Part 3 (2/2)
”She will have something durable at least, Madame, a trousseau that will stand the test of time and was.h.i.+ng,” replied the good mother smiling blandly, touched by my appreciation.
”I still have sheets which came down to me from my great grand-mother, and I hope that my own great grand-sons will some day eat from this very cloth.”
”But they will never guess under what strange circ.u.mstances it was hemmed and embroidered,” gently proffered the young girl raising her big blue eyes and smiling sweetly.
”Bah, what difference does that make so long as they are happy and can live in peace? That's the princ.i.p.al thing, the one for which we're all working, isn't it?”
Such is the spirit that pervades all France. It is simple, undemonstrative heroism, the ardent desire of a race to last in spite of all. What more imperturbable confidence in its immortality could be manifested than by this mother and daughter calmly discussing the durability of their family linen, within actual range of Teuton gunfire that might annihilate them at any moment?
As we were about to leave Monsieur S. came up the front steps. He had been out in company of a friend, making his habitual daily tour of the city. Like most middle aged, well-to-do bourgeois his attire was composed of a pair of light trousers, slightly baggy at the knee, and a bit flappy about the leg; a black cutaway jacket and a white pique waistcoat. This cla.s.sic costume usually comports a panama hat and an umbrella. Now Monsieur S. had the umbrella, but in place of the panama he had seen fit to subst.i.tute a blue steel soldier's helmet, which amazing military headgear made a strange combination with the remainder of his civilian apparel. Nevertheless he bowed to us very skilfully, and at that moment I caught sight of a leather strap, which slung over one shoulder, hung down to his waist and carried his gas mask.
[Ill.u.s.tration: MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH HIS GAS MASK]
For several days I laboured under the impression that this mode was quite unique, but was soon proved mistaken, for on going to the Post Office to get my mail (three carriers having been killed, there were no longer any deliveries) I discovered that it was little short of general. Several ladies had even dared risk the helmet, and the whole a.s.sembly took on a war like aspect that was quite apropos.
Thus adorned, the octogenarian Abbe de Villeneuve, his umbrella swung across his back, his ca.s.sock tucked up so as to permit him to ride a bicycle, was a sight that I shall never forget.
”Why, Monsieur le Cure, you've quite the air of a sportsman.”
”My child, let me explain. You see I can no longer trust to my legs, they're too old and too rheumatic. Well then, when a bombardment sets in how on earth could I get home quickly without my bicycle?”
As visitors to the front, we were guests of the French Red Cross Society while in Soissons. The local president, whose deeds of heroism have astonished the world at large, is an old-time personal friend.
A luncheon in our honour was served on a spotless cloth, in the only room of that lady's residence which several hundred days of constant bombardment had still left intact. Yet, save for the fact that paper had replaced the window panes, nothing betrayed the proximity of the German. Through the open, vine grown cas.e.m.e.nt, I could look out onto a cleanly swept little court whose centre piece of geraniums was a perfect riot of colour.
Around the congenial board were gathered our hostess, the old Cure de St. Vast, the General in command of the Brigade, his Colonel, three Aides-de-Camp, my husband and myself.
Naturally, the topic of conversation was the war, but strange as it may seem, it was we, the civilians, that were telling our friends of the different activities that were afoot and would eventually bring the United States to the side of the Allies.
Towards the middle of the repast our enemies began sending over a few sh.e.l.ls and presently a serious bombardment was under way. Yet no one stirred.
Dishes were pa.s.sed and removed, and though oft times I personally felt that the pattering of shrapnel on the tin roof opposite was uncomfortably close, I was convinced there was no theatrical display of bravery, no cheap heroism in our companions' unconsciousness. They were interested in what was being said--_voila tout_.
Presently, however, our hostess leaned towards me and I fancied she was about to suggest a trip cellarward, instead of which she whispered that on account of the bombardment we were likely to go without dessert since it had to come from the other side of town and had not yet arrived.
Then a sh.e.l.l burst quite close, and at the same time the street bell rang. The _cordon_ was pulled, and through the aperture made by the backward swing of the great door, I caught sight of a ruddy cheeked, fair haired maiden in her early teens, bearing a huge bowl of fresh cream cheese in her outstretched hands.
Steadily she crossed the court, approached the window where she halted, smiled bashfully, set down her precious burden, and timidly addressing our hostess:
”I'm sorry, Madame,” said she, ”so sorry if I have made you wait.”
And so it goes.
I remember a druggist who on greeting me exclaimed:
”A pretty life, is it not, for a man who has liver trouble?” And yet he remained simply because it was a druggist's duty to do so when all the others are mobilised.
There was also the printer of a local daily, who continued to set up his type with one side of his shop blown out; who went right on publis.h.i.+ng when the roof caved in, and who actually never ceased doing so until the whole structure collapsed, and a falling wall had demolished his only remaining press.
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