Part 23 (1/2)
Bonnet, the hardware dealer, in spite of his seventy-eight years, comes and goes at a lively pace--coughing, grumbling, mumbling--always in a hurry, though he never has anything special to attend to.
And finally there is Laigut; Laigut whom one consults when at his wits'
end, simply because he knows everything in general, and nothing in particular, his knowledge covering all the arts and sciences as resumed in the Grand Encyclopedia. He is a little man with spectacles, and a short grey beard, costumed winter and summer alike in the same suit of worn brown velvet, a rabbit skin cap on his head, his feet shoved into wooden sabots.
His reputation before the war was not what one would call spotless.
His pa.s.sion for fowl (other people's on principle) had led to his being strongly suspected. He was a poacher, as well, always ready to bring you the hare or the pike you needed, at a fixed date and hour, more especially when the shooting and fis.h.i.+ng seasons were closed.
His was one of those hidden geniuses which the war had revealed.
Otherwise we should never on earth have suspected him of being so capable. But be it requested that he repair a sewing machine, a bicycle or a watch; sharpen a pair of scissors, put in a pane of gla.s.s, make over mattresses, shear a horse, a dog or a human, paint a sign, cover an umbrella, kill a pig or treat a sprain, Laigut never hesitates, Laigut is always found competent. Add to this his commerce in seeds and herbs, his talent for destroying snakes and trapping moles, the fact that he is munic.i.p.al bell ringer and choir boy, and you will have but a feeble idea of the activities of this man whose field seems so unlimited.
In a little old shed behind his house he carefully stores the innumerable and diverse objects which are confided to his care, and contrary to what one might suppose, he bears no malice for the lack of esteem bestowed upon him in times gone by. Not at all. His breadth of character is equalled only by the diversity of his gifts. From time to time a fowl may still disappear, but none save _Maitre Renard_ is now accused. In these days there are so many foxes about!
If I may seem to have gone deep into detail concerning these people it is only because I am anxious to make better understood what life means in a village without men. That is to say without valid men who care for the cattle, steer the plough, keep the furrows of equal depth and straight as a die; rake, hoe and sow; reap, harvest and carry the heavy burdens, in fact, perform all the hard, fatiguing labour that the upkeep of the soil requires.
And yet, in spite of their absence, not a foot of ground has been neglected. The cattle are robust and well cared for, the harvests reaped and brought to cover, the taxes and the rents have been paid, and down under the piles of linen in those big oak cupboards lie many blue bank notes, or several bonds of the National Defense. And France has crossed the threshold of her fifth year of war.
To whom is this due? The women.
There were no training schools to teach them how to sow or reap--no kindly advisors to take the husbands' places and tell them what animals to keep and feed, at what time to sell, or at what price. They had to learn from hard experience, taxing their intuition and great common sense to the utmost.
And with it all they are so shy and modest; at heart a little bit ashamed when you speak to them in terms of admiration for what they have done.
”We didn't really know what to do at the end of that first year when we found there wasn't any one to take care of the ground,” explained Julie Laisne, who lives just behind Aunt Rose.
”I would have tried to plough, been glad to do it, but I was afraid the others would make fun of me,” said Anna Troussiere.
”That's just the way I felt about it,” exclaimed Julie. ”I nearly went crazy when I knew time was flying, winter coming, and no wheat in.
I've no doubt it was the same with all the others. Then one day the news ran round like lightning that Anna was out ploughing her fields, with her kid and her grandfather to help her. n.o.body took the time to go and see if it was true. Each one got out her plough. Of course, the first furrows were not very straight, but soon we got used to it, and Lord, how we laughed over my first attempts, when my husband came home the next fall on furlough.”
I wish that some great master of the pen might paint in words as simple as the Golden Legend, in stanzas as pure as the Litanies of the Holy Virgin, the picture of this little Julie, up and about with the first rays of dawn, always hard at work, and whom when night has closed in I have often come upon, bending over beneath her tallow candle, writing to the dear one at the front. To this task as to all the others she concentrates her every effort and attention, anxious that no news be forgotten,--news which is as fresh and nave as the events and the nature that inspires it. ”The sow has had twelve little pigs, the donkey has a nail in its hoof, little Michel has a cold, and b.u.t.ter now sells for forty-three sous the pound.”
Her farm is too small and brings in too little for her to dream of taking on some one to help. But she keeps three cows, and three calves; a dozen or two pigs, a donkey and all the chickens she can afford to feed. Forty acres is quite a responsibility for so small a person, and it requires lots of courage to replace the missing muscle, to till the soil, care for the kitchen garden and the animals, and send three small children off to school on time, all of them washed and combed, without a hole in their stockings or a spot on their ap.r.o.ns.
It needs something more than courage to be able to sing and dissimulate one's anxieties, to hide in one corner of that envelope that will be opened by him ”Out there,” a little favourite flower, tenderly cared for, nursed to maturity.
”Bah!” she laughs as I sympathise. ”It might be bad if one were all alone in his troubles. But we're all in the same boat, down here!”
Yes, all of them have done their duty--more than their duty, the impossible. In other villages it is just the same--in other Provinces.
From one end to the other of France such marvels have been accomplished that the government decided that so much devotion merited recompense.
So one fine morning a motor was seen to stop in front of the Cafe Lacroix, a gentleman in uniform (some say it was the Prefet) accompanied by two other men, got down and walked over to the town hall that is near the church.
A few moments later Criquet was dispatched on bicycle to Anna Troussiere's and Claudine Charpin's, with orders to bring them back with him.
He soon returned accompanied by the two frightened creatures, who fearing ill news had not unrolled their sleeves nor removed the handkerchief from their heads, but jumped on their bicycles and hastened to the town hall.
Then suddenly the gentleman in uniform appeared on the steps, made them a little speech, and stepping down pinned a medal on their heaving b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He thrust a diploma which bore their names into their trembling fingers, shook hands with them most cordially, and mounting in his car, drove away in a cloud of dust.
Every one, much excited, gathered around the two women. The medals were handed about, commented upon.