Part 5 (2/2)

”Just look over there,” he went on, waving his hand towards a long line of seated _poilus_ who were peacefully enjoying their pipes, while wistfully watching the smoke curl upward. ”Just look at them, aren't they splendid? Why they've got faces like the 'Drinkers' in the Velasquez picture. See that little fellow rolling his cigarette?

Isn't he the image of the Bacchus who forms the centre of the painting?

That's Brunot, and he's thinking about all the G.o.d-mothers whose letters swell out his pockets. He can't make up his mind whether he prefers the one who lives in Ma.r.s.eilles and who sent him candied cherries and her photograph; or the one from Laval who keeps him well supplied with devilled ham which he so relishes. The two men beside him are Lemire and Lechaptois--both peasants. When they think, it's only of their farms and their wives. That other little thin chap is a Parisian bookkeeper. I'd like to bet that he's thinking of his wife, and only of her. He's wondering if she's faithful to him. It's almost become an obsession. I've never known such jealousy, it's fairly killing him.

”That man Ballot, just beyond”--and our friend motioned up the line--”that man Ballot would give anything to be home behind his watch-maker's stand. In a moment or so he'll lean over and begin a conversation with his neighbour Thevenet. They've only one topic, and it's been the same for two years. It's angling. They haven't yet exhausted it.

”All of them at bottom are heartily wis.h.i.+ng it were over; they've had enough of it. But they're good soldiers, just as before the war they were good artisans. The _metier_ is sacred--as are the Family and Duty. 'The Nation, Country, Honour' are big words for which they have a certain repugnance.

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

”When they sing, it's eternally 'The Mountaineers' who, as you know, are always 'there,' 'Sous les Ponts de Paris,' 'Madelon' and other sentimental compositions, and if by accident, in your desire to please, you were p.r.o.ne to compare them to the heroes of Homer, it's more than likely your pains would be rewarded by the first missile on which they could lay their hands and launch in your direction. They will not tolerate mockery.

”No”--he went on, filling his pipe, and enunciating between each puff.

”No, they are neither supermen nor heroes; no more than they are drunkards or foul mouthed blackguards. No, they are better than all that--they are men, real men, who do everything they do well; be it repairing a watch, cabinet-making, adding up long columns of figures or peeling potatoes, mounting guard, or going over the top! They do the big things as though they were small, the small things as though they were big!

”Two days ago the captain sent for two men who had been on patrol duty together. He had but one decoration to bestow and both chaps were in hot discussion as to who should _not_ be cited for bravery.

”'Now, boys, enough of this,' said the captain. 'Who was leading, and who first cut the German barbed wire?'

”'Dubois.'

”'Well then, Dubois, what's all this nonsense? The cross is yours.'

”'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic! I'm a foundling, haven't any family. What's a war cross more or less to me? Now Paul here keeps a cafe; just think of the pleasure it will give his clientele to see him come back decorated.'

”The captain who knows his men, understood Dubois' sincerity, and so Paul got the medal.

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

During this involuntary monologue we had strolled along the road which Nourrigat had originally indicated as the direction of our friend Pistre. Presently he led us into the church, a humble little village sanctuary. A sh.e.l.l had carried away half the apse, and sadly damaged the altar. The belfry had been demolished and the old bronze bell split into four pieces had been carefully fitted together by some loving hand, and stood just inside the doorway.

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

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

Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate indicate that this is the ”_Bureau de la 22e_.”

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

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

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

The old couple had absolutely refused to evacuate their house. The Sous-Prefet, the Prefet, all the authorities had come and insisted, but to no avail.

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

And so they had hung on as an oyster clings to its rock. One sh.e.l.l 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.

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