lights up the miserable scene, kindling in the
reader the same longing for retribution and justice on a barbarian race,
as burnt in their French hearts.

Madame Yerta describes for us how neighbours helped each other, how they
met in the farm kitchens, behind their closed doors and windows, to pass
on such news as they could get, to pray for France, and scoff at the
invader; how they ingeniously hid their most treasured possessions, how
they went hungry and cold because the Germans had robbed them of food,
clothing and blankets--(they are doing it afresh at this very moment in
occupied France and Belgium!)--and how village and town alike would have
starved but for the Spanish-American Relief Commission.

The result is a typically French book, both in its lightness of touch
and in the passionate feeling that breaks through its pages. The old
Latin civilisation makes the background of it--with its deeply rooted
traditions, its gifts of laughter and of scorn, its sense of manners and
measure, its humanity, its indomitable spirit. When the writer at last,
after fifteen months of bondage, sees once more the fields of "la douce
France," she puts simply and sharply into words the thoughts and
sufferings of thousands--thousands of ill-treated, innocent and
oppressed folk--to whom, as we pray, the course of this just war will
before long bring comfort and release.

Her book deserves a wide audience, and will, I hope, find it.

                                                       MARY A. WARD.

  _September 1917._




CONTENTS


                       PAGE
    PART I.               1
    PART II.             67
    PART III.           241




PART I


"It is no longer the pillar of fire. It is the pillar of cloud, it is
the dark shadow of invasion that approaches."




CHAPTER I


As you know only too well, in the year 1914 war set Europe on fire. That
is to say, you the men made war, and we the women had but to comply. Let
us be honest and true: whereas you, heart of my heart, now gone to fight
for your country, wished for this contest with the enthusiasm, spirit,
and rage of youth, I wished for it too, but with terror, anguish, and
remorse. Such is the difference.

The Place? The Ile de France, the part of my country blessed among all,
sweeter to my eyes than the most loudly sung; and in the Ile de France,
Morny, a village of the Laonnois, situated on a level plain. At ten
miles' distance, to the west of Morny, Laon is perched on a steep low
hill. To the north, fields and meadows stretch out as far as the eye can
reach, and towards the south, the forest of St. Gobain makes a long dark
blot on the landscape; beyond, a blue line of mountains closes the
horizon like a wall. This peaceful scene, with its green meadows,
fertile fields, rich forests, villages nestling among orchards, with its
good-humoured tenants wrapt up in a love of their country, sums up the
treasures of the Ile de France. But it is also "the seasoning of the
French pie, this rotten ferment whose canker-like nature, frivolity,
inconstancy, and folly, have spread into the noblest parts of France."
You were not aware of this? No more was I, but I learned it from
Hummel's _Geography_, published in 1876 for "German families," and it is
a conviction that Teutonic babies imbibe with their mothers' milk.

The _dramatis personae_? Six women, I have said. My mother-in-law, her
four daughters, and I. Let me introduce them. Mme. Valaine, my
mother-in-law, charms by her gentle dignity and by her handsome face,
still young under waving grey hair. As to her daughters, when they all
were little girls in pinafores, an old woman once cried out at the sight
of their childish beauty, "One is prettier than another." To which my
husband--at that time a teasing schoolboy--retorted, "One is naughtier
than another." We do not believe this last assertion. I will only
maintain that their beauty has grown with them.

Genevieve, the eldest, is my favourite sister, another me; and for a
long while we have not been able to do without one another. A supple
shape, a lovely expressive face fringed with golden hair, clear eyes
between black eyelashes, added to a fine intellect and well-poised
faculties, make of her a privileged being. Her steadfast character
always deals straightforwardly, whereas mine, just as tenacious, does
not disdain manoeuvring.

Her sisters are tall and graceful. Yvonne has large black eyes, a tiny
mouth, and splendid golden locks. She is the musician of the family;
thinks nothing better in the world than the harmony of sweet sounds, and
lives only for her art. Antoinette bears proudly an imperial beauty and
a bachelor's degree, which she has recently carried off. As to Colette,
the pet child of the family, by turns charming and execrable, she counts
seventeen summers, and rejoices our eyes with the sweetest face ever
seen, a rose-bud complexion, and cornflower eyes.

Two representatives of the opposite sex intrude upon this company of
women. My husband first. He is the tallest, the handsomest of the sons
of men. "When I see him, I think I behold a young god," said one of our
friends a few years ago; and I shall not cheapen these terms of praise
by any description of him. If I confide to you that he is growing bald
on his temples, be sure you don't go and tell him so; the loss is due to
sojourns in Saigon and Panama; for this half of myself is a true
globe-trotter, and has seen the whole world--without me alas! He is a
man of great learning, and is deeply skilled in philology and theology.
Such as he is, I adore him, and think it better to own it honestly, for
fear my partiality might remain unperceived. The other specimen of the
sterner sex, with whom I have to deal here, is a small Parisian boy,
nine years old, owner of the most flippant tongue. By a stroke of
carelessness he was sent to us for a fortnight, and like many another
has now to stay as a prisoner on account of the Invasion.

Out of common politeness I have not yet mentioned my own person. The
task of describing it is hateful. Of this self fortunately there is not
much--fifty kilos at the utmost. In other words, I am slender. I have a
pink and white complexion and very long auburn hair, a small
insignificant nose, a large mouth, and serious eyes. I am generally
called "Grandmother," in memory of a time when we acted _Little Red
Riding Hood_. My husband always calls me Mr. Monkey, your Poisonous
Ladyship, or Mrs. Kid, vexatious names, truly, for a woman. We live in
Paris the greater part of the year, but it is with pleasure that the
whole family meets every summer in our country-house at Morny, to spend
its holidays.

When, about the 20th of July 1914, Genevieve, Yvonne and I arrived in
the dear old place, my husband and Colette had been enjoying it for a
fortnight; my mother-in-law and Antoinette were expected shortly. We had
taken with us little Pierre Prat, whose mother, a good friend of ours,
could not leave Paris for the present, and the health of the interesting
boy required the country. We had hardly exchanged the usual kisses, and
renewed our knowledge of the place, we were hardly seated at the
dinner-table, when Colette cried out: "Oh, grandmother, how lovely!
Fancy, there will be a war. The day it is declared I shall dress like a
boy and become a soldier!"

"Of course, you will cut your beautiful locks, besmear your cheeks, and
there you are. But tell me in earnest, Posy, do you think there will be
a war?"

I suppose my husband has a name of his own, but no one knows it. For the
whole family he is "Brother," and I call him "Posy."

Now Mr. Posy thought war unavoidable, and began to expound the reasons
that strengthened his opinion.

A little tired of the journey, happy to be again in the country, I
listened to the deep sounds of the dear voice I had not heard for the
last fortnight, but gave little heed to the meaning of his words.
Besides, I was so sure there would be no war at all! We began to lead a
blissful life; we enjoyed walks in the large garden, and praised the sun
and the green. What delightful holidays we would have! The mere thought
of it led to lyrism. O Nature! O Idyll! O blessed rest!

At first nothing happened to trouble our peace. It will be remembered
that the newspapers were rather encouraging. Optimism prevailed; my
husband alone talked of an impending conflict; but he wished it so
eagerly that I thought he might be mistaken in his prophecies. "War is
talked of every year," I said; "it is but a summer topic."

On the 26th of July there were alarming rumours, confirmed the day
after. We then began to talk of war, to talk always about that, to talk
of nothing else. Colette herself held no other conversation, and from
her crimson lips dropped no other words than mobilisation, armament,
concentration.

I shall never forget the night when troops crossed the village. I saw
war that night, war, the man-eater, the great killer, war himself. The
hour was grave. France was preparing to withstand her enemies, and was
sending her armies to protect the frontiers. Troops marched through the
village the whole night. First came the foot soldiers, who filed off to
the strains of the "Marseillaise" and the "Chant du Depart." Leaning out
of my window, in a nightgown, I tried to catch sight of something, and I
saw only a black flood, endlessly rolling on. The sight of this dark
mass which marched on and sang was striking indeed. The young voices had
an accent of resolution and rage, and gave the impression that all
hearts throbbed as if by one impulse. The men knew they were marching on
to death, and they sang as the volunteers of '92 may have sung.
Sometimes there was silence, and nothing was to be heard save the sound
of steps as rhythmical as a heavy shower.

As the first battalion passed, my husband laid his book aside, lifted up
his head, and declared: "There can be no more doubt of it now." And
resuming his Henri Houssaye and his cigarette, he buried himself again
in his reading. I was not so easily resigned to the situation. A
certitude had seized upon me too. "It is war." I was trembling like a
leaf, shaken by the wind, and I could not master my emotion. I was not
frightened, I felt easy in my mind, but my body--was it due to primeval
memory, to misgivings, or to the terrible thought that has been handed
down from wars of yore? I do not know--but my frightened body was
trembling convulsively.

When I was not leaning out of the window, I thought, lying by the side
of my husband: "War is coming, may God protect us!" I clasped his dear
head in despair, I kissed him in an agony, and said over and over again:
"War will carry him off." And I thought: "All over France the roads are
covered with troops, and thousands of women, close to the man they love,
are listening to the steps of the soldiers and the rumbling of the
cannon; broken-hearted, they kiss an adored face, and with bitter tears
repeat: 'War will carry him off!'"

Cavalry followed infantry; then came gunners, cannon, and powder-carts.
The heavy pieces rolled on with the noise of thunder, and shook the
house to its foundations. It was about three o'clock in the morning. A
cold mist fell as if reluctantly from the cloudy sky. The night was less
dark, and the moving forms passed slowly like shadows before my sight,
horses, cannon, and gunners wrapt up in their cloaks. Dark in the dark
haze, the outlines of men and animals seemed to sketch a new dance of
death, in the midst of which the grim monster might have appeared at
any moment. I was so deeply impressed by this phantasmagorical marching
past that I almost expected to see Death go up behind a gunner or get
astride a cannon. I felt intensely that I was seeing war, war and death.
War, the terrible tyrant, was marching along, and nothing would impede
his progress.

Still more foot soldiers. The men sing no more. Dawn is unfavourable to
enthusiasm. You set forth in the evening sanguine of success, seeing at
the end of the road Victory, Triumph, and Glory. But when morning comes,
dark and cold, your exaltation sinks. Not that you feel less resolute,
but behind the brilliant phantoms your fancy had conjured up the night
before, you see grimacing slaughter and death and fire.

Day broke bright and clear. In the sun's lively beams all fears melted
away. There will be a war? Be it so. The men will go and fight, and we
too will do something for France. The following week was a medley of
enthusiasms and sadnesses. At last war and revenge were no more mere
words; at last Germany would be crushed. Too long our enemy had wronged
us; we would wreak a tardy but fearful vengeance for our still unavenged
disgrace, for grievous humiliations daily inflicted on us.

O revenge, O sun, you rise, and your first rays make our hearts sing
like the granite of old Egypt. We lived in a fever. War, which
approached, cast its shadow before, but it was a bright shadow, the
shadow of Glory, of more than human courage, of manifold heroism. It was
the pillar of fire which, shielding our hearts from the enemy and the
terrors to come, hid them from our eyes. The passing breath of
enthusiasm quickened the beating of our hearts. As to myself, I put a
good face upon the matter, but all the time I thought with anguish: "It
is war. I shall be alone.... War will sever us from all we love, blood
and tears will be shed everywhere. May God save France, and have pity
upon us!"

On the 2nd of August war was an unquestioned fact: mobilisation was
proclaimed. My husband has served in the Navy, and had to go to
Cherbourg the next day. We then began preparations for the departure of
our sailor, who increased my cares by saying over and over again: "Don't
expect me to remain in the Navy, there is nothing to do there. I will be
sent to the east of France, and see the white of the Prussians' eyes."

The luggage being ready, we went for a stroll in the village. War was of
course the one topic of the day. To qualify them for the toils of Mars,
the men had duly sacrificed to Bacchus, and their patriotism was none
the less fiery for that. Most women were silent. Many had cried their
eyes quite red. One day more, and they would be alone with groups of
small children. A very young woman, almost a girl, declared with a toss
of her light hair: "Bachelors who have but their own body to care for
ought to go and fight, that's right, but fathers of a family!..." Her
neighbour next door, Mme. Turgau, nodded assent. She had a baby in her
arms, and was pensively listening to her husband who, hot with anger,
was speechifying not very far off. In his quality of orator, he
discoursed not only upon Germans, but upon spies also. In the morning
two Germans had been arrested in Laon, and the day before a man who was
going to blow up a bridge had been shot. But look! Two strangers
appeared at the corner of the street. All faces grew serious, and
Turgau, advancing towards the men, demanded their papers. When they
refused to show them, the crowd grew nervous, and Turgau thought himself
insulted. Cries and bad names filled the air, until the soldiers,
astonished at the uproar, took the culprits away to examine their
papers.

The lover of justice came back home greatly pleased with himself. People
gathered round him, and declared: "Policemen, gendarmes, all humbug!
Fortunately we are here to maintain order." And all together they went
to the next inn, and from the adventure drew this moral lesson: No more
strangers, France for Frenchmen!

Pleasant and peaceful, the last evening was drawing to its close, the
last of many evenings that will never come again. The following morning
I went to the station with my husband. There was a large crowd on the
platform. The men, high in spirit, seemed delighted to go off to the
army. Silent and gloomy, the women stood close to their husbands, and
their eyes betrayed a sadness past remedy. Then came the train, full of
soldiers of the reserve, singing at the top of their voices. All get
into the crowded carriages, a whistle is heard, the train moves forward.
A last kiss, a last handshake. The dear face leans out of the window, my
eyes raised up towards it, until its features disappear and vanish in
the distance. It is all over; he is gone; they are gone. Towards Glory,
towards Death! Who knows? I came back home, forlorn and sad. In vain
Colette's endearing words and Genevieve's warm affection awaited me;
love had deserted the house.

The following days glided by tiresome and empty, but fortunately we soon
found an occupation. A regiment of artillery was formed in the
neighbourhood. Two batteries were quartered in Morny, and willing
needlewomen were required to put the uniforms of the soldiers into good
condition. Very well. There are no opportunities for high deeds, let us
be content with small ones. We put together needles, scissors, and
thread, and thus armed ran to the school where other women were already
working. And what work! We were told to shorten trousers, to let jackets
out, to sew stripes, and to stitch numbers on collars and sleeves. A
noisy and merry activity prevailed in the yard. When off duty, the
soldiers gathered about the big nut-tree, whose shadow protected the
needle-women from the sun. Harmless jokes were exchanged, and Germany of
course had to bear the brunt of them. There was a tailor, a giant with a
jolly face, who declared that he would get all he wanted on the other
side of the Rhine, and for a ball of thread or a missing button would
send you straight to Berlin. These good-natured and simple ways were all
the more touching on account of the dangers which lay ahead. And, what
we highly appreciated, the soldiers behaved like gentlemen. We spent
many hours with them, and never heard a rough or coarse word. For
truth's sake, I must say their Captain kept a sharp look-out upon his
men. He was about forty-five, had nice eyes and a kindly face. We heard
his name, and found out that he was a famous man, whose works we greatly
admired. We had common friends too, and it was not long before we became
real comrades, and told him how eager we were to be of some use to our
country.

"Don't you think we might nurse a few wounded soldiers in our house?" we
asked.

The Captain was good enough to like the idea.

"All right," he said, "if your rooms are large enough and airy."

"Come and see yourself."

The Captain came first alone, and the day after with two Surgeon-Majors.
They made calculations, and then declared that we might receive thirty
soldiers. Two empty houses our neighbours offered out of kindness would
contain twenty other beds. Fifty soldiers would compose quite a
sufficient ambulance, and to our heart's delight we might devote our
strength to the wounded.

"In Laon, they will be only too pleased to send you convalescents," M.
Vinchamps told us; "plenty of patients will soon fill the hospitals; and
a doctor from the town will come every day to tend your invalids."

This medical visit did not remain the only one M. Vinchamps paid us.
About nine o'clock, his day's work over, our new friend came round and
knocked at the window. Our talk was chiefly on war, the only topic we
took an interest in.

"Men are good for nothing," M. Vinchamps said; "courage is their only
gift. That is why I am delighted with the present war. At peace, men are
out of their right element."

"Then you must improve the occasion, and make the best of it, for
certainly there will be universal peace after the present war, and you
men will be for ever out of your element."

No one answered, and our silence called up a picture of dead and wounded
stretched upon a plain where a battle had taken place. And again we
talked of Belgian courage, of that heroic Liege which had to face such
fearful odds, and did not yield to brute strength. We likened the
storming party to the turbulent waters which beat furiously against a
dyke. But we knew the dyke was strong, and would not give way.

The Germans were not highly appreciated by Captain Vinchamps.

"They are not intelligent," he declared.

"But----"

"They are not. I do not deny their qualities. They are fine imitators,
but no creators. They make good use of others' inventions, and derive
benefit from discoveries they would be unable to make themselves. Their
talents--quite practical--are not what is called intelligence. Cuvier,
Pasteur, Lamarck have no rivals on the other side of the Rhine, and
their work no equal. Besides, consider that for fifty years our
neighbours have thought of but one goal: a victorious war."

"But that is very important just now."

"Never mind. Intelligence will get the better of brute strength and
crush it."

The mere thought of victory sent a thrill of rapturous joy through our
hearts.

On going out through the yard, lit up by the moon's rays, the Captain
listened to the whistle of the trains, and said with a smile:

"Food for powder!"

At full speed the trains rolled on both lines day and night; the food
for powder went by without ceasing.

Food for powder!

And yet the expression is not right. For the soul of every man was
awake. At the call of war all men were ready to fight and to die; all
shouted "victory," in the assurance that it would come to us.

In the village our confidence met some distrust. Mme. Tassin, who acts
as housekeeper when we are away, tossed her grey head.

"I was young when I saw _them_ for the first time in '70. What shall I
do at my age if they come here now?"

Genevieve was filled with horror at the mere suggestion. In the farm
near by Mme. Lantois expressed the very same unreasonable fears. "Do you
think we shall have them here?" she asked a young lieutenant, who was as
bitterly disgusted as we were.

Meanwhile our gunners were ready from head to foot, and their horses
from mane to hoof. We heard the last exhortations of the Captain to his
men, and the next day we got up at four o'clock in the morning to see
them off. It was magnificent. The sun shone in triumph upon the martial
train; the flower-covered cannon had a good-humoured air; the horses
pawed the ground; and the gunners had not smiles enough to throw to us,
nor caps enough wherewith to salute us.

Captain Vinchamps, before he took leave, introduced his horse. It was a
"skittish" little mare, he thought, clever and sweet-tempered. Once more
we wished him success, and once more hoped that the war would spare him
and his men; and all, soldiers, officers, and horses, galloped off, and
were soon hidden from our sight amid the poplar trees in the sun and the
dust.

The last soldier had departed. The village was empty of men, and the
women from sunrise to sunset were working in the fields. We led an
uninteresting life. In fact we did not live in Morny, but in Belgium
where our soldiers were fighting. Our overburdened minds looked forward
passionately to the result of the first conflict. What was going to
happen?




CHAPTER II


First came a letter from my husband. He had written it in the first
fever of war. The letter was a week late, and he marvelled at the
splendid eagerness and union of France. "'Tis the world upside down," he
wrote. "In my detachment, out of 1200 seamen, not one was missing or
drunk on getting to Cherbourg. As to myself, I am more decided than ever
not to go to sea. I will see the Prussians face to face. Yesterday I had
a talk with a field officer, and he promised to get me an interesting
post. That is a good thing; I now depend only on him."

I thought I saw him rubbing his hands with satisfaction. An interesting
post! It means, doesn't it, to run into jeopardy, to seek after perilous
missions? Oh, dare-devil! oh, heart of stone! Wrapped up in his joy, he
has no thought for the pangs of those whose hearts are hanging upon his
life!

Soon after there arrived unexpectedly Mme. Valaine and Antoinette,
whose journey had been greatly delayed by the mobilisation. We had got
but scanty news from Paris, and listened in amazement to their
descriptions of the capital, the fine frenzy of the soldiers leaving for
the front, the plunder of German shops, and then in our turn told them
the little that we had seen in the country.

When our stories and greetings were finished, it was time to prepare
rooms for the travellers.

I will seize upon the occasion to give a short description of our dear
old house. Notched like a saw, the gabled front presents a row of
shutters, which, like grey eyelids, secure us from indiscreet looks. To
the right and the left two large iron gates, always carefully closed,
lead one into a paved yard, the other into a narrow road, planted with
trees. The side of the house, looking out on the high-walled garden,
throws off the reserve in which the front is shrouded; windows and doors
are always wide open to the air, the sun, and the creepers, whose
branches penetrate even the rooms themselves. Inside, a passage
separates the house into two parts, the dining- and the drawing-rooms on
one side, and on the other the bedrooms and the kitchen. Genevieve,
Colette, and Mme. Valaine have their rooms downstairs. Upstairs the
attic has been cut up pleasantly into three. Outside, parallel with the
house, a small building opens into the yard, containing a wash-house, a
room--the small room--a coach-house, a stable, and the whole is topped
by an attic.

The house--this does not allow of discussion--is too small, or the
family is too large, and Antoinette, who wanted a room to herself,
declared: "I will settle in 'the small room,'" and we could not get it
out of her head, although we enlarged,--with some complacency--upon the
dangers she might run alone by night.

"The walls are high, the doors strong. I am not afraid, and then there
are the dogs."

Indeed, Gracieuse and Percinet, the collies we dote on, live next door,
and have sharp sets of teeth which they show to all intruders.

"Grandmamma," said Antoinette the next morning, "last night, about
twelve...."

"The proper time for crimes."

"I was startled out of my sleep."

"You were dreaming of the Germans."

"No, no. Some one was in the attic above my room."

"There you are! A spy! Have you run him in?"

"Without joking, Grandmamma. I heard steps quite clearly."

"Do you know that deserters are said to have escaped near Morny?"

In process of time the deserters were proved to be dormice, but we
thought the mistake amusing, and ever after called the attic "the
deserter's attic." Life went on. Dull, spiritless, insignificant in
Morny; immense, tremendous, and tragical beyond there in the North and
the East. We longed for the postman the whole day long. He had few
letters for us, but he still brought papers. We read them carefully, and
we were none the wiser. We ought to have read between the lines, but we
could not. I assure you that, during the end of August, we were deaf and
blind. Our reason refused to believe the testimony of our senses. We saw
thousands and thousands of people whom Belgium and the North had cast
away, the Belgian army driven back from Flanders, the staff officers
settle in Laon, and we never came to the right conclusion.

In the case of floods--long before they are out--birds fly with hasty
wings, beasts hurry away, and even snails climb up the trees. Less
clever than the beasts of the field, we were unconscious of the
threatening inundation even when the country round us already lay under
water, and floating wrecks were visible on all sides.

One morning, at an early hour, we went with our arms full of provisions
to the station where seven trains had stopped, crowded with refugees. In
an instant the poor people had stripped us of our burden, and by way of
thanks answered our anxious questions.

For thirty-six hours they had been travelling, men, women, old people,
children, invalids, crowded in the narrow carriages, and yet they were
happy to get away, to escape, as they thought, from a nightmare. Furious
bombardments, pitiless fights, burning villages--they had witnessed, and
told to us all the horrors of war. They had seen corpses in some places
so thickly packed that they remained standing, and the sight haunted
them, as did the horrible smell of hundreds of dead bodies burning on
funeral piles, or floating in long files down rivers of sinister aspect.

For the first time we realised the actual atrocity of war, and with a
shrinking of the heart we eagerly questioned the lieutenant who convoyed
the train, as to what had happened.

"Madam, I know nothing. I have been told an important battle is
imminent. Belgium is in ruins."

"And we shall not go to Germany, and impose upon the aggressors the law
of retaliation!"

"Of course we shall. Be patient. They shall rue it dearly. But when?"

The hordes that covered the roads were still more miserable than the
travellers we had just seen.

Day after day they trudged grimly along. We saw vehicles of all kinds,
carriages, carts, wains drawn by horses, oxen, donkeys, and even dogs,
loaded and overloaded with women, children, sick people, huddled
together with old clothes, kitchen utensils, articles of food for the
people, and straw for the animals. The men relieved the sorry jades by
pushing or pulling, and on both sides of the road rolled a flood of
ragamuffins. The women, with urchins hanging on to their skirts, bore
babies in their arms; boys and girls rode on bicycles; with great toil
old and infirm people dragged along heaps of shapeless burdens, tools,
saucepans, and the most unexpected objects of every kind.

They went on without rest, and with only one wish, to get farther away,
and the very dogs followed, lolling their tongues out, their tails
curled between their legs, with a feeling of the universal distress
visible in their eyes.

Some faces looked tragical, even desperate, but on most of them was
impressed a gloomy resignation.

"The Prussians are coming!" they had heard, and snatching some hastily
made parcels, they had fled away with no other purpose than flight.

They were but a distracted herd, flying from a destroying wave; they
possessed neither hearth nor home. All that they had was lost, burnt,
plundered, and every one of them was but a cypher in the nameless crowd
that besought the pity of France.

This human torrent had its dregs. There was no excuse for those who were
harsh to the fugitives--and they were plenty--but society was upset, and
the worst elements came to the surface. Plunder-fed vagabonds, always to
be met in public calamities, profited by the woes of others, filched
from the rich, took toll even of the poor, ransacked abandoned houses,
and on their way back still managed to commit highway robbery and to
steal purses. Thanks to these scoundrels, many honest and pitiful people
were involved in the suspicion which wanderers often arouse. Fortunately
our people in Morny are trustful enough, and they did their best to
assist the helpless and relieve the hungry. Even in the poorest houses
the peasants deemed it a point of honour to share their food and lodging
with the wanderers. Several nights running, we gave hospitality to
unfortunate families, first to Belgians and then to people of the North,
small manufacturers of the neighbourhood of Fourmies. All told the same
heart-rending stories: the order to evacuate, the house left ten minutes
after, the bewildered flight on the road. Many had fled of their own
free will, driven by the breath of terror the Prussians spread abroad;
but all were way-worn, all talked of sleepless nights, hunger, thirst,
and suffering.

"Alas," said a young girl, "there are some still unhappier than we are!
Graves have been dug by the wayside; one woman has lost her mother,
another her baby."

And under their breath they whispered the nameless deeds, the monstrous
crimes committed by the Germans.

Their stories left us half incredulous, and if terror seized upon our
soul, it was a far-off, unselfish terror. It did not occur to our minds
that the tempest was lowering overhead; we refused to believe that the
dyke over there had already given way, and that we ourselves might be
overrun by the tumultuous flood of invasion. And then, on Wednesday,
August 26, three Belgian officers announced that 12,000 Belgian
soldiers, "the remainder of an army forty thousand strong," would march
through the village the next day at five.

The excited people gathered in knots on the road long before the
appointed time, and having nothing else to do let their tongues run on.
Much news was exchanged, some of which seemed insipid, and some
thrilling.

The _Journal de Laon_, born with the war, ceased to come out owing "to
postal difficulties." This organ surely suffered from a secret blemish:
it was not born to live. Indifference.

No trains came from the North. Indeed! And we had been told everything
would go on miraculously well, as soon as the mobilisation was over.
Astonishment.

The people of the "Terres Rouges"--a remote quarter of Morny--persuaded
that the Prussians were approaching, made a great slaughter of their
plumpest pigs and poultry, and devoured them hastily. "It is so much
gained," they wisely thought. What a droll idea! Hilarity.

But ... and this seemed odd. The ladies of the Red Cross, leaving the
wounded in the lurch, scampered away last night. Shame upon them! Surely
the strait-laced nurses would never be guilty of indiscretion, and yet
they commit strange blunders. Reprobation.

The staff is established in Laon. Ah! Ah! That is worthy of note. It
will be interesting to see the town in its new aspect of headquarters.
Interest.

And here are the newspapers a neighbour has brought straight from Paris!
Change of Ministry. Formation of a Ministry of National Defence. Oh! Oh!
This is somewhat curious. They are hiding things from us. Anxiety.

While the village was busy in discussion, time went on, and the Belgian
army also. About seven, the boys that stood sentry over the road came on
shouting:

"Here they are! Here they are!"

They were coming indeed, white with dust, but still gallant-looking.
First came lancers, then gunners, a few foot-soldiers, and again
lancers. Here and there a spiked helmet topped a lance's point as a
trophy, and the gunners, along with their guns, dragged a canteen
carried off from the enemy. For three hours they went at a gallop, and
for three hours we shouted our throats sore, and the whole village with
us:

"Bravo! Long life to Belgium! Success to the brave!"

The soldiers, still galloping, answered at the top of their voice:

"_Vive_ France! Down with Germany! Hurrah for the French women!"

And, rushing forward, we shook all the hands that were stretched towards
us. That night I think we shook 12,000 hands as 12,000 men went along.
We ran, we were everywhere. Colette was madly imprudent, and I wondered
at her not being run over or crushed under the wheels of the cannons. At
last, about half-past ten, the village was silent, as we made our way
home with hoarse voices and tired arms, thinking only of our beds. There
will be time enough for serious politics to-morrow.

The next day we went to Laon, Genevieve and I. If we were uneasy and
disquieted, where could we better calm our fears than in Laon? The
official reports were vague but rather encouraging, the officers
optimistic. The civilians thought there was no room for hesitation, and
unhesitatingly ran away. Many were already off. The cowards were
frightened, like hares, by the shadow of their ears. Our scorn was
greater even than their haste. We reserved our sympathies for the
soldiers whose bright uniforms gave a pleasant liveliness to the town.
We were less pleased with the checks put upon our movements. Passports
had to be produced at every corner of the streets, and then, after two
hours waiting among a noisy and ill-smelling crowd, to be signed in a
guardroom. This was--if necessary and comprehensible--very tiresome.

All the same we felt uneasy on our way home. We were infringing the
regulations, that was as clear as day. "It is strictly forbidden to
take any provisions out of the town," the orders said. But there is no
use talking of obedience to hungry women, and we had--with what
pains--carried off from a greedy grocer rice, sugar, salt, and other
precious things, that ran short in the country. Fortunately we saw the
Mayor of Morny driving by, and from him we gratefully accepted a lift
for the sake of our parcels.

The evening was lovely, the country smiling in the setting sun. The
harvest, somewhat delayed for want of men and horses, drew to its close,
and beetroot promised a splendid crop. Everything spoke of peace and
plenty. The Mayor with a word broke the spell. "From this place," he
said, pointing at a hill disgraced by the presence of a factory, "the
cannon was audible yesterday."

"It is mere hearsay," he added, daunted by our protestations, and we all
came to the conclusion the hearers had but singing in their ears.

Thus at the side of the Mayor we made a sensational entrance into Morny.

At home they had taken in two Belgian soldiers, whose lucky star had led
to our door. In great haste the family had prepared a huge omelette, a
solid beefsteak, a comfortable salad. Then to pay their share they had
talked. Alas, what they said was not encouraging:

"We have been beaten; the Germans are gaining ground." They knew nothing
more. The next day we had another Belgian to feed. Our ward, Pierrot,
met him in the street in quest of a dinner, and, showing him the way,
had brought the soldier into the dining-room. Our new guest told us
frightful stories, and talked of defeat and high treason; but, on the
other hand, he boasted of such high deeds he had performed himself that
we listened wholly unmoved to his wondrous tales.

Defeat! Treason! We had no fear on that score. In spite of a vague
alarm, we apprehended no real danger. Some uneasiness stole first over
our minds when we got a telegram from Mme. Prat claiming Pierrot back.
It was the 30th of August. We ran to the station, and were there told
with the greatest serenity:

"There is no train going to Laon to-night."

"To-morrow will do, then; there is no hurry."

We thought no more of the journey, for the majors' dinner took place
that very evening. All that wore a uniform were sure to arouse an
admiring interest. The soldiers were overwhelmed with love and
adulation. A little more, and we would have prostrated ourselves at
their feet. It was but right. What sacrifices could we make to match
what they gave us: their strength, their life, their youth? And they
were France herself; they were ourselves. Every woman who spoiled a
trooper said to herself: "My son too is a soldier."

On this Sunday, then, the village was overjoyed to hear that soldiers
would be billeted on it.

"A good thing. We shall see some officers, and perhaps hear some news."
And we kept our eyes open, ready to snap up the first piece of gold lace
that would come on. The said lace happened to be on the sleeve of a
surgeon-major, who to our anxious questions gave us an evasive answer,
and seized time by the forelock.

"Oh, madam," he said to my mother-in-law, "shall I dare ask you...."

"Dare ask it, sir."

"To lend us your kitchen and your dining-room? We are ten
surgeon-majors, and we have nowhere to dine."

"Certainly, my house is at your disposal."

"But say nothing about it! It is not here that our quarters are."

His companion, a giddy-brained youth fresh from the schools, who
hitherto had not opened his mouth, cried out:

"We will say that the ladies are relations of ours. Mademoiselle will
not refuse to declare I am her cousin."

The haughty Antoinette did not like the joke, and snubbed the joker.
Then Esculapius' disciples went away, to return speedily. We exchanged a
great many low bows, and, the ceremony performed, left the gentlemen for
fear we should disturb them. They seemed to want rest, judging from
their worn-out faces. We heard that one of our guests who had just
fallen into a doze was the famous Professor X, and we beheld his tired
face with some respect. In a clandestine meeting we had decided:

"We shall have supper in the garden."

"We will drink a cup of milk, and eat bread and butter."

We are not of those who believe in the necessity of dining. Of course,
out of respect for our stomachs, we give them tolerable cheer, but
occasionally we are content with a cup of cocoa and a slice of bread.
And that night we had other fish to fry than to feed ourselves. Besides,
we were unlucky enough to have no maids at all at that time; the only
one we had left had refused to stay any longer in a place likely to be
invaded.

Our modest meal over, we ran into the house. In the kitchen, the dinner
was getting on well. A savoury smell rose from the saucepans. A giant
scullion was helping a cook, who pontified solemnly. This strange cook
hid beneath his apron, assumed for the occasion, a uniform covered all
over with decorations. Beneath the trade of cook, also assumed for the
occasion, he hid that of an engineer in civil life, in military life
that of an hospital orderly. He was tall, spare, pale, red-haired, and
he looked unalterably calm.

"Where are the Germans?" we asked the engineer-cook. "Will they come
here? What ought we to do?"

He feared the Prussians would reach Morny, and in his opinion we had
better avoid the meeting.

"Are we to run away, then, and wander about like the Belgians? Or shall
we take a ticket to Marseilles, Algiers, or Timbuktu? Is that far
enough?"

Our interlocutor stilled our impatience with the slow sounds of his
voice. Really now, he had a castle ... in the air?... No, but in
Brittany, where his sister would be delighted to receive us.... And the
head cook, while draining dry his fried potatoes, gave us the address of
his mansion in Brittany. After the advice of the kitchen, we wanted the
counsels of the dining-room. A few sleepy-heads had already gone to
bed, among others the celebrated physician and the giddy-brained youth,
who had grown extremely serious. The remainder of the learned party were
chatting together amid the smoke of tobacco and the flowers on the
table. Without more ado we went in, and asked the usual questions:

"Where are the Germans? Will they come here? What ought we to do?"

A long conversation ensued. Alas, our guests were as pessimistic as
could be. The head major, a small man, thick-set, energetic, and dark,
did not hide from us the truth that we should see the Germans, and,
still worse, that they would lay siege to Paris. Grief and indignation
prevented us from looking at our own situation; we thought but of the
country itself.

"Why," Genevieve cried out, "you think the Germans will conquer us! You
are expecting another '70?"

"Never! never! The Germans will be beaten. Should they go to Marseilles
and Bordeaux, I should still believe in their final defeat, but the
moment is a critical one. We have been beaten; it is a certain fact;
there is no use being blind to it, and the Germans will go to Paris."

A clear voice rose at the end of the table:

"You talk as if we were lost," Colette said. "We are retreating? It may
be a wise measure. Our men are ready for anything. The Germans in
Paris!--but you do not know our soldiers!"

"Very good," said the neighbour of Colette, a tall, fair-haired man. "Do
try to convince my friends; these ten days I have dinned the same
arguments into their ears. But you must excuse our despondency;
weariness is the cause of it; these last three weeks we have hardly
slept. And what do we see of war? Nothing that is not horrible and
disheartening--battle-fields after the fight, the dead, the wounded, the
stragglers--nothing that elevates, and idealises men."

So the talk went on, and the dining-room rang with the praises the
doctors bestowed on their heroic patients. They spoke chiefly of the
terrible weariness of the men.

"They are overcome with sleep," they said, "and to such an extent that
they don't wake up, even when we dress their wounds."

A few minutes after, Colette said to her neighbour:

"It is delightful to discuss with you. At least, you always agree with
me!"

We all burst out laughing, and at this fit of gaiety the majors went
softly out for fear they would wake up the officers and the refugees
whom we were sheltering.




CHAPTER III


Sleep was long in coming that night. After much talking we were still at
a loss what to think. Were the Germans really at our gates? "I cannot
believe it," groaned Genevieve; "it is a collapse; it is the end of all
things."

"If we are invaded, what shall we do?"

The next day we renewed the discussion.

"If the Prussians come, we have but to wait for them with a bold face,"
said Genevieve and Colette. Mme. Valaine hesitated.

"Mother," exclaimed Yvonne and Antoinette, "we cannot stay here. Think
of the risks we run."

"What shame," retorted Colette, "to run away like a troop of rabbits! I
had never thought you were such cowards!"

The others repeated with one accord:

"And if mother was taken as a hostage? The Germans are capable of
anything; they have already committed many atrocities."

Our perplexity was great.

About ten o'clock there dropped from the sky three new surgeons, and,
pressing on them a cup of coffee, we renewed our anxious questions. They
told us plainly that the Germans were gaining ground, and that we were
sure to see them.

"What do you advise us to do?" cried my mother-in-law.

"Madam," Dr. Seseman declared--he was bearded, jovial, and
fatherly--"Madam, if you were relations of mine, I should urge your
departure."

"Well, the die is cast, we shall go," declared Mme. Valaine.

"Yes," I said, "but the house is not in order."

A few days ago, as I went to Mme. Lantois to buy some eggs, the farmer's
wife told me with great satisfaction:

"I feel quieter now, my house is in order."

It was as much as to say that all she set store by had disappeared; the
family had hidden, buried, and walled up whatever they had been able to
hide, bury, and wall up.

Our guests of yesterday's dinner had told us that the owners of a
northern farm had unpaved a yard, dug a huge hole, huddled in pieces of
furniture and pictures, and then filled up and repaved it. This farm
could await the invaders: it was in order. But our house was not in
order--that was obvious enough.

"You have here," said our visitors, "a beautiful Empire clock. It would
be a great pity to have it sent to Germany."

"And this lovely console table--and those vases...."

A few minutes after the two officers, with whom we were gravely
discussing, asked:

"Where is our friend Laison?"

"In the garden with Colette, digging holes...."

"Is he? then we will too."

And soon after, our visitors, in their shirt-sleeves, seemed to strive
who would dig hardest; and we, just as busy, ran in all directions, and
brought in objects of every kind.

In order to carry out our plan, we had to look for a favourable place.
In front of the house stretches a velvet lawn planted here and there
with firs and pretty reeds. We could do nothing there. But beyond there
are beds in the gardens, shaped like a lozenge, a crescent, and what
not, box-edged and planted with shrubs. That was the right place, and we
proved it by digging there six or seven big holes. The largest received
the drawing-room clock, carefully wrapped up in oilcloth, with other
clocks almost as dearly cherished. On this side, we buried silver, on
that, old china, with a great deal of bustle and haste.

"Is the old Rouen jug buried? And my yellow tea-set? I will bury that
too; it is too lovely to lose."

The work drew to an end, and, by a masterpiece of cunning, we strewed
the newly-dug ground with dry leaves, twigs, and small pebbles.

Dr. Laison went into ecstasies about the garden he had made over the
grave of the clocks. He was thinking himself a match for Le Notre, when
he gave a start. "What is that?" The buried treasures, indignant at
their ill-usage, protested against it by the voice of the Empire clock,
which began to strike the hour. As we listened to the silvery yet hollow
sound which came from the earth, we were reminded of a tale by Edgar
Poe. But we had to apply our thoughts to other cares, and hide the linen
and clothes. After our guests were gone--loaded with grateful
blessings--we hardly spared the time to swallow a hasty dinner, and went
to give the finishing touch to our work.

Now there is between the ceiling of my bedroom and the roof a very dark
and lofty space that might serve as a very good hiding-place; but the
ladder was too short to get to it, so we put it on a table, and I,
astride on a beam, concealed in the accommodating shadow the things
which my sisters-in-law, posted on the ladder like so many tilers busy
with new roofing, handed up to me. We spread out and heaped up, at first
linen, then clothes, furs, shawls, carpets, curtains, eider-down
coverlets, and a big lion-skin; with many exertions we even hoisted up
to the loft a console table. Colette, standing on tiptoe at the other
end of the attic, declared:

"It looks quite empty; you can put in more things."

"Thanks! We are quite stiff enough for once. Thank Heaven the Germans
don't come every day, or we should not be equal to the job."

Downstairs we took down looking-glasses and pictures, and concealed them
as well as we could behind cupboards and bed-curtains. They showed a
little, but we hoped the Germans would see nothing of them. We could not
bury water-colours or oil-paintings, could we?

At last the house was in order, and we went out for a little stroll. The
village was silent, dead, not a cat in the streets; all the doors and
windows were closed. It was evident that every one was giving himself
wholly up to the very sport we had just enjoyed. All were vying with one
another in hiding their treasures, and were racking their brains to find
unknown holes and undiscoverable hiding-places. I wish to state here
that there is a gap in our public instruction, a want in our literature.
Since we are provided with such alarming neighbours, every school-master
should devote two hours a week to teach our youth what precautions to
take in case of invasion. Moreover, in my leisure hours, I intend to
write a book on "The Art of Concealing applied to Invasion." This may
open a new field of literature, for they will certainly lose no time in
answering the work from the other side of the Rhine with "The
Treasure-seeker's Guide, or a Hand-book for the Complete Plunderer." We
shall have, therefore, to study the question and improve the art of
hiding. In this respect, it is true, an ancient instinct may serve as a
guide, an instinct which has had no better chance of expansion than in
the corner of France we belong to. This rich country has excited the
lust of all conquerors. Before the Christian era the Romans subdued it,
and later on the Franks laid hands upon it. Attila, as Colette said but
yesterday, may have sent a few patrols down here. Then came the Normans,
who levied contributions on us; and the English, who took their ease at
the inhabitants' cost during the Hundred Years' War. Later the troops of
Philip the Second plundered us, and last century, 1814, 1870--two
inauspicious dates--we knew the strangers twice more. Therefore, when
the alarm spread, "the enemy are advancing," the order of the day, which
we knew by right of inheritance, went round: "let us hide, let us hide!"
All kept on hiding, and we hid too.

And our departure? We had decided to go, that was well and good; but how
should we go? We could not by railway, and we could not find a horse and
a carriage in the village for their weight in gold. Mme. Valaine went in
haste to M. Laserbe, who was setting out with three carts drawn by oxen.
He promised to take us and our luggage with him, as little luggage as
possible.

"Never fear, I will tell you in good time. There is no danger for the
present."

These words gave us confidence. We would fly, but whither, in this train
of sluggard things? I have mentioned the ridges that lie to the south
and the west of Morny. In the country these modest hills are pompously
called "the mountains." Now every one was convinced the Germans would
shun "the mountains." An army always goes along valleys, does it not?
And what would the enemy do in this uneven region, where orchards and
pasture grounds alternate with rocks and woods? "It is not the right
place to fight in," the people said. And in a hamlet in this happy part
of the country lives an old relation of ours, Mme. Laroye. We decided to
go to Cousin Laroye; we were sure she would receive us with open arms;
there we should see what to do next, and, when once the enemy had passed
over both sides of "the mountains," we could get to Switzerland, the
South of France, or Brittany as we chose.

Meanwhile, after this busy day, we really wanted rest, and to-night at
least we would sleep our fill. But we do not shape our own ends.... At
half-past two we were up. Foot soldiers passed in the street. At three
we were standing at the window, busy pouring out wine or coffee. Our
poor, poor soldiers! So cheerful, so lively, so full of gay spirits but
a month ago, in what a state did we see them return!

Bent, way-worn, they marched painfully. Yet they marched; but as soon as
they were ordered to stop, they dropped on the ground, and many fell
asleep on the spot. Still, when they heard we were giving something to
drink, they came tumbling one over another, and gathered around the
window. A captain advanced, quieted the disturbance, and ordered the
sergeants to distribute the bottles of wine by sections. At the sight of
this officer, I suddenly understood the gravity of the hour.
Dark-haired, with firm and yet fine features, he bore in his eyes the
bitterness of the retreat, the horror of the defeat. A look on his
tragic face informed me of the truth better than long speeches. Beaten!
We were beaten. France was lost....

O God! is it possible? Has God suffered this? No, no, it is not so; I
see now the flames, that protest in the feverish eyes: "We will die, but
we will struggle to the end." Yes, dear soldiers, brave heroes, you will
struggle against the enemy, happy that you can still take an active
part, while we, we can but wring our hands in despair, and support your
courage with love and earnest prayers. In this terrible moment, our
eager goodwill could do no more than ask: "Do you want a cup of coffee?
The water is boiling."

"Madam, with pleasure." Then some one called the officer, and he had to
go without his coffee, for which, by the way, many were eager.

The village was awake, and all were desirous to bring food and drink to
the soldiers. But the soldiers were so many that a great number
certainly got nothing at all.

Day broke, and the men still passed on, always as dusty, always as
tired, all regiments, all arms mixed in confusion. We did our best to
relieve as many as we could. In the morning the crowd grew thinner; we
saw only stragglers and cripples. How many we took in to comfort and
nurse I cannot say; they were too many. I remember the clerk of the
telegraph pointing to his right hand, of which the fingers had been shot
off.

"What shall I do now?" he said. "And the girl I am engaged to, will she
marry me?"

"Of course she will, or she would not be French!"

And then came a soldier wounded in the leg, and, in spite of his
sufferings, he hobbled on with a stick. In admiration, he indicated
Antoinette with a movement of his chin, and declared in his Lorraine
brogue:

"That girl there, she has dressed my wound much better than a trained
nurse."

A little linesman moved our pity still more, and even now we cannot talk
of him without emotion. He was very young, with a childish face; his
motionless features expressed an immense stupor, a grievous surprise.
What! that war! That was war! This wonderful thing we had so often heard
of! It was this retreat, these toils, these sufferings! For three weeks
he had not taken off his shoes, and his blistered feet were so swollen
that the poor fellow could hardly walk. Genevieve washed his poor feet,
and Colette, the over-fastidious Colette, wiped and bound them up with
tender care. We got him fresh socks, and the little foot soldier, after
a comfortable breakfast, went on his way again. As he left us, he looked
around him with amazement depicted on his face, and said:

"The Germans will punish you for that."

In these busy hours we had many opportunities to wonder at the energy
and vitality of our race. As soon as the soldiers, spent with fatigue
and disheartened, had rested a bit and swallowed something hot, they
renewed their vigour and even recovered gaiety enough to tell us their
adventures, to laugh at the German shells, which often do not burst, and
whose fragments run over the cloth of their uniforms, they assured us,
without doing any harm.

"But"--and there they dropped their voices to a whisper--"we have been
beaten, because there are traitors among the generals...." This opinion
drove us to despair. We did not give credit to it, but what would happen
if the men reposed no trust in their chiefs? And what could we answer to
the poor fellows? I recalled to Genevieve's memory Captain Vinchamps'
saying: "Beaten soldiers always call out treason, and they are not
wrong; a traitor is not merely a man who basely and selfishly sells his
country; he is a traitor too when he is not equal to his duty."

We did our utmost to hearten our guests of a moment, to cheer them
physically and morally; and then one after another they resumed their
journey. A touching detail: every lame soldier was attended by a
comrade, who took charge of him, carried his knapsack, held him up, and
was as careful of him as a mother of her child. About noon, when all had
gone away, Yvonne and Colette, who kept a watchful eye upon the street,
cried out: "Something is happening towards the pond," and set off
running thither. They found that a soldier had suddenly gone mad.
Half-naked, up to his waist in water, he shrieked and gesticulated, and
four men had a hard struggle to master him.

Trifling as it was, this incident brought the people's excitement to its
highest point.

"He is a Prussian," said one. "He is a spy," retorted another. This time
the people snatched at their luggage, were off in an instant, and came
back an hour after. The level-crossings were not open to civilians for
the present, or at least to carriages. Our state of mind was that of a
fish caught in a net. Terror spread amain, and won complete power over
the public mind. None knew what he dreaded, and all men reasoned
themselves out of reason. Our arguments were proved absurd and grotesque
by the event. A mist was over us; it was no more the pillar of fire; it
was the pillar of cloud. It was no more the shadow of approaching glory;
it was the black shadow which impending invasion casts before.

News kept coming.

"The Prussians are at Marle."

"No, they have been driven back."

"Perhaps they won't come down here."

Driven back! Oh, you simpletons! Have you not just seen our army pass?
Are you not conscious of the void, which draws on the enemy like a
cupping-glass?

In the village, so lively, so busy but a few days ago, is there a single
uniform left?

At heart the people felt uneasy; the cars were loaded, the horses
harnessed, the drivers on the look-out. Animals and people were but
waiting for a signal to rush upon an unknown fate.

The signal came.

It was about six. Tired, I was lying down in the drawing-room, when all
of a sudden a gun-shot resounded in the air, and directly after followed
sharp firing. At a bound I was up in the attic, at another I flew to the
garret window. Like a gargoyle stretched out on the edge of the roof, I
scanned the horizon. Northward a light puff of smoke vanished in the
upper branches of the poplar trees. Nothing was to be heard; but I
beheld the confused flight of all creatures that were out in the fields.
A man standing in a car lashed his bewildered horse with all his might;
fowls and even pigeons hurried away to poultry-yard and dovecot.

What had happened? I hastened down. The house was empty. I jumped out of
the window. At the corner of the street I caught sight of Genevieve. I
ran after her as fast as I could; we met at the cross-road, where a
crowd had gathered.

"What is the matter?" A patrol.... An English patrol.

We cast a look at the field-grey backs which rode away on big horses.
English? it may be!

"But at what did they fire?"

"It was a signal."

"No, they have shot carrier-pigeons."

"You are mistaken, they have arrested a spy."

In fact they had taken away a French soldier, bareheaded, who looked
about him with a profoundly ironical air.

"Oh," murmured the crowd, "it was easy to see he was a spy; he seemed to
laugh at us."

He was laughing at you! I am sure he was, the poor man! English
soldiers! English soldiers! Oh, you blind of one, of two eyes, threefold
idiots, how foolish you have been! They were twelve in number, and the
village was armed, and the men were there, and Prussians in flesh and
bone, as quiet as can be, took the high road to Laon!

We, quiet too, came back home. There now! We had had our warning! Our
hearts were still throbbing violently, but all the same we plucked up
courage again.

"The English keep watch and ward!"

Each one laughed at his friends' fright. We thought particularly
ridiculous the attitude of one of our neighbours, Marthe Tournillart, a
tall young woman, ruddy-cheeked and dark-haired, who at the first shot
had rushed headlong on her overloaded barrow. Resolutely she laid hold
of it, and with her two children hanging on to her skirts, fled away
bewildered but energetic, she knew not where; but she fled straight into
the hottest of the fight, had one taken place.

Nevertheless the passage of the patrol was looked upon as suspicious.
"We put no trust in this lump of flour," the peasants thought, like La
Fontaine's mice. "If we hear the guns now, it is the right moment for
flight."

Yvonne ran to M. Laserbe. When and how were we to go? The messenger came
back struck with dismay. Laserbe refused to take charge of us! The
traitor! And he had pledged his word! He alleged he had no places left.
Well, what were we to do? Whither could we turn? Could we go on foot?
To-night?

Mme. Valaine hesitated. She thought it dangerous in this troubled time
to run away by night through woods and fields.

"We will see what to-morrow brings," she said.

"Mother, to-morrow may be too late," retorted Antoinette.

"The first thing to do," said I, "is to have supper. There is a soup on
the table which will give you wings."

It was about nine. Hazardous times do not improve punctuality. We sat
down to table, and had hardly enjoyed a few mouthfuls of the soup I had
boasted of, when hasty steps resounded in the street; we heard a knock
at the shutter. We rushed forward.

"The Prussians are coming," whispered one of our neighbours. "They are
ten miles away. They have been seen on their way to Morny. French
officers have been to the Mayor's, and have pulled down the flag. Every
one is going. Good-bye; we won't lose time...."

I am going, you are going, we are going. Go on, oh flock of sheep!

Our own house is greatly alarmed. Mme. Valaine does not know which way
to turn. "Make haste, we must go at once. Get our things ready."
Thinking Laserbe would take us, we had packed up just what was
necessary, and what was necessary meant thirteen bags. We must discard
them. Feverishly we unpacked and abandoned the heavy bags; bundles would
do. A little linen, one or two light dresses, cloaks, shawls, a basket
filled with food, and we were quite ready. Had I not early in the
morning buried in the depths of the garden a sealed-up glass jar full of
jewels? And with the gold pieces my mother-in-law had brought from
Paris, had I not made a band I wore around my waist? We were ready, no
doubt of it.

We did not know what to do with the bags we were bound to abandon. We
dragged them upstairs to a loft next my bedroom, thrust them into it all
topsy-turvy, and hurriedly heaped up big logs at the entrance.
Everything was in order; the dogs were on their chains; we had but to
go.

Here we are in the street, all doors shut, and off we go. We wait one
minute to calm our hearts and to drop a tear.

Dear little house, white walls, virginia creepers, when shall we meet
again? And what will you look like? Let us begone! It is time for
action, not for regret.

Our neighbours next door, the couple Tillard, were putting the donkey in
their cart all ready for flight.

I have read somewhere that people should help one another in misfortune,
and so I blurted out: "Oh, M. Tillard, I suppose you are driving to 'the
mountains.' We are going too. Would you kindly take one of our parcels
with you?" At a loss what to answer, Tillard muttered between his teeth:

"Hum! already loaded.... Don't know which way...."

That is enough. "Thank you.... I understand." Another pause, this time
at M. Lonet's, my mother-in-law's brother. Stern-faced, with knotted
brows, our uncle refuses to go. Not he! He is fonder of his house, of
his gardens, than of anything, and the Germans cannot scare him away. He
bends on our caravan a glance of mingled scorn and pity, and, on going
out, Genevieve whispered in my ear as a last protest:

"He is not a coward."

If fear could not enter M. Lonet's heart, it reigned in the village. The
whole place was deserted, and we were among the last to go. Here and
there a flickering light showed that hasty preparations were still being
made in a few houses. Terror oozed from the closed shutters, hostile to
the expected foe, and from the doors, which presently the dwellers would
half open, to sneak away. At the end of the village, in a yard, a
lantern moved to and fro, a horse was harnessed, people hurried up and
down.

"Lucky rogues," Colette cried out, "who possess a cart!"

That is true. Our bundles already seemed heavy to bear. But, full of
courage, we went on, left the high road, crossed Cerny-les-Bucy, dead,
empty, mute. Another struggle and we were in the open country. Thus we
marched on--a strange little train, six women, attended by a small boy
and two dogs--silent, with heavy hearts, and then a voice complained:

"It is so heavy."

Yvonne had taken charge of the dogs, and had perhaps the hardest work,
for these animals, as soon as they are out of doors, pull on their
chain, until they almost tear out your fingers.

The road was deserted. Nobody in front of us, nobody behind. We were
safe from attack. We decided to rest awhile. Halt! We gathered our
luggage into the middle of the road, and sat down in a ditch.
Speechless, we looked at and listened to the night.

I shall never forget the night of our flight, as I watched it in that
meadow. Silvery night studded with stars, lit up by the moon, warm and
sweet and so quiet! Fields and meadows, bathed in moonlight, stretched
on all sides. Southward a wood showed like a shadow, and from the damp
meadows rose a mist, which followed the brook. You might have said that
large puffs of cotton wool hung in the air upon invisible threads, above
which emerged the tops of pollarded willows. Not a sound was heard. Only
far away a carriage rattled, or a dog barked; and close about us the
crickets sang their shrill song. A god-like presence filled the world,
and the serenity of inanimate things contrasted sharply with the mad
fear of men which swept us away. On this same night, uniformly kind to
all, whole armies marched, dreaming of death and destruction, while
thousands of wayworn fugitives wandered on towards uncertainty, misery,
despair.

Boom, boom! Two formidable detonations from the fort of Laniscourt shook
the air, and aroused us from the torpor which crept over us. Was it a
signal? We did not know. We went on. Go, take up your burden again,
hasten, the way is long. We went on, but slowly; we were tired, and
baggage always retards the advance of an army. Poor snails that we were!
The flood was approaching; it had driven us away; and if in our
unreasoning prudence we resembled snails, we had not the good luck to
carry a house with us. What shelter should we get? Where should we lay
our tired heads? We advanced anyhow, our ears pricked, our eyes on the
look-out. An alarm! This shadow on the road, which moves on...! black,
apocalyptical, it passed by, and greeted us without astonishment:

"Good-night, ladies; a beautiful night, isn't it?"

We recognised old Lole, a well-known beggar, bent with age, loaded with
a wallet full to the brim. Another shadow, a white one this time,
crossed our path a few steps farther on; it was a small dog, which did
not stop, but hurried on his way to Morny. The times were hard for dogs
too.

"And then, look behind that stack--two, three, five dark forms ... they
are people, aren't they?" But, still more afraid than we, they hid
themselves, and we passed on triumphantly. Without striking a blow, we
crossed the woods, and got to the fields again. On approaching
Mons-en-Laonnois we heard eleven strike. The silvery sound of the bell
seemed to drop from a very high tower, from the starry sky, perhaps.
Here we made a feeble and vain attempt to get a carriage. No one in the
streets; the very garret windows were shut up, the doors barricaded. At
the end of the village, we halted. We were hungry, for the good reason
that we had left on the supper-table the creamy milk and crusty cake,
which were to end our frugal meal. But we had taken with us a few
savoury chicken _pates_, which my prudent mother-in-law had made the day
before. We cut slices of bread and butter, and, sitting by the wayside,
made an excellent meal. We were gay, but our gaiety was fictitious. We
laughed at a light anxiously flickering behind a shutter. It seemed a
prey to nameless terror, and, conscious of our own courage, we made
merry over it. The poor thing surely believed a German patrol was
feasting at the gate!

Two hours after, we got to Vaucelles, then to Royaucourt. We were tired
to death, and made up our minds to seek shelter. All the barns were full
of refugees, all the yards were encumbered with refugees' horses, all
the streets were crowded with refugees' vehicles. We too were refugees
now.

"Will there be any room for us," we wondered, "no matter where, so long
as we can rest?" We stopped in front of Mlle. Honorine's inn: "Good
accommodation for man and beast." It was just what we wanted. We gave a
knock at the door.

"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, open the door, please ... just a small
room, only chairs to sit down." But none so deaf as those who won't
hear. Nothing would have roused Mlle. Honorine from her sweet slumbers.

At length we made up our minds to rest outside, on the threshold of the
unrelenting house. An accommodating bench very kindly welcomed three of
us, Genevieve and Antoinette, wrapped up in their cloaks, stretched on
the stony ground of the courtyard. As to myself, I chose for a
resting-place a flight of steps. Crouching down in a comfortable corner,
with Pierrot nestled in my arms, I covered our bodies with my shawl, and
summoned sleep in vain. The stone was very hard. Yet I was comfortable,
and had no mind to go away. But we soon remembered we were running away,
and that it was high time for us to be off again. "Get up! get up! It is
half-past two." We rose reluctantly, yawned, cleared our throats,
stretched ourselves. Antoinette was so weary and so ill that we had
much trouble to move her. At length we were all up. We cursed the
household that had behaved so unkindly to the poor wanderers, and,
leaving the inhospitable village, we turned to the right. The road wound
its way through the woods. The moon had gone down; it was pitch dark;
our hearts quivered with fear; our eyes searched into the shades of
night; and we strained our ears like the dogs. The poor beasts
disapproved of our nightly expedition, and sniffed at tufts of grass
with great anxiety.

"This black mass here, lying on the wayside, is it a dead body? No, it
is but a log. And there, those white spots, aren't they faces? No, they
are birches. Don't you hear a noise of steps? No, it is the breaking of
a dead branch." We stopped to take a little breath. We were out of the
forest; we had reached the top of the hill. Quite bare, it was not
really a plateau, for the ground spread itself out in large waves. We
walked along, dragging our luggage up and down the road. Genevieve and I
carried the heaviest bag, and tried many experiments to make it lighter.
We put it on our shoulders like an urn, on our back like a sack of
flour. Like the queen of the turtles, we hung it on a stick, of which
each of us took an end. From time to time we stopped a minute to change
hands, or to listen to far-away noises. Then a slight quivering broke
the stillness. We thought we heard a distant rumbling. Sometimes there
were explosions--bridges were being blown up. Day was already breaking.
A pallor whitened the sky towards the east. We reached Urcel, prettily
placed among orchards on the slope of a hill. Worn out, we sat on the
edge of the pavement like so many swallows on the edge of a gutter. We
were in high spirits, we exchanged jokes, and all of a sudden:

"Yvonne, Yvonne, laughter will end in crying...."

Indeed, the poor girl, still half-choked with laughter, was now sobbing
bitterly. We gathered round her, and tried to comfort her.

"Get up, get up, the inn will be open in a minute, and we shall have a
cup of coffee. Come."

At the first glimmering of the dawn, the shop opened a shutter like a
fearful eyelid.

We went in. The landlady, in a dressing-gown, with her black hair loose
over her shoulders, dragged herself along, and raised her weeping eyes.

"Oh, Heavens! they are coming here, aren't they? What an unhappy, poor
creature I am! What will become of me? And my daughter, aged fourteen
years? What will become of us?"

The woman's despair amused us, and we tried to comfort her.

"The Prussians will never reach this out-of-the-way place. Perhaps a
patrol or two will come, and that is all. All the world is seeking
refuge in 'the mountains.' Everybody knows the Prussians won't come
here."

On leaving Urcel, we plunged into the misty shadows of a valley. But
when we got on the other side it was glorious, dazzling. The sun was
just rising, and beneath its first beams the country smiled and
glistened. The meadows, bathed in dew, sparkled as though decked with
gems; the air was mild, nature thrilled with joy, a lark carolled to the
sun. Pierrot, drunk with light and space, danced about like a little
faun, and we ourselves, for an insect, for a flower, for a bush covered
with bright berries, leapt like goats. Our thoughts were lighter than
the soft mists melting in the sun.

War! It is but a myth.

Invasion! an idle tale.

Danger! an illusion.

Weariness, pangs, mental sufferings, all were forgotten. We were young,
we were strong; we breathed the fresh air with ecstasy, and the
splendour of the hour intensified our love of life. Danger is life. War
is victory, and blessed be the hand which bestows on mankind black
nights and white mornings, dull cares and consoling joys.

With light hearts we took to our cheerful road. We marched for one hour,
and then doubts arose.

"Mother, you have taken the wrong road, I am sure. Chevregny is not so
far...."

Yet at a turn of the road we caught sight of Chevregny, nestled in
verdure, crouched in a hollow way. We marvelled at the pointed steeple,
at the red tiles or blue slates of the roofs. So we prepared to make an
entrance into the village worthy of us and it. We sat by the wayside and
took small looking-glasses and powder-puffs out of our leather bags.
Powder is as necessary to women as to soldiers, isn't it? We did our
hair, brushed our dresses, and then went down the village street quite
smart. We turned to the right and entered the big farm of Mme. Laroye.
Surprise, exclamations! Arms lifted up to the sky, and then clasped
around us in a close embrace! Boundless friendship and endless
hospitality were promised us.

"But tell us, dear cousin, who are all these people we see gathered in
your domain?"

Mme. Laroye had already given hospitality to twenty-one refugees in her
barns and cart-sheds, and had received into the bargain certain solid
citizens of Laon, persons whom she honoured with her friendship and
best rooms. We did not allow them to move from their quarters.

"If mother is provided for, dear cousin, it is all that we want. Don't
bother about us; we will sleep in the hay-loft; it will be delightful."

When these matters were settled, we refreshed ourselves. How delightful
it was after that painful night to take a bath, to loll in an armchair,
to sit at table where fresh bread, golden butter, and transparent jam
smiled upon us. We found a charm in the smallest pleasures, and thought:

"Now we are quiet, now we are in safety, we shall suffer nothing at the
hands of the abhorred invader; we shall not see the shadow of their
helmets on our walls; we shall not hear the tramping of their horses on
our pavements; the booming of their cannon will not roll over our
hearts!"

But what did we hear?

We stood up, speechless with horror.

The street rang with loud cries, and those cries were:

"The Prussians! The Prussians!"




PART II


    Frenchman! I saw thy child
    Who cried alone on the road.
    I have comforted him. I have reassured thy wife.
    Thy field lay fallow, I have tilled it.
    When Peace reappears again on earth
    May thou reap the fruits of my labour!

      Published in German in the _Lillerzeitung_, translated into
        French, and reproduced in the _Gazette des Ardennes_.




CHAPTER IV


Placid and heavy on their placid, heavy horses, they slowly advanced
along the street. Of giant stature, they came on, revolver in hand, with
the self-reliance of brutal strength. Their red-edged caps made their
hard-featured faces still harder. It was a sight to strike Nature
herself with horror, and, hidden behind the muslin curtains, we sobbed
bitterly. The guests, huddled together in the dimly lighted room. Were
silently weeping; the women crossed themselves, and watched over their
children as if it were old Bogy's steps they heard. The men tugged
nervously at their moustaches, and shook their fists in the empty air.
Our gestures made the poor people uneasy.

"Heavens!" the women groaned, "don't show your face at the window!"

"Don't open the curtains!"

"Don't draw their attention to the house!"

"How frank they are," an old woman whimpered. "How splendid to be frank
like that! As to myself, I could not be so." I suppose she meant
courageous, but courage was not in question. We thought of nothing; we
felt nothing; we were only looking at the men. We were glaring with all
our eyes at a sight that crushed our souls. Grief left a huge void in
our hearts. The enemy was there, and it was all up with us! I think we
had suffered less if we had seen the Germans arrive in a town. A town is
always somewhat of a courtesan. It gives a hearty welcome and
hospitality to every one; it is daily a prey to strangers of ill repute.
If invasion beats against its walls, if a hostile army crosses its
streets--one human flood succeeding so many others--the town scowls at
the foe, and then loses all memory of him. But there in a small village,
hidden in a fold of the French ground, in a tiny hamlet which a hostile
mind never chose for a shelter, the presence of the invaders seems to
profane the very grass; and ever after the poor little place will remain
an unhallowed spot, which bloodshed and years will not purify again.

After the horsemen had passed, there rolled along cannon and
powder-carts, whose rumbling set our teeth on edge.

"Grandmother, look there!" cried out Colette.

On a powder-cart, looking very unhappy, sat the small dog we had met in
the meadow.

So the Germans had traversed Morny; they had followed close upon us.

At last there came an end to the procession. The street was empty. No
one uttered a word, and we ran away to cry to our hearts' content.
House, yard, barns were all crowded with people. I took refuge in the
garden. Nature seemed covered with an ashen veil, the very sun was
obscured. Had the radiant morning really begotten this sad noon? Like a
wounded animal looking for a dark shelter, I fled to the orchard, and
crouching down in a corner close to the wall I wept most bitterly,
without knowing why. Some one called me; I had to go back to life, or
rather a life, unknown, unsuspected, in which all was changed. The
Prussians were advancing through France.

On arriving at the house I met only with grief-stricken features and
swollen eyes. We had no mind to eat. Only a few refugees, already
indifferent, and the dogs did not lose their appetite. But standing at
the dining-room windows we saw a sight worth seeing. The Prussians had
taken possession of the village, and were looking for what they might
lay their hands upon. They seemed to think little Mme. Laineux' shop
had been created for their own special use, and they set about
plundering it according to rule. They went up, three steps at a time,
got among the groceries, made their choice, and came back, their arms
filled with bottles and bags. In short, they carried away all that was
eatable and drinkable in the house. They went up and down without
interruption like two rows of ants busy stripping a sack of flour, one
row full, the other empty. The grocer's wife, a small woman, dark and
pale with large black eyes, stood by, unable to withstand the
plunderers. She locked the door. The first soldier who encountered that
obstacle went to the window, broke a square, turned the door-handle, and
muttering threats reopened the door.

With a look of despair, Mme. Laineux went and fetched an officer who was
eating upstairs.

"Come and see what your men are doing."

The officer came, looked round, and declared:

"C'est la kerre, Matame!"

And he went back to his lunch.

The shop cleared out, the men made farther search into the house, and
discovered a small store-room, which they emptied with equal activity.
For the pleasure of the thing, they cut stockings to transform them into
socks, and spilled ink on petticoats and blouses. The last comers took
the trap from the coach-house, the horse out of his stable, put the
horse in the trap, and drove off with a light heart.

A bitter disenchantment filled our tired hearts. Nothing would have
astonished us. In the afternoon two soldiers entered the farm, but at
the sight of the yard crowded with men and dogs, withdrew. Broken down
with weariness, we went early to bed. A ladder about twenty feet high
led to a square opening through which we climbed into the hay-loft.
There every one of us made a hole in the hay and buried herself in it.
Now, in theory, hay offers a soft and sweet-smelling couch. The reality
is slightly different. You may find comfort in this bed if you are
wrapped up in cloaks and shawls to keep out the cold of the night, but
the odour of the hay will make you sneeze, you will soon feel stiff in
your legs, and hard blades of grass will prick your ankles and your
neck.

Despite minor annoyances, my companions were very soon slumbering. For
my part I could not sleep. I was feverish and ... my golden waistband
played tricks and got into my ribs. The slanting light of the moon gave
an added pallor to the faces of the four sleeping girls, whose presence
on their bed of hay, beneath the beams of the loft which spiders had
covered with their grey lace, was astonishing enough. It seemed as
though the four heads had been put there for a whim, and the bodies laid
down somewhere else. I fell into a doze. I saw hundreds of Prussians
pass before my eyes, laden with goods, and carrying away the very
houses. Then there came a multitude of galloping horses, which all
vanished from my sight, and I was asleep.

The next day an impudent sunbeam woke us up by caressing our eyelids. In
the barn below the refugees were bustling about noisily. The first
moment after awaking was cruel; we had, as Stendhal says, "to learn our
misery afresh." One after the other, like fowls getting out of the
henhouse, we went down our long ladder, and ran off to wash and to hear
the latest news.

That day also was a day of tears.

The villagers, frightened to death, had not dared to unlock their doors,
and we heard only in the morning that a French convoy had been taken by
surprise and captured by the Germans at Neuville, no more than two miles
from Chevregny.

Then a scout--a fact completely unconnected with the former--had been
killed by the enemy at a cross-way, near Mme. Laroye's house. We went to
see the place, where the two white roads cross each other; large
reddish spots still marked the ground. Kneeling down, we kissed this
blood which cried for revenge, and from our inmost soul we besought
Heaven that France should be victorious over her enemy, so that her
heart's blood might not be shed in vain.

Some peasants, who had witnessed the scene, gave us an account of it. In
great numbers the Germans came down the road. All of a sudden, two
French scouts appeared on the outskirts of the wood, saw the enemy,
fired at them, and then turned back. One of them was lucky enough to get
under cover, but the other, severely wounded, was unhorsed, and fell
down. Stretched by the wayside he made an attempt to get up, but his
adversaries rushed upon him, and in a confused scuffle beat him to death
with the butt-ends of their guns, and rode away at full gallop.

The victim was to be buried that very morning, and as we wished to be
present at the funeral, no time could be lost. When we arrived at the
churchyard two men were already digging a narrow grave. The body,
wrapped in a white sheet, was lying on a stretcher. There was no coffin.
Soldiers should lie in the soil for which they have died. The red spot
beneath his head grew larger little by little, and the blood that
trickled down made a dazzling rill in the white sand. We approached him
with a shrinking heart. With pious hands the grave-digger lifted up the
sheet to show us the face of the dead man. An aquiline nose and a firm
chin were still distinguishable. The rest of the features were clotted
with blood and shapeless. Nearly choked with sobs, we could not help
wondering from which wound the blood had flowed, when suddenly the truth
flashed upon us, at a gesture of the old grave-digger, who pointed at
what were, but the day before, the boy's eyes. His eyes! oh, you
cowards! villains! They had not only beaten him to death, they had put
his eyes out! He was defending himself like a brave soldier. He was
alone against twenty, and they had murdered him. There on the white
road, in the sunshine, they had committed their crime; the shades of
night had fallen upon him before he descended to the tomb.

Oh, vengeance! vengeance! We wept, we cried, and nothing could comfort
us. We wept over the gallant soldier of France, who fell so near us; we
wept over all the dead and wounded, and above all we wept--oh,
narrowness of the human heart!--over the one soldier we loved, whose
uncertain fate tortured our hearts. Oh, my Posy, my treasure, my love,
my pride, have you not asked for a dangerous mission? Have you received
your death-wound, outnumbered in some lonely corner? Have they...? the
terrifying thought! ... oh, his eyes! ... his eyes!... It was beyond
endurance. Crushed with grief, I fell senseless. When I came to myself
the priest had said the usual prayers, and was gone. My companions stood
up, shedding silent tears. The two villagers gloomily filled the grave,
and the earth fell with a hollow sound on the poor body. One of the men
broke off in the middle of his work, and told us of the scout's death.
What he said confirmed what we had already heard. "Curse them!" he cried
out, and, with a gesture of rage, seized his spade, and began again to
fill the grave.

But we had not done with emotion yet.

"Do you know that the Germans took three hundred prisoners yesterday?"
some one asked us. "You will see them pass on the road."

The churchyard is terraced to the street, which runs down a steep hill,
and thence already we caught sight of a few horsemen, closely followed
by soldiers on foot. They were French. At the sight of the enemy, our
grief, all of a sudden, turned to wrath and madness. Here they were in
our own country, the very same we saw yesterday, no doubt. They were
those perhaps who had blinded and killed the scout, and they were
taking our brothers to captivity. Oh, for the power to strike, to kill
those men! To hurl down upon them some of those big stones, half
loosened by time! We shuddered at the mere sight of them, a bantering,
conceited, happy mob. The faces of Yvonne and Antoinette, standing among
the crosses, were wet with tears and convulsed with rage. Hatred was so
clearly visible in their eyes that the faces of the Germans grew hard
and stiffened as if they had been given a slap in the face. They pass,
they are gone, and now the prisoners are coming. They seemed to have
made up their minds to accept the situation. They were hot, and talked
among themselves in a low voice. The officers drove in a jolting car,
motionless and spent. We could not see them very well, but we could
distinguish the stripes on the Captain's sleeve, and then the cart
disappeared from sight at a winding of the road. The way was open; we
went home, and when we were alone, Genevieve and I fell into each
other's arms, and without saying a word wept again inconsolably. Towards
the close of the day the garden tempted us. It is a dear old garden,
full of shade and of old-fashioned, sweet-smelling flowers. It is about
four yards above the level of the street, and if you sit on the wall, as
large as an easy-chair, you can see all that goes on in the street
below. Like souls in agony, we dragged ourselves along the alleys edged
with box, doleful and weary. From the wall we observed the four points
of the compass. Not a Prussian in sight. So we began to talk to little
Mme. Laineux, who looked out of her window just over the way. Close to
her stood a young girl about fifteen years of age, whose head, framed in
a handkerchief tied under the chin, was the most exquisite ever seen.
Raphael might have drawn her fine features, her clear eyes. Even her
hands browned by the sun were pretty; even her waist was elegant in
spite of an unbecoming frock. O France, you are rich in all treasures,
and that sweet little maid is not the least of them! The grocer's wife
confided her sorrows to us in a bitter tone. Two old men passing by
stopped in the street to condole with her; then a third person, shabbily
dressed, joined in the talk, and from the very first proved interesting.
He was a soldier, escaped from the yesterday's fight, and he told us his
adventure in detail.

"Tuesday," he said, "we slept in Arden, a small place we had reached at
five o'clock in the evening. The horses were not tired, and we might
have marched on. At least, we ought to have been up at three, instead of
which we set out again at six o'clock, and were not bidden to make
haste. We did not know that the enemy was treading in our steps. About
nine we approached this place, quite easy in our minds, when we heard
the people cry: 'The Prussians!... To the right-about! Quick! Quick!'
Convoys like us are not looked upon as fighting men, do you see; we
ought to be a few miles behind the front. We were but scantily armed;
some of us had a revolver and no bullets, the others bullets and no
revolver. What could we do against the cannon, which peppered us from
the top of the hill? We were ordered back.

"The drivers made what speed they could, when, just at the turn of the
road, one of the carts managed to tumble down; those that followed at
full speed were thrown down upon it, and thus made a barricade, which
held up all the rest. The guns fired without ceasing. Our Captain came
up: 'Nothing to do, my lads; we are caught. Be quick, get a white flag.'
We looked for a white flag.... There was none. At length a white
handkerchief was hoisted on a stick. And then a troop of horsemen
cantered down upon us. 'Lay yourselves in the ditch,' we heard. The
horses pawed our backs, and I assure you the Prussians did nothing to
hold them back. I will show you."

And the man, taking off his jacket, bared his bruised and swollen back.

"Still lying in the ditch, I noticed close to me the opening of a
gutter-stone stopped up with mud and grass. I tried to pull it out; it
gave way. I got into the narrow passage, and cried out to my companion:
'There is room but for one.'

"'It is one safe and sound,' he answered, and stopped up the opening of
the pipe again.

"For twenty-six hours I lay in there, with the Germans overhead. Never
in my life did I think of my wife and children as I did then! About
eleven o'clock, when all the noise had ceased, I ventured out of my
hole. People who were working hard by took me in, dressed my wound, and
gave me civilian clothes. I hope to escape to the woods and join the
French army again."

And so saying the man went away. We called him back to slip some
biscuits and chocolate into his hand. With a smile he pointed to his
full pockets, and said, "I am well stored, you see. I will share with
the others." Alas, he was not alone! The convoy amounted to 800
soldiers. About 15 had been killed, 350 taken prisoners, and the rest
were hidden in the woods. The boldest or the luckiest might reach the
French lines. The others would probably wander about, like wild beasts
who hide themselves, would suffer cold and hunger, and then after
weeks or months of this wretched life they would be caught and sent
to Germany ... unless they were shot.

Our thoughts were mournful as death when at nightfall we climbed a
second time to the hay-loft. We could not sleep, our anxiety was too
great. Were the Germans still gaining ground? Would they sweep onward,
like a cloud of insects, towards Paris, whose splendour and renown
dazzled and attracted them invincibly? Oh, may they burn their wings
there and be carbonised to the last one! The next day we went to see the
place of the skirmish. The fields on both sides of the road were all
covered over with things the soldiers had thrown away. In some places
the grass was heaped with knapsacks, papers, clothes, and arms. We
tramped on; the road wound its way through meadows and woods, and then
got into a funnel-shaped valley. Here had been the thickest of the
fight. The cavalry came up from behind; there were the guns on the rocks
to the right and left. Alas, the convoy had really been caught in a
trap! The three carts still stood in the middle of the road, and the
meadows were thickly strewn with soldiers' things, papers, and discarded
arms. Colette discovered a beautiful sword hidden in a bush; she
quickly put it back again, that presently she might come and fetch it.
It would be so much gained. A passer-by gave us some other details.
There was a body here, another there. It was to be feared that a few
more dead soldiers were hidden in the wood. On our way back we picked up
all the letters, books, and papers which we found, hoping we might later
on forward them to the soldiers' families, and at the same time tell
them news of the unfortunate convoy. We passed through Neuville, and
there we saw the ammunition captured the day before, heaped up in a
yard. Another Cerberus, adorned with a spiked helmet, watched over
mountains of bullets and boxes of cartridges. There was seven million
francs' worth, said the peasants.

Returning to the village, sunk in despondency, we heard the sound of a
drum, and we arrived just in time to listen to the proclamation which
the rural constable read aloud:

"Arms and clothes, belonging to French soldiers, must be gathered up,
and brought without delay to the Mayor's house.... By order of the
German authorities," said the reader, a small hunchbacked man.

And tears rolled down his cheeks.

At Mme. Laroye's we found a change for the better. The refugees had set
out homewards, and the friends from Laon, by taking leave, enabled us
to live once more after the fashion of civilised people. With pleasure
we stretched our limbs, which three nights had stiffened and tired out,
in a comfortable bed.

From that time Fate proved merciful, and for a few days spared us new
troubles and violent emotions. Of course tears always trembled on our
eyelids, if some incident happened to revive our wounds; but after so
many mental pangs the surrounding peace was a solace to our minds. Life
sprang up anew in our hearts, and with life, spirits. Many a time--was
it a reaction?--we burst out laughing, broke into mad, inextinguishable
laughter. Liza more than once set us in a roar. Liza is Mme. Laroye's
maid,--a maid who has land of her own, who possesses a mile away a
house, a horse, a dog, and, in ordinary times, a husband. But, as the
times we live in are by no means ordinary, Zidore--for he is called
Zidore--had joined the army, to make war against the King of Prussia.

Was Mme. Laroye alone? Liza would discharge with assiduous attention the
duties of her place. Had Mme. Laroye friends or relations to entertain?
Liza went home again, and reappeared only to give herself up to her
menial duties. Liza is a tall woman, clumsily built, with a funny
Hun-like face. Her small eyes, her high cheekbones, prove that a drop of
Asiatic blood runs in her veins. Have I not hinted, in a former chapter,
that Attila may have sent a reconnoitring party down here? But if Liza
has inherited her strong frame and her snub nose from her ancestors, the
Huns, to whom does she owe her restlessness and her pusillanimity? No
doubt to her great-grandmother, the Frankish woman, who had to submit to
the wild Asiatic. For Liza was not brave; Liza did not dare face the
Prussians. From Laon, Morny, and other places, people fled to Chevregny.
It was then an additional reason for Liza's fellow-villagers to run away
farther too. The women had made up their minds to go. As soon as the
enemy was descried from afar, Liza's horse--Mouton--and Mme. Laroye's
horse--Gentil--would be put to, and both fiery steeds--as fiery as their
names--would take their mistresses to a safe place.

But, alas! man proposes.... A cry arose: "The Prussians!" Liza heard it,
snatched up a big loaf in bewilderment, and went full gallop towards the
forest with her dog at her heels. After her galloped a troop of her
companions just as bewildered. They went down the road, struck across
the country, cleared the hedges, and plunged into the forest. In the
heart of the wood they stopped, blessing their star which had led them
to this wild and safe spot. At that very moment they became speechless.
The report of a cannon resounded in the air, then a second one, and a
full volley followed. The poor wretches had thrown themselves headlong
into the valley, where the convoy struggled against its foes, and the
grape-shot fell upon them without mercy. The harmless troop, however,
lifted up its suppliant arms towards Heaven, which did not see them at
all, for the foliage was too thick, and muttered hollow prayers to some
sylvan divinity which heard them not, for the cannon was too loud. Then
they ran away and cowered under the bushes. Shells bespattered them
facetiously with moss and earth. They crouched in a hut that happened to
be there. A malignant cannon-ball carried off a corner of the roof. They
stuck close to the trunk of a tree. Merely to tease them bullets tore
off its leaves and its branches, which rained gently down upon their
heads. The unfortunate fugitives, at last gloomily resigned, sat in a
circle, and waited for the end in the calm of despair. Then all sounds
ceased. They opened one eye, then the other, stretched themselves, got
up, counted themselves, and discovered with the greatest amazement they
had lost neither one hair, save those which they had torn in terror, nor
one button, save those which panting fear had burst from their corsage.
These refugees of the forest had no thought of leaving their precious
shelter. They ate the provisions which in their prudence they had
brought with them, and Liza's big loaf proved a great success. They
spent the night in the hut, and slept with one eye open, raising their
unquiet heads whenever they heard the tramping of a Prussian horse on
the road. In the morning nothing was to be heard. I do not know who was
courageous enough to poke her nose first out of the wood; I expect it
was the dog. At last, however, our villagers plucked up their courage,
and with common accord went back to their native hamlet. Mme. Laroye did
not receive Liza exactly with open arms, but with that gentle irony of
which she has the secret:

"Well, well, Liza, I understand. 'The old lady is too slow,' you
thought, 'she will disturb us. She had better stay at home.' And so you
scampered off."

Liza protested, and we laughed, and Colette pointed the moral of the
adventure.

"It is very funny, Liza's story. But don't you think it is just like
ours?"

The Prussians had forced open most of the houses, and had anticipated
the taxes which they hoped to levy. Fowls, pigeons, geese without
number, and even plump pigs were absent. At Liza's house the ravishers
had shown a certain modesty. A sack of flour, a few pigeons, one or two
ducks only had disappeared. But the intruders had turned the room
topsy-turvy. Did they look for treasure? And, by a sad whim, they had
seized upon two photographs, whose red plush frames were the ornament of
the mantelpiece--Liza in the garb of a nun, and Zidore in a soldier's
uniform. For what purpose had they torn up these precious pictures?

"And Zidore had it taken the first day I saw him!" So the enemy had
destroyed the fond keepsake of a happy day!

Really, the age we lived in was hard, and the Prussians heartless! All
the world was so firmly convinced of this that everybody stayed indoors
as much as possible and ventured reluctantly out of the village, for
fear of dangerous encounters. No one was bold enough to risk horse and
cart on the road, since the first soldier that came might requisition
both. Happy indeed was the owner who was not compelled to turn back and
drive the Prussian to a far-off place. Thus it happened that many a
villager, who, having gone out with team and horse for a few hours,
came back home on foot and alone three or four days later. From this
you may see that communication was not easy, even between places at no
great distance from one another. An old lady, seeing the Germans arrive
in Chevregny, died of the sudden shock, and for several days it was
impossible to send the sad tidings to her son, who was no farther off
than Laon. Indeed, we knew not what was happening in the neighbourhood,
still less at Morny. "The country is overrun with Prussians," we were
told.

So the emotion was great when it was rumoured that flour ran short in
Chevregny, for Chevregny fed two other hamlets and a great many
refugees. Every morning the baker's shop was carried by storm. Every
morning the housewives had to wait their turn for an hour to get a loaf.
It was a heart-rending sight to see how the baker toiled; his wife did
not know which way to turn; his boy knew not what to be at. At this rate
the flour sacks would melt away like snow in an April sun. We had to
find other sacks, or famine would break out in the village. One morning,
then, Liza announced: "My horse is required to go and fetch flour at
Pont-Avers."

In the country the word "requisition" does not exist. You are
"required"--that is all. Mouton, then, was required to go and fetch
provender. Very well. He could not tempt the greed of the Germans, being
well stricken in years, and somewhat lame.

"But who will drive Mouton?" asked Mme. Laroye.

"Well, I don't know, perhaps me," said Liza.

"You don't say so, Liza," her mistress cried out. "There are men enough
left in the village to do that. Now a woman has to stay at home, that is
her right place."

In the afternoon Liza came back, and said in a triumphant tone:

"The blacksmith is driving to Pont-Avers. I have told them it was not a
woman's job."

The good creature was delighted with her saying, and repeated over and
over again:

"I told them so ... it is not a woman's job."

Alas, how many things women had to take charge of which were not
"women's jobs"! How courageous and hard-working they were, the women of
the villages! The men had gone to the war, and left the harvest
ungathered. "The work must be done," said the women, and, without a
moment's rest, they bent in toil to the earth. We, too, did our share.
Perched upon steep ladders or hazardous trees, we picked thousands of
small blue plums, which Liza crammed into big-bellied casks. After
mysterious treatment the fruit was expected to turn into an exquisite
brandy, pronounced by the well-skilled old gossips a cure for every ill.
Better than that, we shut up with our own hands Mme. Laroye's
hiding-place. For who would have believed it? Her house was not in
order! She had buried a cash-box full of golden coins in her garden, but
we thought she had better remove a great many other things just as
valuable as money. Besides, she had a hiding-place. It was not a
fanciful hiding-place like ours, but a serious hiding-place, contrived
by a workman, a past-master in digging and masonry. The cellar opens
into the arched entrance of the house. In a corner of this cellar is a
trap-door which, lifted up, leads to a break-neck flight of steps hewn
out in the rock. At the foot of the steps is a smaller cellar, which is
the hiding-place. We took down the other silver, linen, fine old shawls,
at which we gazed with envious eyes, and then the wine.

"Not all the wine, dear cousin, not all. They will never believe you
have no wine at all."

When the trap-door was closed, we carried down with great trouble a few
barrowfuls of earth, which a skilful hand raked over properly. Then we
stamped upon it, swept the cellar, scattered grey dust over the fresh
earth, and put old boxes and tubs in the corner. Shrewder than a
Prussian would he be who saw anything here! Alas, it was a beast who
brought our fine work to nothing! In the course of time we heard that
Uhlans on their way through Chevregny put horses into the cellar. The
horses, as they are wont to, pawed and scratched the ground.

"It sounds hollow!" cried the Prussians.

"It sounds wine!" they went on, in a fit of inspiration, and then
discovered they had been cheated.

I do not know what became of the other objects, but I know perfectly
well the way Mme. Laroye's wine went.

In spite of these interesting occupations, we were bored. And yet we had
discovered in Bouconville, three miles off, a well-stored shop which
supplied us with cotton, wool, and stuffs to give work to our idle
fingers. In spite of Mme. Valaine's anxiety, we went, two or three
together, and brought back in triumph what was wanting. But we never
ventured into the wood, and on our homeward journeys we cast sidelong
glances at the "sand-pit," whose green shade always allured us. Such is
the name of a few acres of wood, belonging to my mother-in-law, where I
hope some day to install my household gods. There a brooklet murmurs,
and hard by shall be my house, with a willow charming and majestic, an
ash lofty and elegant to give me shade. There I shall live happy on milk
and honey--goats and bees will be mine--with my husband and the children
which I trust God will grant me. We shall be once more in Arcady.

Thus I mused on my way home, when suddenly some German troops appeared
on the horizon to dispel my dream of Arcady, and sent me home in haste
to the shelter of the farm.

I have said we were bored. Life was chiefly unbearable for want of news.
What was going on? For two days we had heard an echo of the guns. Was
there a battle? The first Germans we had seen had told us with a sneer:

"Parisse, Parisse, within dree tays we are in Parisse!"

Had the progress of the haughty boors been stayed? Hope trembled at the
bottom of our hearts; hope, which dared not grow, and which we dared not
avow.

Ten times a day we left our needlework or our book to run to the garden.
We listened. A kind of rumbling was all we heard. Was it to the east,
the north, or the south? Was it a singing in our ears or was it
cannon-shots?

"What if we placed our ears to the ground?"

And so we lay on the grass like so many dead bodies, and concentrated
our whole souls in listening.

"There certainly is a rambling." This conviction filled our hearts with
joy and anxiety, and the whole day long we fidgeted about the house.
Besides, we could not stay for ever in Chevregny. We had to make up our
minds.

"Since the Germans are here, there, and everywhere," I said, "we had
better go back home, where at least we are comfortable and at ease."

In Chevregny, to be sure, comfort is unknown. For instance, cleanliness
does not hold a large place in the people's life, though we had
transformed the bakehouse into a very decent bathroom. Every evening
Pierrot was washed at the pump, and pretended to throw the water which
deluged him to the bright and passionless moon.

As long as the weather kept warm it was pleasant enough, but all the
same home would be better. But before taking so long a journey, we
thought it well to think over it at leisure. A word from M. Lonet
settled the matter. "There is no danger," he wrote; "some one ought to
come back; the house might be occupied."

If one of us went, then we would all go. Union is strength. Boldly we
had come to Chevregny by night, nine in number, including the dogs.
Nine in number we would go home by day. We had spent a week in
Chevregny.

On Tuesday we had Gentil put to. Liza huddled our luggage into the cart,
helped Mme. Valaine and Pierrot up, and sat on the box. In a few feeling
words, one and all took leave of our kind cousin, and we followed on
foot.

We walked on without hardihood, casting suspicious glances before and
behind. The mere shadow of a helmet would have put us to flight.
Besides, the horse might be requisitioned, and Liza left us at Bievres,
and drove home as fast as she could. In Bruyeres we met with a big dog
almost as alarming as a Prussian. Percinet is fond of fighting, and he
cannot bear the sight of his kindred alive. Two days before he had
satisfied this thirst for blood by killing two dogs. At the entrance of
Morny we passed three riders on the road, dressed in green, booted and
spurred, with their helmets on. We did not think them mere gendarmes, as
we heard afterwards they were. They contented themselves with gazing at
the dusty, weary group that went by. At length we got home. Dear little
house! it had not altered! Its white walls were still there; so was its
grey roof. The Virginia creepers shook their branches like arms to wish
us a hearty welcome. We threw the gate open. The dogs rushed into the
stable at a cheerful bound.

Leaving the luggage in the lobby, we dropped into the dining-room
chairs, and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.




CHAPTER V


We were at home again! This was a set-off for the misfortunes with which
a wretched fate had loaded us. The house was as snug as we had left it,
and we had but to return to our old habits. So we did and exactly! The
cake we had left, at our flight, was still lying on the table. As we
were hungry we each snatched our share, and ate it with ravenous
appetite. It was a bit hard, but all the same delicious. We wandered
through the house with joy. We were at home again! How many of those who
had fled from the invasion had renounced the pleasures of home for
months or even years? Some of out friends at Morny had not yet come
back. Yet could we pity them? A thousand times no; at least they would
never endure the trials to which the conquered are exposed, and which,
after a momentary calm, once more had depressed us. The presence of the
Germans, quartered in the village, seemed unbearable.

Ah, poor, poor snails that we were! In spite of our efforts, the flood
had overtaken and submerged us. The tree we tried to climb was too low;
the inundation covered everything; and we could not foresee the end of
the nightmare. How long should we have to groan and struggle in that
all-devouring water? We besought God to deliver us, and God seemed deaf
to our prayers and blind to our tears. We called to you who were on the
mainland over the mountains, insurmountable as the great wall of China.
Our hearts called to you, and no one answered. For a fortnight the
floods had been out, and already we were losing patience.

Morally drowned as we were, we still had a physical need of food. A
household of seven persons and two dogs must furnish its larder and
cellar with abundant provisions. The grocers of the village had but
empty shops; our neighbours were unhumbled, because each was the owner
of a plot of ground. Less favoured than the poorest of the poor, we had
no crop at all. What would become of us? I have said we had no crop. I
was wrong. We even had a superb crop. The pear trees, even those which
these last fifteen years had yielded no fruit at all, had deemed it a
point of honour to do their best, in hard times, and were all laden with
huge plump pears, which made your mouth water. They were not ripe yet;
but, determined not to tempt the green-uniformed marauders, we made up
our minds to gather them. For two days we picked them, and filled basket
upon basket with pears, long or round, green or yellow.

Then there was the problem to solve, where to hide them? We laid our
heads together, and by unanimous consent decided upon the deserter's
attic. On one side, the attic was full of faggots; on the other, behind
the chimney that comes up from the wash-house, there was a floor-space,
about eight feet square, and there we laid our beautiful pears amid
shreds of paper instead of straw. To conceal their retreat, we heaped up
at the entrance old boxes, hen-coops, and a garden roller in elaborate
disorder. Nobody would ever have thought that this innocent pile of
rubbish was a treasure-hoard. But we, who knew, put one foot here,
another there, and at a bound we were on the floor in the very abode of
the pears, where cunning paths allowed us to visit our friends and
choose the juiciest among them. We never made these visits without a
groan, for we always forgot the existence of a big cistern, fitted up in
the roof, and constantly knocked our heads against this iron ceiling.
But the shock itself kindled our imagination, and struck out a flash of
genius.

"Suppose we put the wine into the cistern!"

We thought we had given all our wine to the French soldiers, and then we
discovered in the bottom of a box about thirty bottles, which we
resolved to hide from the Germans' thirst. I must admit that our
sobriety equals the camel's. We drink hardly anything besides water. A
bottle of wine a week satisfies the needs of the whole family. But, all
the same, we did not want our wine to moisten German throats. So through
the yard, up the ladder, over the boxes, the bottles went their way. Not
too well poised on a tottering scaffolding I wriggled into the narrow
space between the beam and the cistern. I held out a groping hand, into
which was placed the neck of a bottle, and little by little the
receptacle was filled. We went quickly to work. My sister-in-law carried
up the bottles with care; I laid them down with a gentle hand. For it is
well known that a Prussian ear detects the clinking of bottles a mile
off, and of course the Prussian, contiguous to the ear, being
forewarned, rests not until he has secured the too imprudent bottles.
But all of a sudden I was aroused by a loud shout, instantly hushed to a
discreet silence.

I jumped down from my scaffold, leapt over the pears, scaled the boxes,
tumbled down the ladder, and found myself in the midst of a perplexed
group.

"Grandmother, what is the matter?"

Yvonne and Colette, prying in the cellar, had discovered a fair-sized
keg, which gurgled when it was shaken.

The treasure-hunters thrust in the bung with an effort, inserted a tap,
drew out a glass of the liquor and brought it to me.

"What is it?"

Unctuous, yellowish substance. Was it oil, or syrup? I looked at it,
shook the glass, smelt it, even tasted a drop with the tip of my tongue,
and then announced:

"It is glucose."

Glucose! glucose! and we had no sugar left! Every morning we drank milk
and coffee unsweetened by honey. Mme. Valaine declared my diagnosis
right, and we leapt for joy like marionettes.

There was no more meat, no butter, and eggs were uncommonly rare, but
sweetened dishes take the place of everything. Baskets full of pears! A
keg of glucose! Thirty bottles of wine! Who talked of dearth? For
truth's sake I must say glucose did not answer as well as we expected.
When I tried to sweeten the milk with it, the milk turned sour, and with
it the experiment turned also, to my shame.

On the other hand, by stewing the beloved pears with glucose and wine,
I obtained an unforgettable dish, over which a jury of cooks greedily
licked its lips. And every other evening, for two months, our scanty
menu was thus composed: soup, stewed pears, bread at discretion, fresh
water at will. The glucose went to keep the wine company in the cistern,
except for a few bottles of either liquid, which we craftily concealed
in the garden, and in case of need we had but to cry out:

"Pierrot, go and fetch the bottle that is in the reeds or in the blue
fir ... or in the big yew...."

It was much more amusing than simply to go down into the cellar.

Thus our life was not uninteresting, but our chief occupation was to
watch the horizon, east and south, where our soldiers were fighting. The
guns were coming sensibly nearer; we heard them growl day and night, and
when it grew dark we saw shells burst above the hills. We spent many
hours in the garden looking out for these illuminations, hoping we might
understand something from the way they went. Then came the gleam of an
explosive, striping the sky with a flash of lightning or with a slow
trail of light. The better to observe, we got up the ladder, and sat on
the wall. To the casual passer-by we might have resembled a flock of
crows at roost waiting for gossip's tales. Mme. Valaine had no taste
for these perilous exercises, and contented herself with the stories we
told her. For us the only spectacle we thought worth while was that very
one which almost rent our hearts. How eagerly we wished for the shells
to burst nearer, nearer, to set the house in a blaze so that we might be
set free from our chains!

About the 25th of September took place the first shock between us and
the German army. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening. The supper
over, I went into the garden, and was peering at the dark sky, heedless
of the cold wind which caused my hair and my shawl to flutter, when a
frightful uproar broke the silence. Gruff voices cried out vociferously;
heavy boots kicked at the gates; the angry dogs barked till they choked.

"Good Heavens! what is happening?"

I threw myself down the ladder, fled through the garden--those days were
full of wild races--got to the house, and saw Genevieve hasten forth, a
key in her hand.

"They want us to open the gate," she said, "and we must."

Yvonne seized the dogs by the collar and dragged them in. The gate was
hardly unlocked when those without threw it open, and at the same time
overran the yard. They were furious, and one of them shouted out in bad
French:

"When the Germans knock at a door, it should be opened immediately."

"You think so, do you, you Boche!"

On hearing us speak fluent German they softened, and looked at us in
amazement.

They all had the same round faces, which the lantern of an under-officer
lit up.

They wanted a lodging: barns, stables to shelter men and horses. All
that was difficult to get!

"There is room but for one horse in the stable."

"Well, that will do for two horses and two men."

"And here is the wash-house."

"Six men will sleep there."

The others withdrew to look for a lodging somewhere else. The remainder,
who seemed to be harmless blockheads, were convoys. We heaved a deep
sigh, but hardly had a mouthful of air reached our lungs, when the yard
was already swarming with a new mob. Standing on the steps I engaged in
parley with the _Feldwebel_.

"The house is chock-full, and eight soldiers are already lodged in the
outhouses."

He was young, big, and stout, and his hard-featured face was deeply
scarred.

Of course he did not allow himself to be prevailed upon.

"It is all the same to me," he answered; "make room for me if you have
none."

He ordered me to open the coach-house, but when he saw it crammed up
with all sorts of things, he made a wry face.

"And up there?" he asked, pointing at the deserter's attic.

Good Heavens! the pears! the wine! I was trembling with fear, and was at
a loss how to answer when the man altered his mind:

"I would rather have a bedroom to myself," and so saying he opened
Antoinette's door.

"That will do," said the person, and waving back the silently waiting
soldiers he kept but two of them with him. We began to remove a few
things from the room, which Antoinette had always kept for herself, and
before the sergeant's taunting eyes we carried away clothes, books, and
knick-knacks. The door we had left ajar was suddenly thrown open, and a
little coxcomb of an officer came in and cried out in a cheerful tone:

"Oh! oh! Two at a time!"

That was more than we could stand, and leaving blankets and coverlets we
ran away.

At the corner of the house a brutal arm stopped me, and a soldier I
hardly saw in the night muttered something I did not understand about
money--five francs. I tried to break loose from the man's hold, and
answered at random we were no shopkeepers and sold nothing.

"If you are busy," he said, "another lady would do."

In the dim light of a glimmering window I caught sight of a
Slavonic-featured, black-bearded, sneaking-eyed face that belonged to
one of the stable-dwellers--a perfect brute. He looked so strange, his
voice was so peculiar that I suddenly understood the meaning of his
words. Frightened, I shook my arm to get it free, set off running, and
got so quickly out of sight he might have believed I had been swallowed
up by the night. I rushed into the house, banged the door, turned the
key in it, pushed the bolts, and even then I was not sure I was secure.
I wished for padlocks, bars, chains, to protect us against such
creatures. We thought we would never dare go to bed.

With Mme. Valaine I went through the house to test the wooden shutters.
In the street the carts of the convoy stood close to the house; here and
there we saw a lantern glimmer. Lying under the awnings the drivers
tumbled and tossed, and from time to time uttered heavy groans. Those
carts reminded us of monstrous beasts, hunch-backed and mischievous,
which squatted at our door to watch and threaten us. The yard was pitch
dark, all seemed to be in a sound sleep, but for the horses, which
kicked and pawed the ground of the narrow stable. The men were snoring;
the dogs shut up in the lobby whined gently. We talked in a low voice
and went on tip-toe. In our own house we felt beset with dangers and
cares. Without taking off our clothes, we laid ourselves down, our eyes
wide open, our ears attentive to all outside sounds, our nerves on edge.
So we waited for the break of day.

The Germans got up at the first glimmer of a misty sun, and we watched
them through the trellised shutters. They had cooked a potato soup, a
grey and sticky stuff, to which they added some brandy, and which they
ate without conviction.

For hours together they peeled vegetables, hummed tunes, whistled,
dawdled up and down; but they never drew a drop of water from the pump,
and they seemed wholly unacquainted with the fact that a human being
ought to wash. Then they began cleaning their arms most carefully, and
deluged them with petroleum and oil. Our amazement was the same which
the sight of wigwams or niggers' cabins might have roused, seen for the
first time. Their guns, leaning against the gate, confirmed this
impression. Real savages' arms, the bayonets were about a hand's
breadth, and notched like a saw. At the mere thought of the wounds such
teeth would make in the flesh, an icy chill ran through our veins.

About nine, after half an hour's monotonous shouting, the convoy filed
off, and soon after vanished from sight. As soon as they were gone we
rushed out. The street swarmed with people, like an ant-hill which a
clumsy foot has trodden on. Well! well! German boots leave traces. The
High Street of Morny had never before witnessed such filth. On all sides
lay dirty straw, muddy rags, formless scraps of iron. The horse-dung
looked clean compared with the rest.

As to ourselves, we cried with horror at the sight of our poor yard,
into which we could not put our foot. Oily pools stood here and there;
the pavement, bespattered with mud, was covered all over with dirty
rags, greasy papers, vegetable peelings, and, overtopping all the rest,
what Antoinette pompously called "human dejections." And yet in a corner
of the garden was a closet formerly intended for the gardener.... But
such people....

Disgusted and bewailing, old Tassin spent the whole afternoon in
cleaning the yard, and made more than one unpleasant discovery, such as
about 40 lb. of rotten meat concealed in the straw. The "small room" was
in a sorry plight. The pandours had emptied the ink-pot into a
work-table, scribbled the walls all over, broken a vase, taken away a
woollen blanket, an eider-down, and a door-curtain. As to the mattress
and the spring-mattress, we could not have touched them with a pair of
tongs, covered as they were with spots of grease. It is agreeable to
receive Germans!

Antoinette instantly made up her mind to change her room, and easily
transformed one of the attics.

We went roundly to work, and the "small room" was soon as empty as a
Pomeranian's head. We had made up our minds that the creatures should
bring straw with them if they required hospitality a second time. To the
King of Prussia himself we would have grudged a bed, lest he should
leave it in as bad a condition as his men.

The convoy came back that very evening. Our guests of yesterday went
back to their lodging. Only the inhabitants of the "small room" did not
return. Perhaps what was left them of conscience reproached them with
theft.

Early in the morning the carts went off, and after three hours' work old
Tassin declared he had removed all traces of their second visit. The
whole village complained that the rascals had not only dirtied whatever
they approached, but had stolen what they wanted, wasted provender and
oats, and had thrown down whole sheaves of wheat for their horses to lie
on.

In the first weeks of the occupation the invaders bled the country to
death. In Morny they took thousands of fowls, hundreds of pigs and
sheep, and I don't know how many horses and cows. M. Lantois' black
bull, which his ravishers had tethered to a cart, and then abandoned in
the middle of the road, protested in a wild, fierce, and fitful roar
that he repeated every other minute for hours together. The farmers
dreaded marauders still more than official requisitions. For what was
requisitioned they obtained, if they insisted, a note of hand, often
scribbled in pencil and almost illegible, but at least proving they had
been deprived of something. The soldiers of course took an unfair
advantage of their victims, who knew not German, and cheated them in
every way. We were often asked to translate such I.O.U.'s as had been
composed according to the writer's own fancy. "Paid and carried away a
horse," wrote one requisitioner who had but paid with lies.--"Exchanged
two horses of equal worth," another pretended, when a broken-down hack
had supplied the place of a good mare.--"Received 40 lb. of bacon." And
the honest customer knew he had gained 450 kilog. on the pork-butcher.

In spite of all, the country people attached great importance to these
notes of hand, and the marauders gave them none. They went two or three
together, got into the houses when the people were working out in the
fields, searched them from top to bottom, and laid hands on what pleased
them. They stripped the hen-houses and dovecots; they would drop in
unawares when the people were about to sit down to dinner, and then
divert themselves by seizing and feasting upon the dishes before the
balked peasants' very faces. Thus eaten out of house and home, the
village would soon be starved. The Mayor of Morny and M. Lonet resolved
to go to Laon and seek some protection against the raiders. The answer
they got from the Germans was that, first, rural matters were no concern
of theirs, and secondly, that the people were expected to give
everything the soldiers asked for.

A word to the wise is enough.

Those who have not known the evils of invasion cannot imagine the rage
and despair which filled our hearts at being thus enslaved and ground
down. Impotent wrath, overwhelming despondency took hold of our souls,
at once humiliated and revolted. Like true civilised people, we could
not understand why we were forbidden to claim justice, to seek redress;
why we were expected to yield to brute strength. And there was no use to
cry out for help, to crave assistance. It seemed to us that we were
forsaken by God and men.

But was the trap shut tight? Were we, for instance, whose interests,
life, and dearest affections lay on the other side of the front, without
means to break through the enemy's barrier? Were we actually prisoners?

My mother-in-law made up her mind to go to Laon in order to consult
competent judges. I was to accompany her. This poor Laon, which I had
seen but a few weeks ago bright with French animation, in what state did
we find it! We saw a few civilians only, with hard and hostile faces. On
the other hand there were a great many grey-clad Germans in the streets
with their helmets on, bustling about in the best of humour. They seemed
at home everywhere, and masters of all the houses. Most shops were shut
up. I tried to get into the only one I saw open, but nobody was in it.
Only in the recesses of the back-shop a big hand was busy about a
saucepan, and heavy steps shook the spiral staircase. It is easy to
understand that I had had enough of it, and that I hastened out with
all possible speed. The sight of their forsaken shops would have rent
the hearts of the owners had they been gifted with second sight. One of
them, I suppose it was a grocer's, had been smashed to atoms. Glass
jars, drawers, looking-glasses were but things of the past, and the
floor was covered all over with a litter twenty inches high, of
biscuits, sweets, macaroni, rice, and odds and ends of all kinds. We
went to see the Mayor, and asked him the questions which we were anxious
to have answered. Were the Germans to settle in the country? Was it
possible to go to Paris? His answer was like a death-knell.

Nothing was to be done. The Germans were not likely to clear out. He
deemed it folly to try to go away. I left the room heart-broken.

We arrived in Morny just in time to see some German infantry march
through the street. They came from the front, and their ill-looks filled
us with joy. They trudged along with weary faces, and were all muddy,
and bent as if with old age. "Just look at them," we said. "Where do
they come from? Surely they are beaten men. Is the French army
advancing?"

Colette, hidden behind the curtains, never failed to throw her wishes
after the Germans as they passed through the village.

"Die, die, die. Die, you nasty red-haired fellow. Die, you fat brute.
Die, you young whipper-snapper. Oh, a wounded man! Die too, poor wretch;
die, die, die"; and the litany drew to a close only when the regiment
had filed off.

"That is to help the French," said she.

Many an adventure befell us in the month of October. I can merely refer,
for instance, to a certain officer who at eleven o'clock one night
wished to lodge "twenty horses in our barn"; or to four requisitioners
who dragged us out of bed at five in the morning, and forced us to dress
in haste, merely to prove we had no pigs. These same soldiers delighted
to talk German with French women; tried to convince us that England was
responsible for the war. "The whole world is against us," they said in a
sulky voice; "the French, the English, the Russians, the Belgians...."

"But you are so numerous."

"Not so numerous as all that."

I remember also that we were once awaked by two drunken soldiers, who
insisted upon our opening the window, and who at our refusal threatened
and vociferated for an hour, promising to come back and set fire to the
house.

On the other hand, listen to the tragical, horrific history of one
afternoon--it was a washing day; the charwoman had forgotten to close
the gate. Two or three of us were in the yard, when a sergeant and four
men made their appearance. Horses were waiting in the street. The
sergeant was of lofty stature, stupid, grave, blue-eyed, and
dark-bearded. He asked us if we could furnish lodgings for "Herr Mayor
and his ten men." The honour was not tempting. We pleaded want of room,
we wrapped up our obvious ill-will in a mass of words. Antoinette
carelessly pointed at the "small room," and hinted that we had no other
left. The men withdrew, the horses rode away, and we sang songs of
victory.

But the following morning, about seven, I heard a noisy knock at the
door. I hastened out, and reluctantly admitted the visitors of
yesterday. From the top of his head the sergeant announced that "Herr
Mayor was very cross, furious even, that we declined to receive him." He
had sent the ruffians now to see how many rooms we might place at his
disposal. I felt sure anxious ears were listening behind every shutter
in the house. The alarm had been given, and the sluggards were making
what speed they could. The fellows entered. The family gathered
together, scared and haggard. A few of them were dressed; the others
were in dressing-gowns. The Germans examined the rooms whose morning
disorder had been hastily concealed, went up to the attic and down to
the cellar. The sergeant then pronounced judgment in a solemn voice. We
might have offered five bedrooms to the German army.

Five bedrooms! And we had but five rooms, containing five beds! Where
should we have slept? On straw with the dogs! That was a happy thought!

"And you would have offered Herr Mayor that small room overlooking the
yard! Herr Mayor!"

As a matter of fact we had offered Herr Mayor nothing. But the poor
wretch was as much shocked as if we had proposed to lodge the Crown
Prince in a pig-sty.

Well, then, to punish us and to teach us the respect due to German
officers, we were condemned to take into our house Herr Mayor and his
ten men.

Death-like silence. A thunderbolt had fallen and struck us dumb. The
soldier went on:

"Get dinner ready at half-past twelve--a table for one in the
dining-room, for men in the kitchen."

At last we found our tongues.

"You talk of dinner! But we have no provisions to cook. Meat is not to
be had at the butcher's...."

"You will be provided with meat. We want wine--champagne."

"Champagne!" We laughed in the face of the man.

"There is no wine in our cellar. We drink nothing but water."

"Anyhow, mind you do things properly."

This was said in a threatening voice, and we made no reply.

The sergeant had executed his mission, but he thought fit further to
admonish us on his own account.

"Are you aware that the Germans are unwilling invaders? They did not
want to make war. Who wished it? Can you doubt? It was England."

"Was it? Oh, really!"

"And the civilians should be kind to the soldiers, who are very
well-behaved. For instance, we ourselves all come of distinguished
families. A private soldier is not necessarily a scoundrel."

"I know that," Genevieve answered. "My brother is a soldier. But as
patriots yourselves, you should understand that we are patriots too, and
that it is painful for us to receive the enemy."

"The enemy! The enemy!"

The sergeant, bounding with rage, struck the pavement with the butt-end
of his gun.

"No, we are not the enemies of women and children; we know how to behave
ourselves...."

While he discoursed, one of the young men of "a distinguished family,"
standing on the staircase, caught sight of my husband's shoes on a
shelf. He seized a pair and put one shoe into each pocket. Turning round
he encountered Yvonne's looks, and hastily replaced his spoil. Twice,
thinking himself unobserved, he recovered the shoes. But being too
carefully watched he gave it up as a bad job, and his superior officer
concluded his speech in these words:

"If the French went to Germany the civilians would receive them kindly."

Indeed! I was pleased to hear it. But if the German women are ready to
give a hearty welcome to our soldiers--and that is quite easy to
understand--it does not follow that we ought to deal in like manner with
their sons and husbands. We have never pretended to govern ourselves by
the fashion of Berlin!

At length they went away, and we had but to yield and prepare our
saucepans. We would rather have given a dinner-party to Gargantua and
his family than prepare food for a German officer and ten men just as
German. We went to Mme. Tassin in our extremity. She would surely come
to our help, in spite of rheumatism. The meat--about half an ox--was
duly brought; half of it was for soup, half to be roasted. In the
wash-house, Mme. Tassin made a gigantic soup, flavoured with a thousand
vegetables. In the kitchen we peeled mountains of potatoes, and prepared
two bottles of French beans, which a soldier had brought in, stolen I
know not where. Antoinette, uncorking one of the bottles, broke its
neck, and cut her finger. Her blood poured upon the beans. Hurrying to
help her I tore off a bit of my finger.

"Never mind! get on with the potatoes!"

At length the work was finished.

Huge and lean, wall-eyed and mouthed like a pike, Herr Mayor arrived
with happy nonchalance, and seated himself at the table. His attentive
servant for very little would have served him on his knees. Dinner done,
Herr Mayor required tea, and, being presented with a teapot, he demanded
a liqueur, to flavour the tea. A few drops of rum were all that was left
of an old bottle which happened to be in the dining-room. I took it in.
As distant as Sirius I saluted the intruder. With a smile Herr Mayor
made a low bow. Something like intelligence lit up his pale eyes. He
cleared his throat, and faltered out:

"The ladies ... would be ... safer in Paris ... than here...."

I gave the rum-bottle to his servant, removed a hundred miles off, and
answered:

"Certainly, sir."

I withdrew.

In the kitchen the ten men seemed to be rather constrained; they talked
in a low voice, but did not lose their appetite for all that. My
mother-in-law stood by, thinking that too many things might have led
them into temptation. At last they went away; Herr Mayor too. His
servant informed us that he would come alone to supper, and that he
desired eggs and pancakes. With slow steps the officer went down the
street. Behind the buckler of our blinds we burst out into bitter
invectives:

"Be off, you old cut-throat! you old scout! You grind the weak; you
bully women! You have eaten my finger-tip and have drunk the blood of
Antoinette! Cannibal! Man-eater!"

The cannibal came back in the evening, ate a small _pate_, was pleased
with the poached eggs, and satisfied with the pancakes. Then he smoked
his cigar at leisure, and all the while remained unconscious of severe
eyes watching him from the garden. Yvonne and Colette made a wry face.
"The sight of him is enough to make you sick. Fancy! I saw him put a
whole egg into his mouth! His glass was covered with grease when he
drank. Ugh!"

The next day after, another tune was played.

At twelve, precisely, Herr Mayor arrived, and calmly declared that, as
his servant was out on urgent business, we must have the kindness to
wait upon him ourselves.

"A pretty request, truly!"

Mme. Tassin was nowhere. The omelette, done to a turn, was getting cold
in the kitchen. Meanwhile Herr Mayor was waiting in the dining-room. It
was high time that the dish should make the guest's acquaintance. I made
up my mind.

"I will take his dinner to the man."

"Never! You wait at table!"

"And upon a Prussian!"

"He did it on purpose, of course."

I persisted.

"I assure you I shall not deem myself degraded. And I promise you the
man will feel uneasy sooner than I."

So beneath Herr Mayor's haughty nose I put the omelette _aux fines
herbes_.

To the same nose I presented the roast veal with boiled potatoes, which
is dear to all German hearts, and thought I might rest on my laurels.
Then I saw that I had forgotten the sauce. Herr Mayor was chewing dry
veal, sunk in melancholy. I put the sauce-boat on the table within reach
of his hand.

"I had forgotten this; I am not in the habit...."

What did I say? Herr Mayor looked uneasy. He nearly begged my pardon....
"Indeed, I am afraid I disturb you...."

Ah! you deign to notice it? And you might as well have dined at the
village inn? But you don't think that you and your ten gormandisers have
reduced our stock of vegetables to nothing, and swallowed up our last
egg!

But you have not always an officer at hand to give you information, and
so I thought I might improve the occasion. "What is the cannon," I
asked, "which thunders day and night in the south?"

"We have been fighting in Craonne for the last ten days," said he; "the
battle is said to be coming to an end. Just before we were in Fismes."

Herr Mayor pronounced Fismesse. In a doleful tone he bewailed the evils
of war.

The regiment he belonged to had suffered forty per cent losses since the
beginning of war. He himself felt very ill. He had slept in the open air
seven rainy nights running. Had I any kinsman in the war?

"Of course, my husband; and I get no news at all from him. That is the
worst of all privations."

Herr Mayor nodded assent. These partings were cruel. Frau Mayor, too,
would have given a good deal to accompany her Mayor. As to ourselves,
our situation might change for the better. It was, for instance, to our
interest that the Germans should advance. The front would then be
removed farther from us. I answered that we should welcome no such
change for the better. But suppose that just the reverse happened? If
the Germans were driven back, the front would also remove farther?
Wouldn't it?

"Oh! no, no.... Really, this war was stupid. England delights in making
mischief, and the French are mad to enter into an alliance with the
English, when another country was so eager to come to an agreement with
them. France and Germany would get on well with each other. What, then,
prevents a thoroughly good understanding?"

"A mere nothing, sir; a grain of sand.... Alsace-Lorraine, sir."

Herr Mayor shrugged his shoulders. He had forgotten Alsace-Lorraine.

His lunch was over. I asked if he intended to come and dine at our
house.

Again he seemed at a loss what answer to give.

"H'm, h'm ... I am not sure. I will let you know."

His grey cloak streamed in the air, and Herr Mayor went away never to
return.

Some days after I met him on the road. He bowed very low, and with a
smiling face inquired after my husband. The double-faced fellow knew
only too well I had not heard from him, but in common politeness I was
fain to inquire also after his health. Herr Mayor was better, much
better. In a week he would be back at the front, and if he happened to
hear from my husband's regiment, he promised to send me the news.

And with many a bow Herr Mayor smiled himself away. His face was not
ever smiling. The peasants were terrified at his way of carrying out
requisitions. On the other hand, it was rumoured that he believed
himself sprang from the thigh of Jupiter--I beg your pardon--of Wotan,
and spoke to no one.

The family did not fail to exercise its flippancy at my expense. They
asked for the recipe of my philtres to charm Prussians; they urged me to
write a treatise on the art of training Germans, and prophesied a fine
future for me as a tamer of tigers.

I did not mind being scoffed at. Too many cares claimed my attention.
Besides, Barbu and Crafleux had just appeared in our orbit. But I am
anticipating. Our chief anxiety was commonplace enough. The food problem
was hard to solve. Fortunately, in spite of direful predictions, bread
did not run short at the beginning of the war. Milk we had every day.
Though Mme. Lantoye had been robbed of several cows, and though children
were provided for first, she always gave us some. We had almost
forgotten the taste of meat. Butter and cheese, hard to discover, were
extravagantly dear, and eggs were as scarce as in Paris at the end of
the siege. We had laid by a small provision of rice and macaroni,
articles of food no more to be found in the shops; but we had decided to
keep this reserve for extremities, in case, for instance, a bombardment
kept us in the cellar. We all agreed to live from hand to mouth upon
what we could come by. My reflections were profound when, after half a
day's search, I found one egg, from which I had to concoct a dish for
the whole family. You laugh? A proof that you lack imagination. With a
single egg, as a base of operations, you can make pancakes, or
apple-fritters, flower-fritters, or bread-fritters, or any fritters you
like. By the way, I advise the use of nasturtiums. Rose leaves, on the
other hand, are rather tasteless. But here is something better. You make
some pastry, then beat up your one egg with a glass of milk, a few
crumbs of bread, a bit of cheese, if you have any; then you pour the
mixture on the pastry, put the whole in the oven, and when it is baked
you will find a dish that will feed six women. Oh! we made no
complaints; not yet, at least. Really when a _menu_ consists of a potato
fricassee to which laurel and thyme have given a zest, artichokes with
melted butter and chervil--butter, replaced by grease, alas!--fresh
salad, and juicy pears, who would not pronounce himself satisfied with
such a meal? Marmontel, who loved good cheer, Marmontel in the Bastille,
where he so highly appreciated the fare, Marmontel himself would have
been delighted with it.

The want of light was the worst of our evils. Petroleum was no more to
be had, and candles were hard to come by. Linseed oil and modest
night-lights grudged us a glimmer by which we gloomily went to bed.
Therefore as soon as the night fell the fiend of melancholy seized upon
us. The dull light spread a gloom over the room we sat in, and from the
black corners dark thoughts seemed to rise and grow upon us. So we would
rather walk in the garden, or even look out of the window, when night
fell, than sit at our work or our writing-table. How many hours have I
spent leaning out of the window in a nightgown, and watching the shells
burst. In September and October, just after the Germans' arrival, there
were beautiful moonlit nights, worthy to be worshipped on bended knees;
yet I felt an inclination to imitate Salammbo and cry to the moon with
arms uplifted:

"O moon, I hate you. You are deceitful, unrelenting, and cold, and even
the pale glimmer you send us you steal. There is nothing true but the
warm and cheerful sunbeams, which give us light and life. You fling your
silver arrows where you please, and throw what you choose into the
shade. You slip your sly rays into closed rooms, through cracks and
chinks; no secret escapes you. You favour illicit love, unpunished
crimes, acts of violence, and foul deeds. All those things you feast
upon, O moon! But your light is never so pleasant, your caress never so
soft, as when you shine on a battlefield, on places where men kill one
another. You take pleasure in the sight of dead bodies, shrivelled
limbs, wide-open mouths, features distorted in the weird horror of
death. You play on bloody weapons, on dark-mouthed cannon; you pass by
the wounded, crying for help, by dying men whose death-rattle is
unheard, and you smile yourself from the charnel-field, glad to leave
the victims in the unfathomable shades of night."

Moon, I hate you! Everywhere and always you have looked on murderous
battles, unbrotherly contests, man maddened against man. You saw the
formidable army of Xerxes contend with the Greeks; you saw the Roman
Empire quivering at the onslaught of the Barbarians. But can any sight
you have ever witnessed be compared with that which you look down upon
to-day? Europe in arms, cannon spreading death everywhere, thousands of
men killed in the marshes of Poland, on the hills of Galicia, in France,
on the plains of Flanders? Are you pleased, O moon?

Moon, I hate you!

To shun the moon, to shut out the sound of the guns, I close the wooden
shutters, pull down the window, draw the curtains. The cannon are not
silent. Chilled with cold and horror, I fling myself on my bed, bury my
head in the pillows, creep under my blankets. The cannon still roars,
and shakes my bed. I wake up, and the cannon roars louder than ever. To
have lived, and have been sometimes careless and merry, we must have
been as mad and as blind as the moon herself. But we cannot attain to
the moon's insensibility, and that is why our laughter often turns to
tears, and humour ends in a sob.




CHAPTER VI


Morny being near to the battlefield, we naturally saw many soldiers. The
village sheltered four convoys at a time within its walls. Officers and
non-commissioned officers were billeted on the inhabitants, and we had
to bear our share of the common misfortune. And thus Barbu and Crafleux
fell to our lot.

Barbu and Crafleux were two Prussian officers, escaped from a toy-shop,
and carefully wound up before they were let loose from Germany. They
always arrived side by side, with the same automatic stride, the one
tall, thin, and--bearded; the other short, stout, and--_crafleux_. I
must explain that _crafleux_ in the popular speech of Laon means a
misbegotten, rickety creature. The name was not well chosen, for the man
was solid, though ugly; but his round, clean-shaven face, his pig's eyes
sunk deep behind white lashes, well earned him the nickname. And Barbu
himself was no Adonis. He had a small head, with regular features, a
pointed beard, an aurified smile, cheeks seamed with scars. His style of
beauty is not that which I commend. But what matters the want of good
looks? Barbu and Crafleux revealed to us beautiful souls; they were two
model Prussians.

One morning, then, the village constable brought in a smart sergeant,
who seemed to have been taken out of a bandbox. All bows and smiles, the
young man asked for rooms, and we dared not refuse him. The contest with
Herr Mayor had been a warning to us.

"This will do," he said, entering Genevieve's room, "and this," passing
on to Yvonne's and Colette's. He withdrew, still with a smile on his
face, giving us full liberty to prepare the rooms and to rail as we
chose.

"Alas!" groaned Genevieve. "Never again shall I like my room, after I
have seen a Prussian loll on my bed."

"To begin with," I said, "you won't see him. And secondly, I have a just
and clear conception of a Prussian's method of repose. He stretches
himself out as if he were on duty, and his head on the pillow is
carefully adorned with a helmet. He is just as proper to look upon as
his photograph would be, taken after a review."

We hung tasteless chromolithographs in the place of pretty
water-colours; we took away all the books, the knick-knacks, and the
papers. Here and there Colette pinned up peacock's feathers--"to bring
them ill-luck," she said. Then both rooms waited with a grim air for the
unwelcome guests. Presently the orderlies came in, brought heaps of
baggage, got everything ready for their masters, and withdrew. An
indiscreet curiosity prompted us to take an inventory of the riches
deposited with us. Yvonne and Colette spat, like two angry cats.

"Look here! Isn't it a shame? For a single man, two boxes! five bags!
portmanteaux! Well, if he wants so much to go and fight...." Crafleux
was more modest, but Barbu had certainly imported a whole dressing-room
from Germany. The day after his arrival he showed off heaps of small
brushes in small boxes, small creams in small pots, small scents in
small bottles, and photographs and photographic apparatus, electric
lamps and re-fills for these lamps, sporting guns and india-rubber
cushions, soft blankets and uniforms without number. But he was chiefly
remarkable for his befrogged pyjamas of sky blue or Chinese flesh
colour! The sight of him must have been affecting when he had on his
helmet by way of nightcap! So Barbu and Crafleux installed themselves
downstairs, and we upstairs. Yvonne settled down in a tiny attic, and
Colette slept on a couch in Antoinette's room. I gave Genevieve a share
of my own bed in the room which already sheltered the youthful Pierrot.
We were not very comfortable, and what was worse, we suffered from the
cold. This requires an explanation. Some time ago a direful rumour had
spread about: "They have requisitioned a great number of mattresses in
Vivaise." Now Vivaise is a village not far from Morny. "You may be sure
they will do the same here," said the well-informed. And so, in all
houses, the beds were only half as high as before; and he was cunning
indeed who could say what had become of the missing part. We, for
instance, have plenty of mattresses: large, soft, elastic mattresses
which would make you wish to be ill and keep your bed--and should the
enemy of France rest upon them? That shall never be, we declared. By the
unanimous exertion of the whole family, climbing, pulling, pushing,
toiling, we succeeded in hoisting up most of these useful objects, and
hiding them in the loft under the roof. Every bed was left with one
only. When Barbu and Crafleux intruded themselves into the house, we
were hard put to it. One of us made shift with a palliasse, while
Genevieve and I slept on a hair mattress. This plan is not to be
recommended unless you choose to mortify your flesh, or to copy the
fakirs of India. We could have put up with our uncomfortable bedding if,
to add to our misfortune, the cold had not seized upon us. Our present
guests laid their hands upon heaps of blankets, their predecessors had
stolen two, and so we had just enough, and nothing to spare.

We went to sleep as straight as arrows, one on each side of the bed; we
woke up in the morning twisted into knots, one against the other, like
two shivering cats. Despair drove Yvonne from one extreme to the other;
either she lay half-smothered with heat under an enormous eider-down, or
benumbed with cold under a thin cotton blanket. The authors of our
hardships tasted the honey-dew of sleep upon beds of down; they knew not
that threatening fists were shaken at them upstairs, and that bitter
invectives vowed them to execration. Yet I think that when logs
unexpectedly tumbled down, and pieces of furniture joined the dance,
they gave a start and felt uneasy. But on the whole, as quiet as
Vert-Vert at the Visitandines, they led a happy life, got up between
nine and ten, saw about their convoy, fed well at the village inn, often
went shooting, or, if they had a mind, drove out to Laon, came back home
to rest a while and dress for dinner, and then about ten, eleven, or
midnight, got back into their rooms and their comfortable beds.

I hinted that war, conducted in this fashion, was not disagreeable.
Barbu knew that I was laughing at them.

"But our comrades ... who are fighting...."

"Do not lead such a pleasant life ... I am sure of it."

"And I think ... French convoys take their ease too."

"Well, I hope so."

But really, Barbu, it was only right that you should live in comfort,
for none knew better than you how to appreciate it!

One day, going in to return a newspaper he had lent me, I surprised this
lover of comforts seated in an arm-chair, his feet on the fender, his
head resting on a cushion, his back on another, a book in his hand, a
lamp behind him. He looked a perfect picture of self-satisfaction. But
such delights cannot last for ever. "The present convoys are going to
the front," some people said. Do you hear, Barbu? You will go to the
front. You will change your carpet for the mud of the trenches, your
pleasant fire for an icy fog, the studious light of your lamp for the
red glare of the shells! You will go to the front!

They did not go to the front. They were to pass one or two nights in
our house, and they stayed a month!

The village groaned under the reign of the invaders. Every morning the
housewives on their way to the baker poured out their complaints.

"Have yours decent manners?"

"Oh, mine are very hard to please!"

And the gossips began to tell their grievances, for many of these
undesirable guests were in truth very hard to please, and their manners
were detestable. They wiped their filthy boots on the beds and
arm-chairs, deluged the carpets and floors with water; they burnt the
furniture and linen with their cigars. They came back very late at
night, generally tipsy, went to the kitchen, searched the larder and
sideboard, and cooked an extra meal with the stolen goods. The mistress
of the house deemed herself very happy when she was not aroused from a
well-earned sleep and ordered to go and rattle about saucepans and
kitchen ranges. Of course, Barbu and Crafleux would have repudiated such
methods with disgust. Barbu and Crafleux piqued themselves on their
gentlemanly manners. Barbu and Crafleux were two model Prussians.

For truth's sake I must admit that occasionally they came home after
midnight amiably drunk, and--I am a credible witness--danced a jig in
the yard. But these are venial sins, and our watch-dogs themselves, who
from the first day had been hand in glove with the officers, looked
indulgently upon such gambols. Gracieuse was even accused of cherishing
a guilty passion for Crafleux, having once been discovered, curled into
a ball, upon the bed of the gentleman aforesaid-a most improper act for
a lady dog brought up never to enter the house. Another fault was
ascribed to Barbu. On the officers' arrival, we had held a secret
meeting to discuss the question of lights. At length we decided to give
one candle to each man, having laid by a box in case of emergency.
The next morning we discovered a scandal unheard of. Barbu ... his
candle ... a virgin candle, a white, shapely candle! The criminal had
burnt it up in a single night! A huge candle which in the present state
of things was worth its weight in gold! A few waxen tears, still hanging
to the socket, bore witness to the poor thing's death. We put in its
stead a dumpy one, whose loss we should not feel so deeply, and after
that he must provide others for himself. He must provide his firing
also. As a matter of fact he did. One day the officers demanded fires in
their rooms.

"Very well, the charwoman will look after it. But ... fuel runs short."

Barbu wrote at once a note of hand, gave it to the smart bustling
sergeant, and the day after ten sacks of coal were brought and
discharged in the coach-house. We gazed at the black heap with envious
eyes, for we used to do our cooking and warm our rooms with a poor
faggot of wood.

The officers very well knew that we lacked all kinds of stores, and
Barbu asked me once in a roundabout way if they might offer us some
petroleum and sugar.

"We have just received an abundant supply," he said, "and shall be
enchanted if you will make use of them."

This was worthy of reflection. We answered at last that we would
gratefully take their proffered goods, on condition that we might pay
for them.

My sisters-in-law made a great outcry against this proposal.

"Never," said they, "will we receive presents from Prussians!"

"Gently," I replied. "To begin with, we pay in cash for their
'presents'; then our hospitality, forced as it is, is worthy of some
recompense. And, indeed, it is ridiculous to speak of 'their'
merchandise. Is it not stolen goods? Does it not come from our bonded
warehouses and stores? Besides, is it not a good deed to help in
exhausting their provisions?"

So petroleum and sugar, flanked with coffee and rice, reappeared in the
house, and were highly appreciated by all, in spite of their Teutonic
origin.

But when the officers carried kindness so far as to offer us a hare of
their own shooting, they embarrassed us sorely. Though we were not
tempted to accept the gift, we thought a denial would offend our
dangerous guests.

"We have too many," Barbu said artlessly; "yesterday we have shot a
roebuck, seven hares, and twelve partridges in the wood of Bucy."

In our own wood! Very well, we accept the hare; it will not pay for the
rent of the shooting, so we feasted upon jugged hare, and found the very
French flavour much to our taste.

Barbu and Crafleux were two model Prussians. I do not unsay it. I even
think I have proved it. But a Prussian is always a Prussian, and the
best of the brood will never understand certain things.

"Is your piano dumb?" asked Barbu one day.

A few dances might have cheered up the house, he thought, and the roar
of the guns and the clatter of German feet in the street would have
been the best possible accompaniment. Another day, this same Barbu--to
tell the truth he talked to me with his pipe in his mouth, but you
cannot expect much from men brought up in Heidelberg--this same Barbu
asked me if I would not go for a drive to Laon with him and some
fellow-officers.

"It will be a good opportunity for shopping," he said. "No? The other
ladies will not either? Last week I dared not ask you, our carriage was
too modest, but to-day we have one of the Prince of Monaco's coaches."

Barbu still wonders why we refused. Then something still better
happened. When the officers had settled themselves in our house, we made
up our minds that the Germans should not catch sight of us in the
passage, and the order was given, "Disappear"; and the Germans never saw
the pretty faces which swarmed about us. But since I am a married woman
and proficient in German--my mother-in-law does not understand a word of
it--I had been appointed spokeswoman to the officers in case of need.

But one day I suppose the intruders caught sight of a golden head in
flight, and Barbu asked me:

"There are young girls in the house?"

"Yes, my four sisters-in-law."

"Really, we had not the least idea of it."

The next day I happened to go into the drawing-room. The blinds were
down, and the door was open into the passage. An unaccustomed object was
lying on the table. Bless me, it was a box of chocolates! Delicious
sweets, no doubt of it! And on the cover Barbu had written in his
neatest hand and best French, "Sacrifice to the invisible spirits."
Every one came and contemplated the gift and the autograph with
laughter. Then we allowed the poor chocolates to get damp in the dimly
lighted room. They disappeared three weeks after as mysteriously as they
had come, the day of "our Prussians'" departure. May they lie lightly on
Barbu's stomach!

At last the convoy left Morny. On the morning on which they were to
start Barbu plunged us into an ocean of perplexities by asking us:

"You do not mind my taking a few snapshots of your house, do you?"

"Certainly ... not, sir."

"I should be very happy if one or two of the young ladies consented to
sit at a window."

And nobody had prompted him in that! In vain I objected that the hour
was early, and that my sisters-in-law got up very late.

"Oh, it does not matter," said he. "We will wait for them. Ask the
ladies to get ready, and we will come back in half an hour."

Think how nice it would be in a year or two in Berlin, or Leipzig, or
Heidelberg, to show a few photographs! "Here are a few souvenirs of our
victorious stay in France! In that house we led a very happy life. The
young ladies whom you see were reluctant hostesses, but the French,
breathing revenge, were obliged to welcome us!"

The whole family was in a fury of anger.

"Of course, it is out of the question to comply with all the wishes of
these wretched Prussians!"

Two days before Barbu had invited his brothers-in-arms to dinner. Upon
this occasion he asked us for a table-cloth, a large table-cloth.

We took out of its dark hiding-place a damask cloth and eighteen
napkins.

"Is that what you want, sir?"

"We wish vases also."

"Will these do?"

"And we desire flowers."

"Take some asters from the garden."

And then:

"May I take a photograph of your house?"

"Sir, I cannot prevent you."

"Will you put a smiling face at the window?"

No, no, a truce to jesting. Give him a flat denial. But how? On taking
leave the Germans would certainly try to shake hands with us, that is
their way, and we were determined not to shake theirs. Would they take
it amiss?

More than once it had proved hazardous to irritate these dangerous
guests. Mme. Valbot in Lierval saw her house plundered. Why? She had
refused to sew on a button for the officer who lodged in her house.

Old Vadois, the confectioner in Laon, was listening to the tales of "his
Prussian."

"The people are not kind enough to the soldiers," the officer said. "The
French are better received in Alsace-Lorraine than we are here."

"So the French are in Alsace-Lorraine!" the old man cried out, with a
blissful look.

"Soldiers, take this man into custody, he speaks ill of the Germans,"
roared the officer. And they threw the poor wretch into a dungeon, where
he slept on straw.

Our neighbour Polinchard, who is something of a simpleton, was pruning
his pear-trees one day, when he saw his enforced boarders making
fruitless endeavours to open a fastened door.

"Not through this one," he cried, waving them back with a motion of his
pruning knife, and pointing to the usual entrance.

"What now!" cried the soldiers. "He threatens us! He threatens Germans!
Away with him to prison!"

The culprit was condemned to two months. That is why, on reflection, we
hesitated to offend Barbu and Crafleux. They had been kind, well-behaved
men, certainly, but in the village they were looked upon as haughty,
violent, and hard-hearted.

"What will Barbu say," we wondered, "if, when he holds out his large
paws, we put our hands behind our backs? Will he send us to prison, and
put us on bread and water? Will he fasten us to the stirrups of his
horse and drag us to Laon all six in a line? or will he give some such
order as this to the commandant of the village: 'Should an opportunity
come, billet fifty men on these people'?"

A pleasant prospect! The moment was critical. I made up my mind to
brazen it out. There is always--I had quite forgotten this--a chord, or
rather a cable, in all German hearts, and this chord or cable is
sentiment. Let us, then, proceed by sentiment.

I advance. My countenance is that of an angel; my eyes are full of
melancholy, my voice is honey-sweet, my hair ... no, it is not
dishevelled, or at least only morally dishevelled. I began to talk. Of
course my mother-in-law had no objection to their taking photographs of
the house. But they would permit us not to appear at the windows. The
gentlemen would understand our feelings. They were men of heart and
intelligence. They had been very kind to us, and we were very grateful
to them, but ... I became animated. "But we are at war with you ... we
cannot help seeing in you the invaders of our country, and I am sure you
are aware that certain things are painful to us! You know how hard it
would be to your wives and sisters to receive strangers. You cannot
wonder at our dealing with you as with adversaries. And I must tell you
that every time I see you I think with an inward thrill of terror, 'This
man may kill my husband.'"

I had done. I wept with emotion. Crafleux was gazing at his boots with a
shake of his head. Tears stood in Barbu's eyes, and through this
sentimental haze he saw his wife receiving French soldiers. As to
myself, I felt I would soon have to blow my nose. My mother-in-law
beheld the scene in silence, waiting to know the effect of my harangue.
It proved effectual.

"Madam, believe me, we understand and respect your feelings. We have now
only to thank you for your hospitality, and to assure you we shall
always remember it."

They bowed themselves out of the room, bowed again from the threshold,
bowed again in the yard. We heard the gate close behind them, a silence
while they took a few snapshots, and then the rolling away of their
carriage.

They were gone! Gone for ever! And no hindrances had stood in the way!
They had gone leaving behind six sacks of coal.... They had gone even
leaving a letter of recommendation for the officers who would take their
place!

God forbid I shall ever revile the memory of Barbu and Crafleux!




CHAPTER VII


After the convoy's departure Morny was empty. The only Prussians left
were those who held the lines of communication and a few soldiers at the
sugar factory. We walked abroad without meeting the enemy at every turn;
in brief, we felt at home again. We were all like people crushed by a
landslip, who recover their breath, and take on again their former shape
as the earth disappears which overwhelmed them. But, alas, it was out of
the question to forget the past! Empty barns, stables, and poultry-yards
deprived of their inhabitants bore witness to the passage of the
scourge.

Other things also proved that the wind was blowing from the east, whence
came the all-devouring grasshoppers.

One morning, as I came back from a quest after milk, I stood still,
struck with amazement, and followed the example of the dairy-woman in
the fable. I looked at the village steeple, and could make nothing of
the time it proclaimed to the four points of the compass. Old Tassin
happened to pass by.

"Well, Mme. Valaine," said he, "what do you make of this? It is German
time up there. We are Prussians now!"

I lifted up my eyes to the sky, and, seeing the sun, felt easier in my
mind. No change there; it was eight, not nine o'clock. Yet they had made
fruitless attempts to set the sun by the German time I was sure. That is
why I saw officers cast reproachful looks at the sun, which dared tell
the French time in a territory occupied by Germans! That was playing
them false. That was treason, and the sun would rue it bitterly.

A certain regiment, passing through Morny, chanced to trust to the
village clock, and did not reach its goal at the appointed time. The
delay was the cause of a failure, which put some big-wigs with helmets
on into a rage. In short, the village constable was ordered to put the
machine right, the German time being the only right time under the sun.

However, the departure of our guests set us at ease, and the whole
village along with us. As the village might not revictual itself
officially, it revictualled itself by fraud, and as much as possible.
Now there lives in Morny a sympathetic drunkard named Durand. Fond of
quarrelling as he is in his cups, when in a sober state he is a good,
kindly soul. He had been invalided, because his hands were twisted by
gout, and this infirmity rendered him equally unfit for the work of the
fields; so he became a tradesman. He deals usually in rabbit-skins,
scrap-iron, and rags. His business and stock-in-trade consist of a box
set up on two wheels, and drawn by a good-natured yellow dog. Scrap-iron
may hide a good many things, and with a view to present circumstances
our friend contrived to extend his import trade. Far from me to hint
that Durand, in ordinary times, snaps his fingers at the gendarmes and
laughs at the laws, practices as common in our border departments as
unseemly everywhere. But he improvised with the war a wonderful cunning,
thanks to which he smuggled all sorts of necessary things into Morny,
under the Germans' very eyes. In his surprise packet were concealed
butter, grease, chocolate, sugar, to say nothing of candles. The
housewives scrambled for the provisions, which rose almost to the usual
level. The weary dog put out his tongue and laughed, for he knew well
that we were getting the better of the Germans.

He was not the only one to laugh. The peasants, too, laughed in their
sleeves when they saw the Germans stock still in "the mountains." At the
first moment of invasion, the people were struck with dismay. The
arrogant enemy, sure of victory, seemed to meet with no obstacles.
"Handsome men, well armed and equipped. Ah, there is no reason to laugh
at them!" said the old women. They thought the situation hopeless. But
now it was whispered about, "They won't pass 'the mountains'; they won't
cross the Aisne." At this conviction their hearts rose, which yesterday
had been filled with bitterness. Evidently the invaders had been
stopped; they knew not how, but the fact remained.

One morning I encountered a knot of gossips in the street. They talked
of a new attack on Soissons. Mme. Tassin assured us that William had
said they must pass, and pass they must. Without stopping in my walk, I
interjected: "And General Pau said that they won't pass, and pass they
won't." It was reported that a French prisoner had spoken these words in
Laon. Whether General Pau had really expressed himself thus I don't
know. But the Germans gained no more ground; we were sure of that; but
it was no less certain that we were caught in a trap, that we could not
stir a limb. We had good hopes the trial would not last long. All the
same the situation could not be helped, and we resolved to accept it.
In the village, things were going tolerably. While the baker's wife,
gallant soul, made her bread, the work of the fields progressed slowly.
They left the beetroots as long as possible in the earth, expecting that
"our French" would come back before the harvest, which was superb. At
length they had to submit to fate and bury the precious roots in vast
silos. With us the days crawled by like centuries. It is true that the
housekeeping entirely rested with us; it was no use looking for help in
the village; women who had not a good many children to look after were
working out in the fields. Only Mme. Tassin consented from time to time
to come and help us. But how many hours, what long evenings, remained to
fill for six women shut up in a house! What, indeed, can you do at home
but dream if you are a hare, and sew if you are a woman? We sewed.

After Barbu's stay a little petroleum was left, which we used with
miserly care. At dinner we contented ourselves with a night-light, and
when we worked only our heads were allowed to come within the circuit of
the lamp.

We made sets of baby-linen for poor little ones who took it into their
heads to be born into the world, when their fathers had gone off to the
war, and had left larder and purse at home empty. We competed with one
another in the making of caps and shirts. Yvonne is amazingly clever,
and when she has a mind to sew works no end of wonders in a trice. Our
ambition increased with success. We fashioned web-like laces, and our
embroidery might have aroused the jealousy of the fairies. Generally we
kept silence. Sighs frequently answered the guns, and if we talked we
poured out plaints of pity for those who fought, or called up
remembrances of happier days.

"Just think, there are people who get letters!"

We moaned at the thought of our deprivation.

"Lucky people! They know if their relations are dead or alive."

"At this very moment there are some who read the papers!"

"Oh, rage! oh, despair! oh, hostile blockade!"

"And there are some people who know the truth! When shall we see a
newspaper again?"

"At this very moment some are enjoying ... nice things to eat!"

"Oh, for a tea at Rumpelmayer's!"

"Oh, for chocolates from Pihan!"

Such memories did but sharpen the thorn of our hunger. And yet we had
not lost all the pleasures of life. For instance, do you suppose we had
given up having tea in the afternoon? By no means. It is highly
important that women should swallow something good and hot about five
o'clock. Simple toast was the only dainty we allowed ourselves.
Well-buttered toast with a well-sugared cup of tea is not to be
despised. Hold! Toast, yes, but no butter! The little we had was
jealously salted and reserved for cooking. And tea? Do you think tea a
native of the department of the Aisne? Tea was no more to be had. Sugar
was so scarce that we never ate a single lump without a family council
to decide whether it was the proper moment. Fortunately I found a recipe
of my grandmother's at the bottom of my reticule. I requisitioned all
the licorice in Morny. Mme. Lantois' walnut-tree provided us at little
cost with a basketful of green shining leaves. Walnut leaves are like
good women: in the long run they may lose their beauty, but they retain
their virtue. These leaves then, boiled with licorice, gave us a
delicious drink all the winter, which had nothing in common with the
pale decoctions we nowadays moisten our throats with at the end of a
dinner-party. I had been careful to say negligently: "This tea is
excellent for the complexion. Regularly taken, it would greatly improve
the skin, and give it a matchless bloom."

No one ever missed the afternoon tea. This ceremony, indeed, was often
transformed into a great patriotic meeting, vibrating with despair and
lamentations, or with enthusiasm and hope, according to the news of the
day. For news we had, though I said we got none, and it was commented
upon with passion. Our news of course was all unofficial, and evil or
good rode fast. It spread throughout the country; it floated in the air;
it came from every quarter. When I left Mme. Lantois' dairy with a can
full of milk, my pocket was also full of news; likewise if we went to
the baker, or if we called on M. Lonet.

The initiated came back in a hurry, called the whole family to gather
round, and feverishly told the news. We ended by putting a bell in the
dining-room, known as "the war bell." If one of us heard anything fresh,
she rushed into the room and frantically rang the bell. From the garden,
the attic, the bedrooms we flocked, allured by the hope of good tidings.

"What has happened? What is going on?"

Marvellous things always happened.

Periodically--at least twice a month--neighbouring towns were retaken by
the French.

"You know, that cannonade ... so violent ... simply meant that our
soldiers recovered St. Quentin."

Noyon also was reconquered I do not know how many times, and La Fere
retaken with bayonets. Once the news really seemed worthy of belief. The
Germans had put it up in Laon: "La Fere has been in a cowardly manner
retaken by the French." We thought it true. Really, now, who would make
up such an adjective? The Germans had certainly used it. On inquiry it
was found that the adjective, like the news, had been invented, and the
bill had never existed at all. Glorious feats were just as frequent on
the front near us.

"The Route des Dames ... you know?... The French have held it since
yesterday. And to-night they have carried the village of Ailles."

"Really, I thought they took it last week."

"Last week it was a false report; to-day the thing is certain."

And the Allies! Think how they worked!

"Seventy thousand Russians have just landed at Antwerp. The English are
shelling Hamburg. Our Northern army is advancing, yes, it is...;
deliverance will come from the North."

Ah, the secret of making legends is not lost! Popular imagination
invents hundreds of them. But nowadays they cannot live long. Books and
newspapers cut their wings as soon as they are hatched, and the poor
things flutter an instant, and then die. But imagine a corner of a
country like ours, perfectly isolated from the rest of the world for
some ten years, and deprived of all news, all writings; suppose the
peasants should be questioned long after upon the events of the present
war, from their statements you might compose the most beautiful epic
poem ever heard. As in the good old time, its title would be, "The
Gestes of the French by the Grace of God."

Frenchmen, my brothers, I know you were splendid. You fought like lions,
like the heroes that you are. Your glorious feats are too numerous to be
counted. It was our despair not to know them. But, in revenge, we
invented feats for you, fresh ones every day. Once, for instance, the
French, masters of the stone-quarries of Paissy, made good use of a
secret passage, and leaping unexpectedly from out of the ground, flick,
flack, flick, spread death and dismay among the Germans; then, like
jacks-in-the-box, they disappeared as if by magic. Struck with
consternation, the Germans would have thought themselves dreaming had
not too many proofs testified to the reality of the brief apparition.
And what do you think of the _chasseurs a pied_ who, behind a hedge at
Malva, planted a forest of poles with a cap on the top of every one, and
then, when the enemy with loud cries were in the very act of rushing
upon this trap, shot them down to the very last man?

And don't let us forget the Africans. Ten negroes from Senegal--you
understand, ten--sprang out of their trenches on a night as black as
ink--of course we did not know whether negroes were or were not in the
trenches--noiselessly crept along the ground through brushwood and
darkness, and shouting their war-cry bounded forward into the village of
Chamouille. Panic-stricken, the German soldiers fled, while the
officers--seventeen in number--not one more, not one less--let the
Africans cut their throats like so many lambs. The ten negroes lay down
once more, flat on their faces, and crawling along on their hands and
knees, went back to their trenches without a tassel missing from their
caps, without a rent dishonouring their large breeches. These anecdotes
were our daily bread. Innumerable were the villages taken by surprise,
the convoys seized, the batteries triumphantly brought in. We were
always breathless; every one of us lent a half-sceptical ear to
everything that was said, and tried to detect a little truth among all
this fiction. Who invented or transformed the news? It was difficult to
know. Many a time Mr. Nobody-knows-who had confided it to Mrs.
So-and-So, who told it to Mr. Everybody. But generally the information
came from the best sources. If M. H., the Mayor of Laon, had really said
all that was ascribed to him, he had done nothing else but commit the
secrets of our army to the office-porter or the fruiterer over the way.
On the other hand, it is hard to conceive how many secrets our
countrymen extracted from their German guests. Speaking of the officers
to whom they gave hospitality they assumed a mysterious air, and hinted
that, walking delicately, they had elicited from them avowals as
mortifying for their pride as encouraging for us.

But there was another origin, quite modern, for the news no one wanted
to take upon himself. It was no difficult riddle. The news came from
Heaven. Aviators dropped it. Letters had been picked up here and there,
said rumour; some of them were evidently home-made, and were but laughed
at--this one, for instance: "Friends, take courage; reinforcements are
coming." A touching contrivance of some ingenious liar to cheer up his
neighbours!

Other messages, written in a kind of official style, were so precise
that they seemed worthy of attention; and one of them, known throughout
the country as the message of Magny, was for a long time looked upon as
authentic by the most competent judges. Oh, we were very credulous, and
you laugh at us, all of you, who read the papers every morning at your
breakfast. We were so cruelly crushed by the invaders, so uneasy at
hearing nothing, so eager for news which might have been bones for our
anxiety to gnaw that we greedily snatched at all the falsehoods we came
across, and found our mouths a minute after full of sand.

Was there no means of encouraging us? Floods of sentimental ink were
wasted elsewhere upon our fate, but the smallest drop spilt in the
Vernandois or the Laonnois would have done us more good.

We had not deserved thus to be forsaken, for we were admirable. I
maintain, laying aside all useless modesty, I maintain that we were
admirable. Our persons and properties had been given up as hostages. A
line was chalked out on the map; it was the part to be sacrificed. In
this part we were shut up, bodies and souls, with no possibility of
shaking ourselves free. We not only suffered it to be so; we agreed to
the bargain; we resigned ourselves to hunger, misfortune, oppression. We
submitted to see our houses plundered, our forests levelled with the
ground, our lands destroyed, so that the rest of the country might be
safe, the metropolis undamaged, that France herself might be free to
recover her power and to prepare her vengeance. Exposed to violence,
requisitions, even to reprisals, we did not give way; we wished for
victory, never for peace; we thought of France, not of ourselves. But
what unbearable pangs did we bear! We laboured under "the hope deferred
that maketh the heart sick," as the Bible says. Sometimes we seemed to
think the burden too heavy for our strength and impossible to be borne
any longer. What became of us when, in the last days of October, the
Germans arrogantly announced that they had won a victory at Soissons,
that they had broken through, and that they were going on to Paris...?
"Parisse!... Parisse!..."

We were heart-broken by it, sunk in desolation, and when thereupon came
the welcome message of Magny, full of excellent things, although
scandalously false, should we not have believed it true? Rather than not
to have believed it, we should have framed and hung a copy in every
house!

The message of Magny made its appearance on All Saints' Day. On coming
back from the cemetery we watched the shelling of a French aeroplane,
which laughed at its assailant, and the smoke of the shells was like
small round balls gilt by the sun. The cannon rolled furiously in the
direction of Noyon, and we thought: "If they have passed, it is not over
there."

In the village we heard the good news that every one whispered in his
neighbour's ear: "They haven't passed; on the contrary, they have been
soundly beaten at Vailly. Besides, aviators have dropped a letter near
Magny, copies of which are passing from hand to hand."

They have not passed! They have been beaten! Oh, joy! how lovely is the
day! And how near is the Capitol to the Tarpeian Rock! Yesterday we lay
on the ground broken with the shock; to-day, lively and drunk with joy,
we rush with a bound towards the regions of trust and hope!

Our best source of news was Mme. Lantois'. The kitchen of the farm is a
large, gay, bright room, whose painted walls, black and white flags,
glittering copper saucepans, and cages full of song-birds, are pleasant
to the eye. A select society was to be met there about five in the
evening. To find a seat you had to disturb one of the cats which lay
enthroned on all free chairs. To upset a cat is high treason. To remain
standing would have looked uncivil. I used to get out of the scrape by
taking on my lap Gros-Blanc, Ye-Ye, or Belle-Limace, who seemed to
approve of this arrangement.

All tongues were let loose.

First, we exchanged and commented upon the news of the day. What
troops--infantry, cavalry, artillery--had been seen in Morny and its
neighbourhood, whether there were many of them and which direction they
took, whether the trains were loaded with soldiers or ammunition--these
were the questions asked and answered. Then we were told what wounded
soldiers and prisoners had been brought to Laon, and heard what
motor-cars had traversed the village. Twice the Emperor himself was seen
within our gates in an iron-plated car, preceded and followed by two
cars occupied by soldiers armed to the teeth. Upon this occasion the
Prussians of the village posted on both sides of the road had bawled
themselves hoarse to such a degree that they had been obliged to run to
the next cellar in order to moisten their gullets. Hundreds of pairs of
eyes, moreover, had watched the sky and discovered aeroplanes--English
or French--which had been fired at by such and such a battery. The
German flying machines had been disporting themselves here or there. The
captive balloon--"William's sausage"--had perched above certain points.
How many of us had, the night before, observed the signals that came
from Laon or glittered in the "mountains"?

The ears had just as much to do as the eyes. Guns had been fired from
this quarter and that, German cannon or French, ordnance or fieldpiece.
In one direction a mine had been fired. In fine weather we heard the
sound of rifles or the crackling of mitrailleuses. One stormy day the
workmen declared that they had heard the French bugles sound for a
charge. What a fine harvest of news we gathered every evening! What
would we not have given to be able to hand it on to those who might have
turned it to good account! When we had gone all over it again there
followed a warmly conducted debate; we drew conclusions as to the
successes or reverses each side had met with, or as to the positions
they occupied.

But as it is impossible always to be discussing strategy, and as we
could talk only of the war, we fell to telling stories. And many of them
touched upon our general flight before the Germans and its failure.

M. and Mme. Lantois, with their son Rene, a big lad of eighteen, had
tried to run away too--not, like ourselves, on foot, but in a cart drawn
by two stout horses. The prudent hands of the farmer's wife had heaped
up in the bottom of the vehicle two sacks of flour, a keg of wine, a
barrel of salt pork, two hundred eggs, and even thirty bottles of
petroleum. No matter whither they would have to go, they were thus
prepared for any events. The first hours all went well, but near
Nouvion-le-Vineux the fugitives were overtaken by the French army. They
were ordered to draw up on the roadside and wait. Night fell. The
soldiers kept on advancing. A cannon happened to break down and got
somewhat injured. So the weary farmer went to sleep leaning against a
post, while his wife, lantern in hand, gave a light to the poor gunners,
who, cursing and swearing, did their best to mend the damaged wheel. The
stream of men flowed on uninterruptedly till the morning. The good
people, who had kept out of the way all this time, thought the moment
propitious to resume their journey. They put the horses to, and were
about to move forward, when they were startled by a loud shout. Fresh
soldiers were advancing, and ... they were Prussians.

"I am sure," Mme. Lantois said, "that at this point they were not three
miles away from our rearguard."

Horses, cart, provisions, and even petroleum--ogres turn up their noses
at nothing--were swallowed in a mouthful. The three fugitives, despoiled
and abashed, came back on foot to Morny, all whose inhabitants returned
to their houses sheepish and downcast.

In other places the Germans were not even put to the trouble of
despoiling the people, who of their own free will sacrificed to the
new-comers. They mistook them for English soldiers. In Festieux, for
instance, not far from us, the urchins of the village cried out:

"The English are coming!"

And the peasants crowded about them. They had already stripped
themselves for the French, but all the same they were eager to welcome
the Allies. And they poured out wine and coffee, they offered fruit and
biscuits. The woman who told us this story, after she had shared a whole
pail of lemonade among "those poor boys who were so hot," went to the
tallest of the band, a man with gold lace, and, in a very loud voice so
that he might understand French the better, said to him:

"Well, as a reward, you will bring us William's head!"

The man spread out his face in a broad grin, and, wiping his mouth with
the back of his hand, answered:

"We no English, we Germans...."

Tableau!

This comical scene had its tragic side. In the same village were still
two French foot soldiers. A kindly soul ran to call them.

"Come quick, there are English soldiers here! We are all brothers."

Smiling, the soldiers came up.

"You idiots!" they cried, "they are Prussians!"

And, climbing upon a carriage which happened to stand there, they opened
fire upon the invaders.

The Germans replied, a refugee was wounded, the women screamed, all fled
and hid themselves. Of the two courageous soldiers, one, alas, was
killed, and the other taken prisoner.

More than once we heard accounts of the fighting from eye-witnesses.
M. and Mme. Robert, large landowners of Ailles, told us how their
village had been occupied by the enemy. Every day German patrols had
been seen in the place; but one morning the French came back. All fell
into raptures, kissed one another, marvelled at the return, dug up their
treasures, and kept the day as a feast. In the evening the youths of the
village went for a walk with the Zouaves, listening to the warriors'
tales, and the fiddler of the village played madly the sole tune that he
knew.

The next morning, about half-past five, Mme. Robert, looking out of the
window, said to her husband:

"Look, some one is trying to get in through the orchard gate."

In truth, some one was coming in. The Germans had arrived in great
numbers; they sprang up from all sides.

Our soldiers were ready. A close fight took place in the orchards, in
the gardens, in the barns, and chiefly in the big yard of the farm. At
the outset of the skirmish an officer had pushed the inhabitants into
the kitchen:

"Stay there, don't go out."

The defenders of the village had to fight against fearful odds, and yet
many Germans seemed to play their part reluctantly. Some of them took
refuge in the barns, and hid themselves to avoid the scuffle. Then a
captain came up, armed with a kind of whip, the leather thongs of which
were weighted with tiny leaden balls, and with this he vigorously lashed
his soldiers until they returned to the hottest of the fight. The
Zouaves fought like lions, but they were only 250 against an enemy ten
times superior in number, and in spite of their efforts at last gave
way. Another German officer, noticing civilians in a room, cried aloud
with anger, and shut them up in an empty cellar. For a long time the
prisoners heard the noise of the fight going on above their heads, and
little by little it became less violent, and then ceased completely.
Only the third 

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