With Those Who Wait

"It'll come, it's bound to come some time," he cried, evidently pursuing a favourite theme. "And we'll like it all the better for having waited so long."

Monsieur Laurent has firm faith in the immediate business future.

"Voilà! all we've got to do is to lay Germany out flat. Even then the economical struggle that will follow the war will be terrible," he prophesies. "The French must come to the fore with all the resources of their national genius. As to myself, I have my own idea on the subject."

We were fairly drinking in his words.

"You've all doubtless seen the sign that I put up in my window?"

We acquiesced.

"Well, it was that sign that opened my eyes."

I was all attention by this time, for I distinctly remembered the above mentioned sign. It had puzzled and amused me immensely. Painted in brilliant letters, it ran as follows:

EXCEPTIONAL BARGAIN:

For men having their left foot
amputated and wearing size No. 9.
3 shoes for the right foot—two
black and one tan; excellent
quality, almost like new.
For sale, or exchange for shoes
belonging to the left foot. Must be
of same quality and in like condition.

"I haven't yet made any special effort to ascertain whether there are more amputations of the left than of the right foot," continued Monsieur Laurent; "I suppose it's about equal. Well, my plan is just this. As soon as there's peace I'm going to set up shop on the rue St. Antoine, or the Place de la Bastille. I'll call it 'A la botte de l'amputé,' and I sell my shoes separately instead of in pairs. There's a fortune in it inside of five years."

"Just hear him raving," sighed his wife. "You know well enough, Laurent, that just so soon as the war is over we're going to sell out, and with the money, your pension, and what we've saved up, we'll go out to the Parc St. Maur, buy a little cottage and settle down. I'll raise a few chickens and some flowers, and you can go fishing in the Seine all day long."

"But the economical struggle?"

"You let the economical struggle take care of itself. Now, with your mad idea, just suppose those who had a right foot all wanted tan shoes, and those who had a left couldn't stand anything but black? I'd like to know where you'd be then? Stranger things than that have happened."

Laurent gazed at his wife in admiration.

"With all your talk about the future, it seems to me we've been down here a long time since that last explosion."

One woman looked for her husband but could not find him. The Rembrandt Christhead had also disappeared.

A tall fifteen year old lad who stood near the door informed us that they had slipped out to see.

"So has Germain."

"Then you come here! Don't you dare leave me," scolded the mother. "Can you just see something happening to him with his father out there in the trenches?"

Monsieur Neu and two other men soon followed suit.

The big boy who had so recently been admonished managed to crawl from beneath his mother's gaze and make his escape.

"If ever I catch him, he'll find out what my name is," screamed the excited woman, dashing after him into the darkness.

Then, presently, one by one we took our way towards the hall, and the cellar seemed empty.

The tall boy came back to the entrance, all excitement.

"We saw where it fell!" he panted. "There are some wounded. The police won't let you go near. There's lots and lots of people out there. Where's mamma?"

"She's looking for you!"

He was off with a bound.

The instinct to see, to know what is going on is infinitely stronger than that of self preservation. Many a soldier has told me that, and I have often had occasion to prove it personally.

Some of the women started towards the street.

"We're only going as far as the door," said they by way of excuse. "You're really quite safe beneath the portico." And they carried their babies with them.

So when the final signal of safety was sounded, there remained below but a few old women, a couple of very small children, and Monsieur Leddin, whom nothing seemed to disturb.

The mothers returned to fetch their children. The old ladies and Monsieur Leddin were aroused.

"C'est fini! Ah!"

And in the courtyard one could hear them calling as they dispersed.

"Good-night, Madame Cocard."

"Good-night, Madame Bidon."

"Don't forget."

"I won't."

"Till next time."

"That's it, till next time."

A young woman approached me.

"Madame, you won't mind if I come after them to-morrow, would you?" she begged with big wistful eyes. "The stairway is so dark and so narrow in our house, I'm afraid something might happen to them."

"Mercy me! you're surely not thinking of leaving your babies alone in the cellar?"

"Oh, Madame, it's not my babies. Not yet," and she smiled. "It's my bronze chimney ornaments!"

"Your what?"

"Yes, Madame, my chimney ornaments. A clock and a pair of candlesticks. They're over there in that wooden box all done up beautifully. You see Lucien and I got married after the war began. It was all done so quickly that I didn't have any trousseau or wedding presents. I'm earning quite a good deal now, and I don't want him to think ill of me so I'm furnishing the house, little by little. It's a surprise for when he comes home."

"He's at the front?"

"No, Madame, in the hospital. He has a bad face wound. My, how it worried him. He wanted to die, he used to be so handsome! See, here's his photograph. He isn't too awfully ugly, is he? Anyway I don't love him a bit less; quite the contrary, and that's one of the very reasons why I want to fix things up—so as to prove it to him!"

VII

The Moulin Rouge no longer turns. The strains of sounding brass and tinkling cymbal which once issued incessantly from every open café, and together with the street cries, the tram bells and the motor horns of the Boulevards Exterieurs, formed a gigantic characteristic medley, have long since died away. The night restaurants are now turned into workrooms and popular soup kitchens. Montmartre, the heart of Paris, as it used to be called, Montmartre the care-free, has become drawn and wizened as a winter apple, and at present strangely resembles a little provincial city.

If it were true that "There is no greater sorrow than recalling happy times when in misery," doubtless from France would rise but one long forlorn wail. The stoic Parisian poilu, however, has completely reversed such philosophy, and unmindful of the change his absence has created, delights in the remembrance of every instant, dreams but of the moment when he shall again be part of the light-hearted throngs who composed the society of the Butte. Time and again I have seen heavy army trucks lumbering down the avenue, bearing in huge chalk letters on either side of the awning-covered sides, such inscriptions as—Bon jour, Montmartre. A bientot la Cigale—Greetings from the Front—and like nonsense, denoting not only a homesick heart, but a delicate attention towards a well beloved.

A few months might have made but little difference, but each succeeding year of war has brought indelible changes. Gone forever, I fear, are the evenings when after dinner at the Cuckoo, we would stand on the balcony and watch the gradual fairy-like illumination of the panorama that stretched out before us. The little restaurant has closed its doors, but the vision from the terrace is perhaps more majestic, for as the last golden rays of twilight disappear, a deep purple vapour rising from the unknown, rolls forward and mysteriously envelops the Ville Lumière in its sumptuous protecting folds. Alone, overhead the star lamp of a scout plane is the only visible light.

The old Moulin de la Galette has cast aside its city airs and taken on a most rural aspect, while the maquis, or jungle on whose site a whole new white stone quarter had been projected, is now but a mass of half finished, abandoned foundations, wherein the children of the entire neighbourhood gather to play at the only game which now has a vogue, i.e., "War."

La petite guerre they call it.

We came upon them quite by accident one afternoon, and discovered two hostile bands occupying first line trenches.

Of course, as no one wished to be the Boche, it looked for a time as though the campaign would have to be deferred, but so violent was the love of fray that it was soon decided that the opposite side in both cases would be considered Hun, and thus the difficulty was solved.

It goes without saying that the school which is first dismissed occupies the better positions. The others must rely upon their strength and valour to win out.

The first attack was with hand grenades in the form of pebbles. Patrols advanced into No Man's Land, crawling and crouching until with a yell the belligerents met. Prisoners were taken on both sides.

"What forces have we in front of us?" demanded an important looking twelve year old General of an enemy soldier who was brought before him.

Dead silence ensued.

"If he refuses to answer, turn him upside down until he does."

The order was executed.

From the opposite trench came shrieks of "Boche! Boche!—it's only the Boche who maltreat prisoners."

The aforementioned who was rapidly developing cerebral congestion, made sign that he would speak.

"Turn him right side up!"

The young executioner obeyed, but still held a firm grip on the unfortunate lad's collar.

"Now, then, how many of you are there in your trenches?"

"Enough to make jelly out of your men if there are many like you!" shrieked the captive, struggling to escape.

"Take him behind the lines, don't be rough with him. Respect is due all prisoners," ordered the General, whose eye had caught a glimpse of his army being menaced by the blond headed enemy.

"Look out, boys! Down with your heads! They're sending over some 'coal scuttles.' Dig in I say and keep a sharp look out! What's the matter back there?"

"It's little Michaud. He's wounded!"

"Don't cry, Michaud, go out by the connecting trench to the dressing station. It's not far."

The hail of "coal scuttles" having subsided, the General mounted to his observation post.

"Hey! Michel! Gaston! hey there, the artillery!" he yelled. "Get in at them quick. Go to it, I say. Don't you see they're going to attack! What's artillery for, anyway?"

"We can't fire a shot. They're pounding on our munitions dump."

"What difference does that make?"

Under heavy fire the artillery achieved the impossible, which actually resulted in bloodshed. But their determination was soon rewarded, for the patent "Seventy Fives," represented by huge slabs of sod, soon rained into the enemy trenches, sowing panic and disorder.

Profiting by the confusion, our General grabbed up a basket and began distributing munitions.

"Attention! Listen to me! Don't any one fire until I give the word. Let them approach quite close and then each one of you choose your man. Dentu, if you're too short, stand on a stone or something!"

The artillery wreaking havoc in his midst, the enemy decided to brusque matters and attack. He left his trenches shouting, "Vive la France! En avant! Aux armes, mes citoyens! A bas le Boche!"

"Attention! Are you ready? Fire!" commanded our General.

Bing! bang! a veritable tornado of over-ripe tomatoes deluged the astonished oncomers, who hesitated an instant and then fell back. The standard bearer having received one juicy missile full in the face, dropped his emblem and stared wild-eyed about him. From the head and hair of the enemy General, whose cardboard helmet had been crushed to a pulp, streamed a disgusting reddish mess. The other unfortunate wounded were weeping.

"En avant à la bayonette! Vive la France! We've got them, they're ours," shrieked the delighted commander, who owed his rank to the fact that his parents kept a fruit stand.

It was victory for certain, and a proudly won triumph. The mêlée was hot and ferocious, many a patch or darn being put in store for certain patient, all-enduring mothers.

The dressing station was full to overflowing. Here the feminine element reigned supreme, their heads eclipsed beneath a stolen dish cloth, a borrowed towel, or a grimy handkerchief. And here too, little Michaud, his pate enveloped in so many yards of bandage that he seemed to be all turban, sat on an impromptu cot, smiling benignly while devouring a three sou apple tart, due to the generosity of the Ladies' Red Cross Emergency Committee, which had taken up a collection in order to alleviate the sufferings of their dear hero.

To be perfectly frank, almost all the supply of dressings had been employed on Michaud's person at the very outbreak of hostilities, so, therefore, when the stock ran short and more were needed, they were merely unrolled from about his head.

Leaving him to his fate, we advanced a bit in order to communicate with one of the glorious vanquished.

"They think they've got us," he explained, "but just you wait and see! I know a shop on the Avenue de Clichy where you can get rotten eggs for nothing! They don't know what's coming to them—they don't!"

Thus for these little folks the very state of their existence is the war. They do not talk about it because they are living it. Even those who are so fortunate as to recall the happy times when there was no conflict, scarcely assume a superiority over their comrades who cannot remember that far distant epoch.

"My papa'll be home next week on furlough if there isn't an attack," or "Gee, how we laughed down cellar the night of the bombardment," are common phrases, just as the words, "guns, shells, aeroplanes and gas," form the very elements of their education. The better informed instruct the others, and it is no uncommon occurrence to see a group of five or six little fellows hanging around a doorway, listening to a gratuitous lecture on the 75, given by an elder.

"That's not true," cuts in one. "It's not that at all, the correcteur and the debouchoir are not the same thing. Not by a long sight! I ought to know, hadn't I, my father's chief gunner in his battery."

"Ah, go on! Didn't Mr. Dumont who used to teach the third grade, draw it all out for us on the blackboard the last time he was home on leave? What do you take us for? Why he's even got the Croix de Guerre and the 'Bananna.'" [1]

Nor is the communiqué ignored by these budding heroes. On the contrary, it is read and commented upon with fervour.

In a little side street leading to the Seine, I encountered a ten year old lad, dashing forward, brandishing the evening paper in his hand.

"Come on, kids, it's time for the communiqué," he called to a couple of smaller boys who were playing on the opposite curb. The children addressed (one may have been five, the other seven, or thereabouts) immediately abandoned their marbles, and hastened to join their companion, who breathlessly unfolded the sheet.

"Artillery combats in Flanders——" he commenced.

The little fellows opened their big candid eyes, their faces were drawn and grave, in an intense effort of attention. Their mouths gaped unconsciously. One felt their desire to understand, to grasp things that were completely out of reach.

"During the night a spirited attack with hand grenades in the region of the Four de Paris," continued the reader. "We progressed slightly to the East of Mort Homme, and took an element of trenches. We captured two machine guns, and made several prisoners."

"My papa's in Alsace," piped one listener.

"And mine's in the Somme."

"That's all right," inferred the elder. "Isn't mine at Verdun?" and then proudly, "And machine gunner at that!"

Then folding his paper and preparing to move on:

"The news is good—we should worry."

Yes, that's what the little ones understood best of all, "the news is good," and a wonderful, broad, angelic smile spread out over their fresh baby faces; a smile so bewitching that I couldn't resist embracing them—much to their surprise.

"I just must kiss you," I explained, "because the news is good!"

From one end to the other of the entire social scale the children have this self same spirit.

Seated at the dining-room table, a big spot of violet ink on one cheek, I found little Jules Gauthier carefully copying something in a note book.

"What are you doing there, Jules?"

"Writing in my book, Madame."

"What are you writing?"

"About the war, everything I can remember."

At that particular moment he was inscribing an anecdote which he had just heard some one telling in his mother's drawing room.

"The President of the Republic once asked General de Castelnau, 'Well, General, what shall you do after the war is over?'

"'Weep for my sons, Mr. President.'"

"But, Jules, why do you write such things?" I queried.

"Because it's splendid, and I put down everything I know or hear that's beautiful or splendid."

And true enough, pêle mêle with portraits he had cut out and pasted, plans for aeroplanes that he had drawn, were copies of extraordinary citations for bravery, memorable dates and descriptions of battles.

In the Summer of 1915, my friend Jeanne took her small baby and her daughter Annette, aged five, to their little country home on the seashore in Brittany. The father, over military age, remained in town to look after some patriotic work.

Help was hard to get, and Jeanne not over strong was torn between household duties and her infant son, so that Annette, clad in a bathing suit and sweater, spent most of her time on the beach in company with other small people of her own years.

Astonished at seeing the little one so much alone, certain kind-hearted mothers invited her to partake of their bread, chocolate and other dainties provided for the gouter of their own offspring, and as the child gladly and continually accepted, her apparent abandon became a subject of conversation, and they decided to question Annette.

"Where is your mother, dear?"

"She's home, very ill."

"Oh, really. I'm so sorry, what's the trouble—nothing serious, I hope?"

"I think it must be—you see she has had her three brothers killed and now grandpa has enlisted."

"Dear me, how terrible! And your papa?"

"Oh, he's in town working for the government. One of his brothers was killed and the other is blind. Poor old grandma died of the shock."

Moved by the lamentable plight of so young a mother, the good ladies sought to penetrate her seclusion, offer their condolences, and help lift the cloud of gloom.

Imagine then their surprise at being received by my smiling, blond-haired friend, who failed to comprehend their mournful but astonished looks.

At length Annette's story was brought to light, and Jeanne could but thank them for their trouble, at the same time explaining that neither she nor her husband had ever had brothers, and that their parents had been dead these many years.

"You naughty, wicked girl!" scolded Jeanne, as her tearful progeny was led forward. "You wicked, wicked girl—what made you tell such lies?"

The culprit twisted her hands; her whole body fairly convulsed with restrained sobs.

"Answer me at once! Do you hear me?"

Annette hesitated, and then throwing herself in her mother's arms, blurted out, "Oh, mamma, I just couldn't help it! All the others were so proud of their poilus, and I haven't any one at the front; not even a god-son!"

It seems highly probable that children who have received such an education will ultimately form a special generation. Poor little things who never knew what "play" meant, at a time when life should have been all sunshine and smiles; tender, sensitive creatures brought up in an atmosphere of privation and tears.

Those who were between ten and fifteen years of age at the outbreak of the war have had a particularly hard time.

In the smaller trades and industries, as well as on the farms, with a father or an elder brother absent, these youngsters have been obliged to leave school or college, and hasten to the counter or the plough. And not only have they been called upon to furnish the helping hand, but in times of moral stress they have often had to give proof of a mature judgment, a courage, a will power, and a forebearance far beyond their years.

After a ten months' absence, when I opened up my Parisian home, I found it necessary to change or replace certain electric lighting arrangements. As usual I called up the Maison Bincteux.

"Bien, Madame, I shall send some one to look after it."

The next morning my maid announced La Maison Bincteux.

When I reached the hallway, I found the aforesaid Maison to be a lad some fifteen years old, who might easily have passed for twelve, so slight was his build. His long, pale, oval face, which seemed almost unhealthy, was relieved by a pair of snapping blue eyes.

"Did you bring a letter?"

"Oh, no, Madame, I am Monsieur Bincteux's son."

"Then your father is coming later?"

"Oh, no, Madame, he can't, he is mechanician in the aviation corps at Verdun. My oldest brother is in the artillery, and the second one has just left for the front—so I quit school and am trying to help mother continue the business."

"How old are you?"

"I belong to the Class of 1923," came the proud reply.

"Oh, I see. Come right in then, I'll show you what I need."

With a most serious and important air he produced a note book, tapped on the partitions, sounded the walls, took measures and jotted down a few lines.

"Very well, Madame, I've seen all that's necessary. I'll be back to-morrow morning with a workman."

True to his word he appeared the next day, accompanied by a decrepit, coughing, asthmatic specimen of humanity, who was hardly worthy of the honorable title his employer had seen fit to confer.

Our studio is extremely high, and when it was necessary to stretch out and raise our double extension ladder, it seemed as though disaster were imminent.

We offered our assistance, but from the glance he launched us, I felt quite certain that we had mortally offended the manager of the Maison Bincteux. He stiffened every muscle, gave a supreme effort, and up went the ladder. Truly his will power, his intelligence and his activity were remarkable.

After surveying the undertaking, he made his calculations, and then addressing his aid:

"We'll have to bore here," he said. "The wires will go through there, to the left and we'll put the switches to the right, just above; go ahead with the work and I'll be back in a couple of hours."

The old man mumbled something disobliging.

"Do what I tell you and don't make any fuss about it. You're better off here than in the trenches, aren't you? We've heard enough from you, old slacker."

The idea that any one dare insinuate that he ought to be at the front at his age, fairly suffocated the aid electrician, who broke into a fit of coughing.

"Madame, Madame," he gasped. "In the trenches? Why I'm seventy-three. I've worked for his father and grandfather before him—but I've never seen his like! Why only this very morning he was grumbling because I didn't ride a bicycle so we could get to places faster!"

At noon the Maison Bincteux reappeared, accompanied by the General Agent of the Electric Company. He discussed matters in detail with this awe inspiring person—objected, retaliated, and finally terminated his affairs, leaving us a few moments later, having accomplished the best and most rapid job of its kind I have ever seen.

With the Class of 1919 now behind the lines, by the time this volume goes to press, there is little doubt but that the class of 1920 shall have been called to the colours. All these lads are the little fellows we used to know in short trousers; the rascals who not so many summers since climbed to the house-tops, swung from trees, fell into the river, dropped torpedoes to frighten the horses or who when punished and locked in their rooms, would jump out the window and escape.

Then, there were those others, "the good boys," whose collars and socks were always immaculate, romantic little natures that would kiss your hand with so much ceremony and politeness, blushing if one addressed them affectionately, spending whole days at a time lost in fantastic reveries.

To us they hardly seem men. And yet they are already soldiers, prepared to make the supreme sacrifice, well knowing from father, brothers or friends who have gone before, all the grandeur and abnegation through which their souls must pass to attain but an uncertain end.

Any number of what we would call mere children have been so imbued with the spirit of sacrifice, that they have joined the army long before their Class was called. Madame de Martel's grandson, the sons of Monsieur Barthou, Louis Morin, Pierre Mille, to mention but a few in thousands, all fell on the Field of Honour before attaining their eighteenth year.

And each family will tell you the same pathetic tale:

"We tried to interest him in his work—we provided all kinds of amusements; did everything to keep him here; all to no avail. There was just one thought uppermost in his mind—Enlist—Serve. He was all we had!"

Little Jacques Krauss promised his mother he would not go until he had won his baccalaureate, and my friend lived in the hope that all would be over by the time the "baby" had succeeded. But, lo! the baby, unknown to his parents, worked nights, skipped a year, passed his examination, and left for the front, aged seventeen years and three months! He had kept his word. What could they do?

In another household—my friends the G's., where two elder sons have already been killed, there remained as sole heir, a pale, lanky youth of sixteen.

With the news of his brothers' death the flame of vengeance kindled, and then began a regime of overfeeding, physical exercises, and medical supervision, that would have made many a stouter heart quail.

Every week the family is present when the chest measure is taken.

"Just one more centimetre, and you'll be fit!" exclaims the enthusiastic father, while on the lashes of the smiling mother form two bright tears which trickle unheeded down her cheeks.

There reigns a supernatural enthusiasm among all these youths; an almost sacred fire burns in their eyes, their speech is pondered but passionate. They are so glad, so proud to go. They know but one fear—that of arriving too late.

"We don't want to belong to the Class that didn't fight."

And with it all they are so childlike and so simple—these heroes.

One afternoon, in a tea room near the Bon Marché, I noticed a soldier in an obscure corner, who, his back turned to us, was finishing with vigorous appetite, a plate of fancy cakes and pastry. (There was still pastry in those days—1917.)

"Good!" thought I. "I'm glad to see some one who loves cakes enjoying himself!"

The plate emptied, he waited a few minutes. Then presently he called the attendant.

She leaned over, listened to his whispered order, smiled and disappeared. A moment later she returned bearing a second well laden dish.

It was not long before these cakes too had gone the way of their predecessors.

I lingered a while anxious to see the face of this robust sweet tooth, whose appetite had so delighted me.

He poured out and swallowed a last cup of tea, paid his bill and rose, displaying as he turned about a pink and white beardless countenance, that might have belonged to a boy of fifteen—suddenly grown to a man during an attack of measles. On his breast was the Medaille Militaire, and the Croix de Guerre, with three palms.

This mere infant must have jumped from his school to an aeroplane. At any rate, I feel quite certain that he never before had been allowed out alone with sufficient funds to gratify his youthful passion for sweetmeats and, therefore, profiting by this first occasion, had indulged himself to the limit. Can you blame him?

[1] The "Bananna"—slang for the Medaille Militaire—probably on account of the green and yellow ribbon on which it hangs.

VIII

To go from Le Mans to Falaise, from Falaise to St. Lo; from St. Lo to Morlaix, and thence to Poitiers would seem very easy on the map, and with a motor, in times gone by it was a really royal itinerary, so vastly different and picturesque are the various regions crossed. But now that gasolene is handed out by the spoonful even to sanitary formations, it would be just as easy for the civilian to procure a white elephant as to dream of purchasing sufficient "gas" to make such a trip.

There is nothing to do but take the train, and that means of locomotion not only requires time, but patience and considerable good humour. Railway service in France has been decidedly reduced, and while travelling is permitted only to those persons who must needs do so, the number of plausible motives alleged has greatly augmented, with the result that trains are crowded to the extreme limit. To tell the truth, a good third of the population is always moving. For how on earth is one to prevent the parents of a wounded hero from crossing the entire country to see him, or deny them the right to visit a lad at his training camp?

This then accounts for the appearance of the Breton peasant's beribboned hat and embroidered waistcoat on the promenades of the Riviera, the Arlesian bonnet in the depths of Normandy, the Pyrenese cap in Lorraine.

All this heterogeneous crowd forms a long line in front of the ticket office, each one encumbered with a basket or a bag, a carpetsack or a bundle containing patés and sausages, pastry and pickles, every known local dainty which will recall the native village to the dear one so far away.

It is thus that from Argentan to Caën I found myself seated between a stout motherly person from Auvergne, and a little dark man from whose direction was wafted so strong an odour of garlic that I had no difficulty discerning from what region he hailed. Next to him were a bourgeois couple whose mourning attire, red eyes and swollen faces bespoke plainly enough the bereavement they had just suffered. Silent, indifferent to everything and everybody, their hands spread out on their knees, they stared into the ghastly emptiness, vainly seeking consolation for their shattered dream, their grief-trammelled souls.

A heavily built couple of Norman farmers occupied the seats on either side of the door, and then came a tall young girl and her mother, a Belgian soldier, and finally a strange old creature wearing an antiquated starched bonnet, a flowered shawl, and carrying an umbrella such as one sees but in engravings illustrating the modes and customs of the eighteenth century. She was literally buried beneath a monumental basket which she insisted upon holding on her knees.

Every available inch of floor space was covered with crocks and kits full of provisions, and in the rack above our heads were so many boxes and bundles, bags and bales, remaining aloft by such remarkable laws of equilibrium that I feared lest any moment they fall upon our heads, and once this catastrophe occurred there seemed to be little hope of extricating oneself from beneath the ruins.

The conversation was opened by the Norman farmer who offered to relieve the little old woman of her basket and set it safely between his feet.

"Oh, non merci," she piped in a thin little wavering treble, and an inimitable accent which made it impossible to guess her origin.

"Oh, no, Monsieur, thank you," she continued. "It's full of cream tarts and cherry tarts, and custard pies made right in our own home. I'm taking them to my boy, and as we stayed up very late to make them so that they would be quite fresh, I should hate to have any of them crushed or broken. He did love them so when he was little!"

"Our son was just the same. As soon as he was able to eat he begged them to let him have some brioche. But his fever was too high when we got there, and he couldn't take a thing. 'That doesn't matter,' he said to his mother. 'Just the sight of them makes my mouth water, and I feel better already.'"

My Provençal neighbour could no longer resist. His natural loquaciousness got the better of his reserve.

"Well, the first thing my son asked for was olives, so I brought him enough to last, as well as some sausage which he used to relish. Oh, if only I could bring him a little bit of our blue sky, I'm sure he would recover twice as quickly."

The mother of the young girl now sat forward and asked the Norman farmer's wife where and how her son had been wounded.

"He had a splinter of shell in his left thigh. He'd been through the whole campaign without a scratch or a day of illness."

The woman's eyes sparkled with pride and tenderness.

The short man beside me, who informed me he was a native of Beaucaire on the Rhone, had one son wounded and being cared for in a hospital at Caën, a second prisoner in Germany, and two sons-in-law already killed.

According to a letter which the dear old flowered shawl spelled out to us word by word, her grandson had been wounded in seven different places, and had had one hand and one leg amputated. But he hastened to add that he was not worrying a bit about it.

The young girl's mother had one son in the ranks, and a second, aged seventeen, had enlisted and was about to leave for the front. She and her daughter were on their way to embrace him for the last time.

The Belgian soldier was just getting about after an attack of typhoid fever, and the motherly person on my left was travelling towards her husband, a territorial of ripe years whose long nights of vigil beneath bridges and in the mud of the Somme had brought him down with inflammatory rheumatism. Their son, they prayed, was prisoner—having been reported missing since the 30th of August, 1914. This coarse, heavy featured woman of the working classes, cherished her offspring much as a lioness does her young. She told us she had written to the President of the Republic, to her Congressman, her Senator, to the King of Spain, the Norwegian Ambassador, to the Colonel of the Regiment, as well as to all the friends of her son on whose address she had been able to lay hand; and she would keep right on writing until she obtained some result, some information. She could not, would not, admit that her boy was lost; and scarcely stopping to take breath she would ramble on at length, telling of her hopes and her disappointments to which all the compartment listened religiously while slowly the train rolled along through the smiling, undulating Norman country.

Each one did what he could to buoy up the mother's hopes.

The little Southerner seemed to possess a countless number of stories about prisoners, and he presently proceeded to go into minute detail about the parcels he sent to his own son, explaining the regulation as to contents, measures and weights, with so much volubility that the good soul already saw herself preparing a package to be forwarded to her long lost darling.

"You can just believe that he'll never want for anything—if clothes and food will do him any good. There's nothing on earth he can't have if only we can find him, if only he comes back to us."

And growing bolder as she felt the wealth of sympathy surrounding her, she looked over and addressed the woman in mourning, who at that moment smiled gently at her.

"We thought we knew how much we loved them, didn't we, Madame? But we'd never have realised how really deep it was if it hadn't been for this war, would we?"

The woman continued to smile sadly.

"More than likely you've got somebody in it too," persisted the stout Auvergnate, whose voice suddenly became very gentle and trembled a trifle.

"I had three sons. We have just buried the last one this morning."

All the faces dropped and a ghastly silence fell upon the group. Each one looked straight into the distance ahead of him, but the bond of sympathy was drawn still tighter, and in the moment of stillness that ensued I felt that all of us were communing with Sorrow.

Between Folligny and Lamballe, we were quite as closely huddled between three soldiers on furlough, a stout old priest, a travelling salesman, and a short gentleman with a pointed beard, a pair of eyeglasses and an upturned nose.

At one moment our train halted and waited an incredible length of time vainly whistling for the tower-man to lift the signal which impeded our progress.

The travelling salesman who was cross and weary finally left his seat, grumbling audibly.

"We'll never in the world get there on time. It's certain I shall miss my connection! What a rotten road! What management!"

"It's the war," murmered the priest pulling out a red checked handkerchief in which he buried his nose.

"You don't have to look far to see that," responded the other, still grumbling.

"Oh, it's plain enough for us all right. Those who are handling government jobs are the only fellows who don't know it, I should say."

"Bah! each of us has his troubles—each of us has his Cross to bear," murmured the Father by way of conciliation, casting his eyes around the compartment, much as he would have done upon the faithful assembled to hear him hold forth.

"Pooh! it's you priests who are the cause of all the trouble. It was you who preached and got the three year service law voted."

The poor Curate was fairly suffocated with surprise and indignation. He was so ruffled he could hardly find a word. In the meantime the travelling salesman taking advantage of his silence, continued:

"Yes, it was you and the financiers, and it's nothing to brag about either!"

The man with the upturned nose now wheeled about sharply. His blood was up and he strangely resembled a little bantam cockerel.

"Monsieur," he snapped, and his voice was clear and cutting, "if any one had a right to express a complaint on any subject whatsoever, it would certainly be the soldiers who are seated in this compartment. Now as they have said nothing, I cannot admit that you, a civilian, should take such liberties."

"But, Monsieur——"

"Yes, Monsieur, that's exactly what I mean, and as to the sentiments to which you have given voice they are as stupid as they are odious. We all know now that war was inevitable. The Germans have been preparing it for forty years."

"Monsieur!"

"Monsieur!"

The two glared fixedly at each other for an instant; the one was very red, the other extremely pale. Then they turned about and resumed their places in each corner. The priest produced his breviary, the soldiers finished a light repast composed of bread and cheese.

They were all three peasants, easily discernible from the way they slowly chewed and swallowed, or caught up a crumb of cheese on the point of their knives. They had sat silent and listened to the outbursts without turning an eyelash. Then presently one of them lifted his head and addressing his companions in a deep bass voice:

"Well," said he, "this makes almost two days now that we've been on the way!"

"What have you got to kick about?" retaliated the other, shutting his knife and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're as well off here as you were in the trenches of Bois Le Pretre, aren't you?"

The third one said nothing, but recommenced carving a cane which he had abandoned for an instant, and which he was terminating with more patience than art, though the accomplishment of his task seemed to give him infinite pleasure.

As the commercial traveller had predicted, we were hours late and in consequence missed our connection, but the platform of a station where two lines meet, offers, under such circumstances, so diverse and diverting a spectacle that we hardly regretted the delay. It is here that any one interested in physiognomy can best study and judge the masses, for it is as though the very texture from which France is woven were laid bare before him. This spectacle is constantly changing, constantly renewed, at times deeply moving. No face can be, or is, indifferent, in these days and one no longer feels himself a detached individual observer; one becomes an atom of the crowd, sharing the anxiety of certain women that one knows are on their way to a hospital and who half mad with impatience are clutching the fatal telegram in one hand, while with the fingers of the other they thrum on one cheek or nervously catch at a button or ornament of their clothing.

Or again one may participate in the hilarious joy of the men on furlough, who having discovered the pump, stand stripped to the waist, making a most meticulous toilet, all the while teasing a fat, bald-headed chap to whom they continuously pass their pocket combs with audible instructions to be sure to put his part on the left side.

The waiting-rooms literally overflow with soldiers—some stretched out on the benches, some on the floor; certain lying on their faces, others on their backs, and still others pillowing their heads on their knapsacks.

One feels their overpowering weariness, their leaden sleep after so many nights of vigil; their absolute relaxation after so many consecutive days in which all the vital forces have been stretched to the breaking point.

From time to time an employé opens the door and shouts the departure of a train. The soldiers rouse themselves, accustomed to being thus disturbed in the midst of their slumber. One or two get up, stare about them, collect their belongings and start for the platform, noiselessly stepping over their sleeping companions. At the same time newcomers, creeping in behind them, sink down into the places which they have just forsaken, while they are still warm.

On a number of baggage trucks ten or a dozen Moroccan soldiers have seated themselves, crosslegged, and draped in their noble burnous, they gently puff smoke into the air, without a movement, without a gesture, without a sound, apparently utterly oblivious to the noisy employés, or the thundering of the passing trains.

On the platform people walk up and down, up and down; certain among them taking a marked interest in the old-fashioned, wheezing locomotives which seem fairly to stagger beneath the long train of antiquated coaches hitched behind them.

Here, of course, are to be found the traditional groups in evidence at every station; a handful of people in deep mourning on their way to a funeral; a little knot of Sisters of Charity, huddled together in an obscure corner reciting their rosary; families of refugees whom the tempest has driven from their homes—whole tribes dragging with them their old people and their children who moan and weep incessantly. Their servants loaded down with relics saved from the disaster in heavy, clumsy, ill-tied bundles, are infinitely pitiable to behold. They are all travelling straight ahead of them with no determined end in view. They seem to have been on the way so long, and yet they are in no haste to arrive. Hunger gnawing them, they produce their provisions, and having seated themselves on their luggage, commence a repast, eating most slowly, the better to kill time while waiting for a train that refuses to put in an appearance.

The buffet is so full of noise, smoke and various other odours, that having opened the door one hesitates before entering. There is a long counter where everything is sold; bread, wine, cider, beer and lemonade; sandwiches, patés, fruit and sweetmeats. One makes his choice and pays in consequence. At the side tables the civilians are lost mid the mass of blue uniforms.