Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

Three times the house was brought to earth. Three times they rebuilt it. The last time they even put in a stove so that the old woman would not have to bend over to reach her hearth. New beds were made and installed, the garden dug and planted. The old man was operated upon at the Division Hospital, and when he became convalescent they shared the contents of their home packages with him.

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

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

Another would come back greeting her with a cordial "_Bonjour, mère Tesson_."

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

And it was this constantly changing new found son who would chop wood, draw water from the well, write a letter that would exempt them from taxes, or make a demand for help from the American Committees.

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

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

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

"This is a surprise, on my soul!"

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

Presently he turned towards Nourrigat.

"How about your regiment? Stationary?"

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

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

"Gone! all of them."

"Too bad! They were such good fellows!"

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

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

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

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

A soldier appeared on the threshold.

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

The child scribbled something in an old account book.

"That makes fifty-three sous," he finally announced.

Other soldiers now came up.

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

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

Then the tumult having subsided, he continued--

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

Pistre quickly explained that this phenomenon was Popaul called "Business"--and Mimile, his clerk, both sons of a poor widow who washed for the soldiers. In spite of his tender years "Business" had developed a tendency for finance that bespoke a true captain of industry. He had commenced by selling the men newspapers, and then having saved enough to buy first one and then a second bicycle, the brothers went twice a day to Villers Cotterets, some fifteen miles distant, in quest of the orders given them by the soldiers. At first the dealers tried to have this commerce prohibited, but as the lads were scrupulously honest, and their percentage very modest, the Commandant not only tolerated, but protected them.

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

"All his own fault too," exclaimed Business, shrugging his shoulders. "He's no good at diving. Doesn't flatten out quick enough. Why I used to come right over the road last Winter when the bombardment was on full tilt. I was then working for the Legion and the Chasseurs. No cinch let me tell you! It used to be--'Popaul here--Popaul there--where's my tobacco? How about my eau-de-Cologne?' There wasn't any choice with those fellows. It was furnish the goods or bust--and I never lost them a sou's worth of merchandise either!"

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

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

"In four years I'll volunteer for the aviation corps."

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

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

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

We watched him distribute his packages, make change and take down his next day's orders, in a much soiled note-book, and with the aid of a stubby pencil which he was obliged to wet every other letter. When he had finished a soldier slipped over towards him.

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

Business was touched to the quick.

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

"Just as you say, old man."

Brusquely turning about, the future tradesman sought for his clerk who had disappeared.

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

IV

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

"It will take more than that to prevent us from going to the cafés," smiled an old Parisian, shrugging his shoulders.

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

_Aperatifs_ have long since ceased to be anything save pleasant remembrances--yet the custom itself has remained strong as a tradition. Absinthes, bitters and their like have not only been abolished, but replaced--and by what? Mineral waters, fruit syrups and tea!

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

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

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

Naturally there is the grumbling element who claim that absinthe never hurt any one, and cite as example the painter Harpignies, who lived to be almost a hundred, having absorbed on the average of two a day until the very last.

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

One joked the first time one ordered an infusion or a lemon vichy, one was even a bit disgusted at the taste. And then one got used to it, the same as one is ready to become accustomed to anything; to trotting about the darkened streets, to going to bed early, to getting along without sugar, and even to being bombed.

There is a drawing by Forain which instantly obtained celebrity, and which represents two French soldiers talking together in the trenches.

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

"Who?"

"The civilians!"

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

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

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

Last summer an American friend said to me:

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

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

"Think," she said, catching my arm, "just think that behind each and every one of those façades there is some one suffering, hoping, weeping, perhaps in secret! Think of the awful moment when all the bells shall solemnly toll midnight, every stroke resounding like a dirge in the souls of those who are torn with anxiety, who crave relief, and patiently implore a sleep that refuses to come."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The theatres have cellars prepared to receive their audiences in case of bombardment, and one of our neighbours, Monsieur Walter, has just written asking permission in my absence to build an armoured dug-out in the hallway of my home.

"It is precisely the organisation of this dugout that prompts my writing to you, _chère Madame_.

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

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

And this in Paris, June 28th, 1918!

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

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

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

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

During the Autumn twilights, on the long avenues swept by the rain, or at street corners where the wind seizes it and turns it into miniature water spouts, one can catch glimpses of the weary, bedraggled Parisian, struggling beneath a rebellious umbrella, patiently waiting for a cab. He has made up his mind to take the first that goes by. There can be no question of discrimination. Anything will be welcome. Yes, anything, even one of those evil-smelling antiquated hackneys drawn by a decrepit brute who will doubtless stumble and fall before having dragged you the first five hundred yards, thereby bringing down the pitiless wrath of his aged driver, not only on his own, but your head.

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

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

Triumphantly the driver takes in their humble, supplicating glances (glances which have never been reproduced save in pictures of the Martyrs), and then clearing his throat he questions:

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

Nobody ever wants to go to Grenelle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet people do go to the theatre.

Gemier has made triumphant productions, with the translations of the Shakesperean Society, and true artist that he is, has created sensational innovations by way of _mise-en-scène_ in the "Merchant of Venice" and "Anthony and Cleopatra."

It's a far cry now to the once all too popular staging à la Munich.

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

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

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

As to the war itself, they have made something very special of it. Thanks to them the trenches become a very delightful spot populated by a squadron of nimble footed misses, who, booted, spurred, helmet-crowned and costumed in horizon blue, sing of the heroism and the splendid good humour of the _poilu_ while keeping time to a martial rhythm.

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

Attacks are made to well known accompaniments--Bombardments perpetrated in the wings by the big bass drum, and both though symbolic, are about as unreal as possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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