Читать книгу My Home in the Field of Honor - Frances Wilson Huard - Страница 3

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The third week in July found a very merry gathering at the Chateau de Villiers. (Villiers is our summer home situated near Marne River, sixty miles or an hour by train to Paris.)

Nothing, I think, could have been farther from thoughts than the idea of war. Our May Wilson Preston, the artist; Mrs. Chase, the editor of a well-known woman's magazine; Hugues Delorme, the French artist; and numerous other guests, discussed the theatre and the "Caillaux case" from every conceivable point of view, and their conversations were only interrupted by serious attempts to prove their national superiority at bridge, and long delightful walks in the park.

As I look back now over those cheerful times, I can distinctly remember one bright sunny morning, when after a half-hour's climbing we reached the highest spot on our property. Very warm and a trifle out of breath we sought shelter beneath a big purple beech, and I can still hear H. explaining to Mrs. Chase:

"Below you on the right runs the Marne, and over there, beyond those hills, do you see that long straight line of trees?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's the road that lead's from Paris to Metz!"

At that moment I'm confident he hadn't the slightest arriere pensee.

On Monday, the 27th, Mrs. Preston, having decided to take her leave, I determined to accompany her to Paris. Several members of the house party joined us, leaving H. and a half-dozen friends at Villiers. We took an early morning train, and wrapped in our newspapers we were rolling peacefully towards the capital when someone called out, "For Heaven's sake, look at those funny soldiers!"

Glancing through the window, I caught sight of numerous gray-haired, bushy-bearded men stationed at even distances along the line, while here and there little groups beneath or around a tent were preparing the morning meal.

What strange looking creatures they were; anything but military in their dirty white overalls—the only things that betrayed their calling being their caps and their guns!

"What on earth are they?" queried an American.

"Oh, only some territorials serving their last period of twenty-nine days. It's not worth while giving them uniforms for so short a time!"

"Bah!" came from the other end of the compartment. "I should think it was hot enough in the barracks without forcing men that age to mount a guard in the sun!"

"It's about time for the Grand manaeuvres, isn't it?"

And in like manner the conversation rose and dwindled, and we returned to our papers, paying no more attention to the territorials stationed along the rails.

A theatre party having been arranged, I decided to stop over in Paris. The play was Georgette Lemeunier at the Comedie Francaise. The house was full—the audience chiefly composed of Americans and tourists, and throughout the entire piece even very significant allusions to current political events failed to arouse any unwonted enthusiasm on the part of the French contingent. Outside not even an edition speciale de la Presse betokened the slightest uneasiness.

The next day, that is, Tuesday, the 28th, I had a business meeting with my friends, Mr. Gautron and Mr. Pierre Mortier, editor of the Gil Blas. Mr. Gautron was on the minute, but Mr. Mortier kept us waiting over an hour and when finally we had despaired of his coming I heard someone hurrying across the court, and the bell was rung impatiently. Mr. Mortier rushed in, unannounced, very red, very excited, very apologetic.

"A thousand pardons. I'm horribly late, but you'll forgive me when you hear the news. I've just come from the Foreign Office. All diplomatic relations with Germany are suspended. War will be declared Saturday!"

Mr. Gautron and I looked at each other, then at Mr. Mortier, and smiled.

"No, I'm not joking. I'm as serious as I have ever been in my life. The proof: on leaving the Foreign Office I went and had a neglected tooth filled, and on my way down, stopped at my shoemaker's and ordered a pair of good strong boots for Saturday morning. I'll be fit then to join my regiment."

Our faces fell.

"But why Saturday?"

"Because Saturday's the first of August, and the idea of keeping the news back is to prevent a panic on the Bourse, and to let the July payments have time to be realized."

"You don't really believe it's serious, do you?"

"Yes, really. I'm not fooling, and if I've any advice to give you it's this: draw out all the money you can from your bank, and take all the gold they'll give you. You may need it. I've telephoned to the Gil Blas for them to do as much for us. The worst of all though is, that every man on my paper is of an age bound to military service. War means that when I leave, staff, printers and all will have to go the same day and the Gil Blas shuts its doors. We cease to exist—that's all."

Somewhat disconcerted by this astonishing news, we had some little difficulty getting down to facts, but when we did business was speedily dispatched and Mr. Mortier took his leave. Mr. Gautron carried me off to luncheon.

"You must come," he protested when I pleaded an engagement. "You must come, or my wife and the boys will never believe me."

We found Madame Gautron and her two splendid sons waiting rather impatiently. We told our news.

"Come, come now. You can't make us take that as an excuse!"

We protested our sincerity, and went in to luncheon which began rather silently.

I questioned the boys as to their military duties. Both were under-officers in an infantry regiment—bound to join their barracks within twenty-four hours after the call to arms.

We did not linger over our coffee. Each one seemed anxious to go about his affairs. I left the Gautron boys at the comer of their street, each carrying his army shoes under his arm.

"To be greased—in case of accident," they laughingly explained.

That was the last time I ever saw them. They fell "on the Field of

Honour" both the same day, and hardly a month later.

But to return to my affairs.

A trifle upset by what Mr. Mortier had told me, I hurried to the nearest telephone station and asked for Villiers. When after what seemed an interminable time I got the connection, I explained to H. what had happened.

"For Heaven's sake leave politics alone and take the five o'clock train home! We need you to make a second fourth at bridge." H.'s lightheartedness somewhat reassured me, though for prudence's sake I went to my bank and asked to withdraw my entire account.

"Why, Madame Huard," said the clerk in surprise, "you mean to say you are frightened?"

I explained what I had heard in the morning.

"Pensez-vous? Non! We would be the first to be notified. We were ever so much closer to war two years ago—at Agadir! There is no cause for alarm."

He almost persuaded me, but after hesitating a moment I decided to abide by my original intentions.

"I can always put my money back in a week or so if all blows over and I find I don't need it," I argued.

"Certainly, Madame—as you will."

And the twenty-eighth of July the Societe Generale gave me all the gold I requested.

As the five o'clock express hurried me back home I began to understand the gravity of the situation—for the "queer looking soldiers" were nearer together all along the railway line, and it dawned on me that theirs was a very serious mission—namely, that of safeguarding the steel artery which leads from Paris to the eastern frontier.

At Charly, our station, I was much surprised to see three French officers in full uniform get off the train and step into the taxi-autobus which deposits its travelers at the only hotel in the vicinity.

At the chateau my story failed to make an impression. The men pooh-poohed the idea of war, and returned to the evening papers and the proces Caillaux, which was the most exciting question of the moment. In the pantry the news was greeted with hilarity, and coachman and gardener declared that they would shoulder their spades and faire la guerre en sabots.

My friend and neighbor, Elizabeth Gauthier, was the only one who took the matter seriously, and that because she had no less than five brothers and a husband who would be obliged to serve in case of serious events. I felt rather ashamed when I saw her countenance darken, for after all, she was alone in Villiers with two tiny children; her husband, the well-known archivist, coming down but for the week-end. "What is the sense of alarming people so uselessly?" I thought.

Wednesday, the 29th, the papers began to talk of "a tension in the political relations between France and Germany" which, however, did not quench the gaiety of a picnic luncheon in the grove by our river.

In the afternoon the old garde-champetre asked for H. in the courtyard.

"In case of mobilization," said he, "you have three horses and your farm cart to present to the authorities. Your cart must have its awnings complete. And your horses harnessed with their halters!"

H. laughed and told him that he was giving himself a lot of useless trouble.

Thursday, the 30th, market day at Charly, the nearest town to Villiers. We both drove down in the victoria, and were not surprised to see my officers of the day before seated in the hotel dining-room, finishing breakfast.

"What are they down here for?" I queried of the proprietor.

"Oh, they belong to the Etat Major and are out here to verify their maps. The Mayor has given them an office in the town hall. They go off on their bicycles early every morning and only return for meals."

"It's rather a treat to see a uniform out here, where hardly an officer has appeared since last year when we had Prince George of Servia and his staff for three days."

The general topic on the market place was certainly not war, and we drove home somewhat reassured.

Friday, the 31st, however, the tone of the newspapers was serious and our little village began to grow alarmed when several soldiers on holiday leave received individual official telegrams to rejoin their regiments immediately. Little knots of peasants could be seen grouped together along the village street, a thing unheard of in that busy season when vineyards need so much attention. Towards noon the news ran like wildfire that men belonging to the youngest classes had received their official notices and we're leaving to join their corps. Yet there was no commotion anywhere.

"It will last three weeks and they'll all come home, safe and sound. It's bothersome, though, that the Government should choose just our busiest season to take the men out for a holiday!" declared one peasant.

There was less hilarity in the servants' hall when I entered after luncheon. At least I fancied so. The men had gone about their work quicker than usual, and the women were silently washing up.

"Does Madame know that the fils Poupard is leaving by the four o'clock train—and that Cranger and Veron are going too?" asked my faithful Catherine.

"No."

"Yes, Madame—and Honorine is in the wash-house crying as though her heart would break."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the river. In the wash-house I found Honorine bending over her linen, the great tears streaming down her face, in spite of her every effort to control them.

"Why, Honorine, what's the matter?"

"He's gone, Madame—gone without my seeing him—without even a clean pair of socks!"

"Who?"

"My son, Madame!"

And the tears burst out afresh, though in silence.

"Yes, Madame, I found this under the door when I came in at noon.—" She drew a crumpled paper from her apron pocket. I smoothed it out and read:

"Je viens de recevior ma feuille. Je pars de suite. Je prends les deux francs sur la cheminee. Jean." (I've just received my notice. Am leaving at once. Have taken the two francs that are on the mantel. Jean.)

I cannot say what an impression that brief but heroic note made upon me. In my mind it has always stood as characteristic of that wonderful national resolution to do one's duty, and to make the least possible fuss about it.

At tea-time the male contingent of the house-party was decidedly restless.

"Let's go up to Paris and see what's going on."

"There's no use doing that. Elizabeth Gauthier went this morning and will be back in an hour with all the news. It's too late to go to town, anyway!"

"Well, if things don't look better to-morrow I've got to go. My military book is somewhere in my desk at home and it's best to have it en regle in case of necessity," said Delorme.

"Mine's at home, too," echoed our friend Boutiteron.

"We'll all go to-morrow, and make a day of it," decided H.

Just then the silhouette of the three officers on bicycles passed up the road.

"Let's go out and ask them what's up," suggested someone.

"Pooh! Do you think they know anything more than we do? And if they do know something, they wouldn't tell you! Don't make a fool of yourself, Hugues!"

Presently Elizabeth Gauthier arrived, placid and cool as though everything were normal. "Paris is calm; calm as Paris always is in August."

"But the papers? Your husband? What does he say?"

"There are no extras—Leon doesn't seem over-alarmed, though as captain in the reserves he would have to leave within an hour after any declaration of hostilities. He has a special mission to perform. But he's certain of coming down by the five o'clock train to-morrow."

We went in to dinner but conversation lagged. Each one seemed preoccupied and no one minded the long silences. We were so quiet that the Angelus ringing at Charly, some four miles away, roused us with something of a shock.

Saturday morning, August 1st, the carryall rolled up to the station for the early train. All made a general rush for the papers which had just arrived and all of us were equally horrified when a glance showed the headline-Jaures, the Great Socialist Leader, Assassinated. Decidedly the plot thickened and naturally we all jumped to the same conclusion—a political crime.

"There's a stronger hand than the murderer's back of that felony," murmured a plain man from the corner of our compartment.

"What makes you say that?"

"Why, can't you see, Monsieur, that our enemies are counting on the deed to stir up the revolutionary party and breed discord in the country! It's as plain as day!"

That was rather opening the door to a lengthy discussion, but our friends refused to debate, especially as we could hear excited masculine voices rising high above the ordinary tone in the compartments on either side of us.

The journey drew to a close without any further remarkable incident. It seemed to me that we passed more up trains than usual, but were not a moment overdue. There was nothing to complain of. As we approached La Villette and drew into the Gare de l'Est everybody noticed the extraordinary number of locomotives that were getting up steam in the yards. There were rows and rows of them, just as close together as it was possible to range them, and as far as the eye could see their glittering boilers extended down the tracks in even lines. Each one had a freshly glued yellow label, on which was printed in big black capitals the name of its home station. That was the most significant preparation we had witnessed as yet. Presently we observed that the platforms of freight and express depots had been swept clear of every obstacles and the usually encumbered Gare de l'Est was clean and empty as the hand of man could make it.

In the courtyard our party separated, promising to meet for the five o'clock express—"Unless something serious prevents."

I accompanied H. to the Caserne des Minimes where he went to see if his military situation was registered up to date in his livret, and all along the streets leading from the station we met women silently wiping their eyes.

What a sight the courtyard of that barracks presented! Some five or six thousand men of all ages, classes and conditions who up until that moment had never thought that the loss of a military book entailed the slightest consequence, had one and all been pushed by that single thought, "Be ready for duty." Here they were, boys of twenty and men of forty, standing in line, braving their all-time enemy, the gendarme, each silently waiting his turn to explain his situation. To the credit of the gendarme and all those in authority, it must be said that contrary to their usual custom they acted like loving fathers with these prodigal sons of the Republic—possible information without the sign of a grumble, and advising those who were still streaming in at the door to come back towards five o'clock, when the line should have advanced a little. It was then scarcely ten A. M.!

H. had finished in no time.

"All I've got to do is to go home and wait until I am called for," he explained as we walked away at a brisk gait.

Like most country people when they come to town I had numerous errands to do, so we set off towards the Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville, renowned for its farming implements.

At the corner of the Rue des Archives we met Monsieur Gauthier on his way to his Museum.

"Grave—tre's grave—la situation, Monsieur," was all he could say.

"What would you advise us to do?"

"Well, to speak plainly, I should advise you to shut up the chateau, leave a guardian, and open your Paris apartment. You're in the east, you know! I shall go down by the five train and bring back Elizabeth and the children. I'd be easier in my mind if I knew they were in a big city! I If you have to leave, Madame Huard would be better off here."

H. was very sober as we left Mr. Gauthier.

"Bah! Cheer up! I'm afraid our friend is an alarmist. You know he has two young children!"

We entered the Bazar, which is the "biggest" of the big stores in Paris. Every day in the week, and Sundays included, it is usually so crowded with buyers and sellers that one has to elbow one's way, and literally serve one's self. To our amazement it was empty—literally empty. Not a single customer—not a single clerk to be seen. The long stretches of floor and counters were vacant as though the store were closed. I gasped a little in surprise and just as I did so a female voice from behind a distant desk called out:

"What is your pleasure, Madame?"

I turned, and a little woman in black advanced towards me.

"Yes, I know the place looks queer, but you see all our clerks are young men and everyone of them has been obliged to join his regiment since closing time last evening!"

"Leave farming alone and come over to Conard's. He's bound to have some news," said H. impatiently.

Conard's is a big publishing firm on the boulevard, renowned as a meeting place for most of the well-known political men.

Conard greeted us in silence. He knew no more than we, and we fell to talking of the latest events and trying to come to a conclusion. Then one of the habitués stepped in.

"Eh bien, Monsieur, what news?"

The person addressed kept on perusing the titles of the books spread along the counter, and drawing a long puff from his cigarette and without lifting his eyes, said, "The mobilization is for four o'clock! Official. Have you something entertaining to read on my way to the front?"

"What?"

"Yes, gentlemen."

"War?"'

"It looks very much like it!"

Though almost expected, the news gave us a thrill. We stood spellbound and tongue-tied.

What to do? There were so many decisions to be made at a moment's notice! H. was for our coming to Paris, as all the men must necessarily leave the chateau.

"Mobilization doesn't necessarily mean war, man. Besides if it does come it can't last long. You'd better go back to your place in the country, Huard. A big estate like that needs looking after," said Conard.

"Where do you live?" questioned the gentleman who had given us the news.

"Villiers—sixty miles east of Paris."

"Well, if you decide to go there I advise you to take the soonest train. The eastern railway belongs to the army, and only the army, beginning at noon to-day."

H. looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven, and our next train left at noon sharp. We jumped into a taxi.

"Drive to the Gare de l'Est and on the way stop at Tarides! We must have maps, good road maps of the entire north and east," said H., turning to me.

It seemed as though he had had that thought in common with the entire Parisian population, for all down the boulevards the bookshops and stationers were already overflowing with men, chiefly in regimentals, and as to the shoe-shops and boot-makers—there was a line waiting outside of each. Yet there was no excitement, no shouting, not even an "extra."

What a different sight our station presented to that of two hours before! The great iron gates were shut, and guarded by a line of sergents de ville. Only men joining their regiments and persons returning to their legitimate dwellings were allowed to pass. And there were thousands of both. Around the grillwork hovered dense groups of women, bravely waving tearless adieux to their men folk.

After assuring himself that there was still a noon train, H. led me to the restaurant directly opposite the station.

"We'll have a bite here. Heaven knows what time we shall reach home!"

The room was filled to overflowing; the lunchers being mostly officers. At the table on our right sat a young fellow whose military harnessings were very new and very stiff, but in spite of the heat, a high collar and all his trappings he managed to put away a very comfortable repast.

On our left was a party composed of a captain, his wife and two other freres d'armes. That brave little Parisian woman at once won my admiration, for though, in spite of superhuman efforts, the tears would trickle down her face, she never gave in one second to her emotion but played her part as hostess, trying her best to put her guests at ease and smilingly inquiring after their family and friends as though she were receiving under ordinary circumstances in her own home.

At a quarter before noon we left them and elbowed our way through the ever-gathering crowd towards our train.

"The twelve o'clock express—what platform?" H. inquired.

"The ten o'clock train hasn't gone yet, Monsieur!"

"Is there any danger of its not going?"

"Oh, no; but there's every danger of its being the last."

And the man spoke the truth, for as our friend the politician predicted, at noon military authority took over the station and all those who were so unfortunate as to have been left behind were obliged to wait in Paris three mortal weeks. On the Eastern Railway all passenger service was immediately sacrificed to the transportation of troops.

It seems to me that this was the longest train I have ever seen. The coaches stretched far out beyond the station into torrid sunlight. Every carriage was filled up to and beyond its normal capacity. There could be no question of what class one would travel—it was travel where one could! Yet no one seemed to mind. I managed to find a seat in it compartment already occupied by two young St. Cyr students in full uniform and white gloves, a very portly aged couple and half a dozen men of the working classes.

"We'll take turns at sitting, Monsieur," said one of them as H. pushed further on into the corridor.

At the end of five minutes' time the conversation had become general. Although as yet there had been no official declaration everyone present was convinced that the news would shortly be made public, and though the crowd was certainly not a merry one, it was certainly not sad. Most of the men had received their orders in the morning, and had said good-bye to their loved ones at home. In consequence, there were no heart-rending scenes of farewell, no tearful leave-takings from family and friends, no useless manifestations.

Through the doorway of our stifling compartment, which up until the last moment was left open for air, we could see the train on the opposite platform silently, rapidly filling with men, each carrying a new pair of shoes either slung over the shoulders or neatly tied in a box or paper parcel. Then without any warning, without any hilarious vociferations on the part of its occupants, it quietly drew out of the station, to be instantly replaced by another train of cars.

Five times we watched the same operation recommence ere the ten o'clock train decided to leave Paris. Then as the guard went along the platform slamming the doors, a boyish face poked its way into the aperture of our compartment.

"Hello, Louis," said he, addressing one of the workmen. "Hello, Louis, you here, too?"

"Eh bien, cette fois je crois quon y va! Hein?"

Our door closed and the trainman whistled.

"Bon voyage!" shouted the boy through the window.

"The same to you," replied the other. That was all.

It was not a very eventful journey. It was merely hot and lengthy. We stopped at every little way station either to let down or take on passengers. We were side-tracked and forgotten for what seemed hours at a time, to allow speedy express trains filled with men and bound for the eastern frontier to pass on and be gone.

At Changis-St. Jean I put my head out of the window and there witnessed a most touching sight. A youngish man in a well-fitting captain's uniform, accompanied by his wife and two pretty babies, was preparing to take his leave. He was evidently well known and esteemed in his little village, for the curate, the mayor, the municipal council and numerous friends had come to see him off. The couple bore up bravely until the whistle blew-then, clasping each other in an almost brutal embrace, they parted, he to jump into the moving train mid the shouts of well-wishers, and she, her shoulders shaking with emotion, to return to her empty home.

Four months later, almost to a day, I again put my head out of the car window as we stopped at Changis. Imagine my surprise on seeing almost the same group! I recognized the mayor, the curate and the others, and a little shiver went down my back as I caught sight of the pretty captain's wife—her eyes red and swollen beneath the long widow's veil that covered her face. That same hopeful little assembly of August first had once again gathered on the station platform to take possession of and to conduct to their last resting place the mortal remains of their heroic defunct.

Naturally, as they did not expect us before six at the château, there was no carriage to meet us.

"We'll take the hotel taxi as far as Charly, and from there we'll telephone home," said H. as we got down from the train.

But there was neither hotel trap nor vehicle of any description at the station. True it was that our train was nearly two hours late! The idea of walking some four miles in the broiling sun was anything but amusing, but there seemed to be nothing else to do. So after a quarter of an hour uselessly spent in trying to get a carriage about our lonesome station, we started off on foot. We had scarcely gone two hundred yards when we caught sight of a PARISIAN taxi! H. hailed him!

"What are you doing down here?"

"I brought down a gentleman who was in a hurry. You see there are no more trains out of Paris on this line since noon! And there are not likely to be any for some time to come."

"Will you take us as far as Charly?"

"If it's on the way to Paris—yes! I'm in a hurry to get back. I've got to join my regiment at the Gaxe du Nord before midnight, but I'd like to ring in another job like this before that. It's worth while at 150 per trip!"

"You've got to cross Charly—there's no other way to Paris."

So we made our price and were whisked into our little market-town.

The inhabitants were on their doorsteps or chatting in little groups, and we created quite a sensation in our Parisian vehicle. H. went to the Gendarmerie at once to see if there was any official news by wire since we had left town.

"You're the one who ought to bring us news, Monsieur," said the brigadier. "What do they say in Paris?"

"The mobilization will be posted at four o'clock."

A hearty peal of laughter, that was most refreshing in the tension of the moment, burst from all three gendarmes.

"Well, it's five minutes of four now. And if what you say is so, I should think we'd know something about it by this time! Don't worry. It's not so bad as you fancy—"

H. shook hands and we left. At the hotel we got the chateau on the wire and asked for the victoria at once. As the horse had to be harnessed and there is a two-mile drive down to Charley, we stopped a moment and spoke to the proprietress of the hotel.

"How does it happen that your motor was not at the station?" said H.

"Oh," she replied, "our officers hired it early this morning and my husband bad to drive them post-haste to Soissons. He hasn't got back yet!"

Before going farther in my narrative I shall say here, lest I forget it, that two of the supposed officers were caught within the fortnight and shot at Meaux as German spies—the third managed to make his escape.

Hearing the carriage coming down the hill, we walked towards the doorway. At that same moment we saw the white-trousered gendarme hastening towards the town hall. Catching might of H., he held up the sealed envelope he held in his band, and shouted, "You were right, Monsieur. It has come!"

We jumped into the victoria, but as we crossed the square the garde-champetre caught the bridle and stopped our turnout.

"One moment, Monsieur."

Then the town-crier appeared, instantly causing the staggering groups to cluster into one. He had no need to ring his bell. He merely lifted his hand and obtained instant silence, and then slowly read out in deep, solemn, measured tones, which I shall never forget until my dying day.

"Extrme urgence. Ordre de mobilisation generale. Le premier jour de la mobilization est le dimanche deux aout!"

That was all! It was enough! The tension of those last two days was broken. No matter what the news, it was a relief. And we drove away 'mid the rising hum of hundreds of tongues, loosened after the agonizing suspense.

The news had not yet reached Villiers when we drove through the village street. We turned into the chateau and found Elizabeth Gauthier, her children and almost all the servants, grouped near the entrance ball. They looked towards us with an appealing gaze.

As H. opened his mouth to answer, the sharp pealing of the tocsin, such as it rings only in cases of great emergency, followed by the rolling of the drum, told them better than we could that the worst bad come.

The servants retired in silence and still the bell rang on. Presently we could hear the clicking of the sabots on the bard road as the peasants hurried from the fields towards the Mairie.

I can see us all now, standing there in the brilliant afternoon sunlight—Elizabeth murmuring between her sobs, "O God, don't take my husband!" little Jules clinging to her skirts, amazed at her distress, and happy, lighthearted, curly-headed baby Colette, chasing butterflies on the lawn in front of us!