BEYOND THE MARNE

PREFACE

Mademoiselle Henriette Cuvru-Magot, who, since the early months of the war, has been nursing the wounded at the Auxiliary Hospital of l'Union des Femmes de France, at Quincy, near Meaux, lives in the picturesque village of Voisins, a dependency of that commune.

Daughter of a superior officer who played an active and brilliant part in the war of 1870, granddaughter of a Garde-du-Corps of Louis XVI, she heard from childhood in her home many tales of valiant deeds performed by the French Army.

And now, in her turn, wishing to complete the story of the glorious past, witnessed by her father and grandfather, by the story of the heroic present, at which she herself is an onlooker, she is about to tell us what she saw from her modest cottage at the very beginning of the Great War, and trace to us a poignant picture of the events which took place under her eyes.

Mademoiselle Cuvru-Magot began her journal August 2, 1914, thinking, of course, that she would never know the war itself except through the accounts given by our soldiers when at last they should return.

Five weeks later she was in the midst of a battle, and that, of all others, the Battle of the Marne.

The real merit of these notes—all too few, alas! since they leave off on the morrow of the Victory of the Marne—is not to be sought in the military incidents recorded by Mademoiselle Cuvru-Magot, though even these have their importance, but rather in the noble sentiments she expresses, which stand out above everything else, especially during the heart-rending hours of the invasion. In her village, cut off from the rest of the world, she finds herself almost alone with those who are most dear to her—too weak to protect them, powerless on the other hand to sacrifice herself, to give all her strength, all her sympathy to the soldiers wounded in the battle that is being waged there, a few steps from her door.

Mademoiselle Cuvru-Magot was kind enough to let me see her manuscript, and at my earnest request has consented to publish it.

It is with interest and emotion that we read these pages marked by ardent faith and by an unfaltering trust in the eternal destiny of our country. And they are pages written by a Frenchwoman who remembers with just pride that she is the daughter and granddaughter of soldiers.

ILLUSTRATIONS

BEYOND THE MARNE

I

Even these last few days I felt perfectly confident. We have been on the verge of war so many times before this, but the danger has always been averted by means of diplomatic parleys. I thought that in our day and generation disputes were settled in that way, without bloodshed, as a matter of course. But now! It seems to me we have just gone backward several centuries!

I did not realize the truth until a little while ago when I took my brother to the station at Esbly. He is on his way to Paris to get his mobilization orders. How I wish I were a man and could go with him! This is the first time in our lives we have ever been separated, and under what circumstances! How sad it is to think that in every town and village in France there is the same anguish of farewells.

The pealing of the tocsin is a funeral knell that strikes terror to every mother's heart.

The great grief that has stricken the earth is borne from village to village on the church bells like a single long sob.

II

The men are very grave, but they start off without a complaint, without a murmur. And if they are courageous, the women who accompany them, understanding fully their own great duty, do not give way to their feelings for a single instant. They are determined that no tears of theirs shall make harder the task of father or husband. It is really sublime.

Huge bunches and garlands of roses are twined over the cars. Here and there is the vivid note of our national bouquet of simple wildflowers—cornflowers, daisies, and poppies, scarce at this season. In the cannon's mouth and on the gun-carriages are branches of laurel.

Inscriptions chalked on all the cars bear witness to the good morale of our troops.

On the locomotive of a return train we read:

How very French that is!

It is as if these trains, decked with flowers and flags, were on their way to a vast festival. When each train comes to a standstill there is an impressive moment of silence, broken by cheers as it moves off.

Although I was deeply stirred by these departures, I stayed a long time at the station, filled with admiration at the ardor with which every man answers the call of his country. It is a sight never to be forgotten.

On the way home from the station, I meet a friend whom I have known a long time, a good man who is father of a family. In order to spare his wife and children the worst of the farewells, he has insisted on going alone to the station. He asks permission to embrace me. "I have known you since you were such a little tot, Mademoiselle." Of course I consent willingly.

Highways as well as railroads are being used for transporting men and supplies. Auto-buses, delivery wagons of Paris shops—the Bon Marché, Galéries Lafayette, Printemps, still bearing their signboards and advertisements—go by on the road to Meaux, carrying munitions (at least we imagine so). They are tight shut, and, to judge by their dull rumble, heavily laden.

Just as I reach the outskirts of Quincy, I see a group of men armed with pitchforks and sticks coming down the road. Farther on, a lady with white hair is holding a Browning aimed at the sky.

What is happening?

I learn that an automobile driven by Germans and flying the Red Cross flag has been signalled. The order has just come by telephone to try to stop it.

The constable is blockading the road with carts, planks, and farming implements. I immediately start back to Voisins, and urge everyone I meet to do likewise.

In the distance an automobile coming at a rapid pace from the direction of Couilly stops suddenly at the sight of the barricade. The little group of armed civilians approach.

It is too far away for me to make out anything more, but I see a second automobile, driven at top speed, slow down, and then swiftly wheel about. In my anxiety to give the alarm in Voisins, I do not notice which way it goes.

At Voisins no automobile has been seen, but barricades are erected, nevertheless. While I am answering the questions people ask me about this automobile story, I suddenly notice some marks scratched on the wall of the house in front of which we are standing, at the corner of the roads to Huiry and Voisins.

The drawing looks like a map, and has an arrow beside it. It must have been made a very short time ago, and looks as if it were made with a nail or the point of a knife. The blades of grass underneath are still covered with the fine powder and plaster that fell from it.

The arrow points towards Pavé-des-Roizes, and, on studying the lines, we think someone was trying to point out the road to Couilly—Mareuil Street, the road of Champ-Madame (going from Demi-Lune to Huiry), Huiry Street, Condé Street, and once more Mareuil Street (or Pavé-des-Roizes).

We dare not say to each other what is in our minds. It occurs to one of us to follow the direction of the arrow, and, to our surprise, we find other arrows leading all the way to the Marne. What is more, they are all newly made. Some of them point in the direction of Paris, and have the word "Paris" written in large letters underneath. Was the auto to reach Meaux by going through Mareuil in case the State road was cut off? Even along the State road there were several guiding marks. On the blinds of a farmhouse just outside of Quincy is a large arrow, pointing downward towards the German colors.

We were unable to find out what became of this automobile. The first one that was stopped—thus allowing the second to escape—was that of a French general, who was doubtless obliged to give numerous proofs of his identity in the course of an hour.

III

A home guard has been organized, which is to be armed and patrol the streets at night.

IV

These Germans were shot at Lagny almost immediately, I am told, but of this I am not positive, as I know it only by hearsay.

V

Trains do not stop long enough at the station to allow the women of the Red Cross to go through all the cars. Even though it is against the rules, we reach the platform from the railroad-crossing and distribute fruit, bread, and chocolate to the children.

Our brave soldiers, for all their wounds and their weariness, look confident, and the ones we are able to approach assure us that they do not doubt our victory for a single instant. They have seen it. I can read it in their eyes.

How I long to be useful in these tragic hours! It is the duty of everyone to the full measure of his strength. No effort to help, however small, is unimportant.

Unfortunately, the hospital at Quincy is not yet completely organized, but meanwhile a branch has been fitted up at the railroad station. I am assigned to the Quincy hospital, and so am obliged to wait until it is opened.

There are moments when I could weep at not being able to do as much as I should like to relieve all this suffering—to give of my strength since I cannot give of my purse. I want to start for the hospitals near the front, but my mother absolutely forbids it.

I wrote to Bishop Marbeau asking to be allowed to work in one of his hospitals. He answers that Meaux has no hospital as yet, but that he will let me know in case there is any way I can be of use. He sends with his letter several packages containing warm clothing and various useful articles for needy soldiers of the neighborhood. I am deeply touched.

Quincy possesses a dispensary installed by Madame Bruneau, mistress of the château. This dispensary, directed by a Sister of Mercy, Sister Jules, is of great service to the civilian population in time of peace. Since war was declared, it has been transformed into a hospital for wounded or sick soldiers, and the management entrusted to Madame René Benoist, wife of the mayor of the commune.

This hospital has two branches—one at Pont-aux-Dames, in the Home for Aged Actors founded by Coquelin, the other at the Esbly railroad station. From here the wounded who arrive on the trains will be taken to Quincy or Pont-aux-Dames.

Doctor Pigornet of Crécy is in charge of the medical service.

So far no orders have been received from the Sanitary Service assigning wounded to either branch. We are obliged to wait for these orders. Each annex has its staff appointed. Quincy is not entirely fitted up. Pont-aux-Dames is organized, and the branch at the station is already at work.

Trains keep rushing to the Eastern frontier in an endless procession. The roar is incessant, especially at night, and a dismal sound it is.

Refugees in even greater numbers throng the roads. The towns on the other side of the Marne are beginning to be evacuated. It is a desolate sight.

Old people manage with difficulty to keep their balance on carts piled high with household goods and fodder. Young women walk, carrying little ones whose eyes are wide with fatigue and fright at all this commotion.

Carts follow carts, crowded close together in one long line. They come from Liège, from Namur, from our invaded regions of the North!

In the midst of all these people in vehicles and on foot, terrified cattle jostle each other. Some that were in leading have broken loose; others, still tied, cannot keep up, and let themselves be dragged along. Sheep and cows run about the fields or simply stop where they are and begin to graze.

As a result of the increasing difficulty in taking their cattle with them, peasants dispose of them for almost nothing: a cow, forty francs.

The hospital at Quincy, though it cannot be of service to the wounded, will at least, while waiting for them, have cared for the unfortunate refugees. It is distributing soup to three hundred people daily, as well as milk and other food and drink. Tired women stop there to rest a little before resuming their sad journey to the unknown.

They all have a tale of horror to tell—barbarous acts committed by the Germans in the homes these people are fleeing from—acts so terrible that it is almost impossible to believe them. One man tells us that a young boy in his family had both hands cut off by these wretches. "This child," he said, "must have been taken along this road. We started out together, but I was so tired and hungry that I stopped to rest, and got separated from the others. The Boches have destroyed everything I possessed." (I have made inquiries. People tell me they saw at the Couilly bridge a little boy of about seven with both arms wrapped in bandages.)

Supplies of food at the hospital are beginning to give out. The town-crier is sent out to make an appeal to the generosity of the citizens, and once more the kitchen is filled with food.

The town-crier, in conformance with instructions from the Prefect, orders the civil population to carry to the town hall any arms they may have in their possession. Everyone hastens to comply. In their panic, people even carry the ancient arms of their panoplies.

All day long (and for several days back as well) Boche aviators have been flying over us, and seem to be exchanging signals. They come from the direction of Meaux, circle about in large and small circles as far as Voisins, from there they dart in a straight line towards Paris, returning after rather a long flight, still in a straight line in the direction of Soissons, where we lose sight of them. We have noticed this manœuvre several times.

I walked to Esbly this morning in company with a lad of about fifteen who has come with his mother to take refuge in Condé. He told me that, together with several friends whom they brought with them in their motor, they have been fleeing before the enemy all the way from Belgium. "We wanted to go to Compiègne," he said, "but were advised to come here instead, because there was less danger. But here, no more than elsewhere," he added, after a pause, "are we safe. We shall not stay. We leave to-morrow."

"But," I asked, "what makes you think we are in danger here?"

"Look at all those 'planes. They are Boche machines. They keep just ahead of the army. At first we did not pay any attention to them, but since then we have found out what it means. You may be sure their troops are not far behind."

I have decided to go to Paris. There I shall find out what is really happening.

At the railroad station they are not sure there will be a return train. The service may be discontinued at any moment. After considering the possibility of having to return on foot, I start out. Come what may, I must see my family in Paris.

The trains are crammed with people and stacked on top of each other are bundles and boxes of all shapes and sizes. From the boxes come the whining of dogs, the screeching of birds, and the mewing of cats. It is indescribable.

On the way back I have the luck to get a train which takes seven hours from Paris to Esbly, being side-tracked all along the line to make way for trains carrying wounded, war supplies, or troops on their way to or from the front.

When I get back to Voisins I am plied with questions by a number of people who are anxiously awaiting my return. I hardly dare give them the news I have brought.

I went to the Bank of France to see my uncle. He advises us to stay where we are,—this in spite of the fact that the government is being moved to Bordeaux next Thursday. The Bank is preparing to leave at the same time. The courtyard of the Bank is full of automobiles and railroad delivery wagons, which, after being loaded hastily, start out in every direction.

This news throws everyone into a panic.

English heavy artillery arrived to-day. It came by way of Esbly, and this afternoon has been taken up to Coutevroult where the batteries are being installed. Coutevroult is on the slope opposite that of Quincy, Huiry, Voisins. The Grand-Morin flows between.

If the Germans come to Quincy, or the heights over opposite, we shall be between two fires!

We were awakened last night by the tramping and neighing of horses. The horses' hoofs seemed to have been wrapped in something. The sound was muffled.

My mother and I called to each other: "It is the Boches." Did they hear us? The windows of our bedroom open on the street. At any rate, the pace quickened, and finally died away in the direction of the ford—a road leading to the Aulnois woods behind our house, then to Pavé-des-Roizes, communicating with the Condé woods and the banks of the Chalifert canal.

We did not get up quickly enough to find out what this expedition was that was being carried on with so much mystery. It is a great pity, for the night was clear, and it would certainly have been possible to see.

VI

Heavy ration trucks and hospital ambulances, superbly appointed, line the road.

The soldiers are splendidly set up and perfectly equipped. Spruce, shining, freshly shaved, they are as clean and correct when they present themselves to us as if they had just stepped out of a bandbox. They are very reserved in speech, and do not talk much unless we question them. Even so, we have to be careful not to put indiscreet questions.

On our asking: "Where are the Germans?" "Far, far away," they answer, with a wave of the hand. They do their best to reassure us and gaily begin whistling "Tipperary."

Their coolness allays our fears.

This afternoon the detachment of Hussars stationed at Meaux marched by. People were already uneasy, and after that they were more than ever convinced that it was time to flee. This evening everyone is impatient to be off.

Esbly is already evacuated. A few Scotch troops are beginning to arrive there.

Neufmontiers, Penchard, Dammartin, all the communes in the immediate vicinity of Meaux, are evacuated. Official records of real estate, also birth, marriage, and death registers, and the municipal archives have been removed to the quarries of Mareuil, along with the arms deposited by civilians.

Departures are growing more frequent. People in Quincy are preparing to go, likewise some of the inhabitants of Voisins. The mayor and the curé have already been mobilized.

Are we alone to remain behind?

Before leaving, everyone wants to save his most treasured possessions. Mattresses, beds, old furniture—the most absurd and unlikely things—are carried from one end of the village to the other to be hidden in the underground passages which abound in Voisins and Huiry.

Holes are dug to contain barrels crammed with linen and household goods. In all this extraordinary activity there is very little reason or method. People are half crazed. They even hide furniture and various other objects in the tunnels of the plaster quarries!

To abandon one's home seems like deserting a friend. And yet we shall have to consider it, for we may be forced to go. I promised my brother to see that his wife and children were removed to a place of safety in case of danger. We are none of us terrified as yet. Though I have a feeling that the battle will not come as far as this, I am doing all I can to persuade my mother to leave. It is only when I speak of the safety of the children that I succeed in shaking her determination to stay. Meanwhile, the danger does not seem imminent, and we keep putting off our departure till the morrow.

At the turning of the road that leads from Demi-Lune to Voisins, on the hilltop overlooking the valley of the Marne, one of the humble dwellings of the hamlet of Huiry was transformed a few months ago into a beautiful cottage. It is two stories high, with a pointed and irregular roof, but most graceful in its whole effect. It is here that an American lady came to live in the early months of this year, hoping to pass in this solitary spot calm and peaceful days.

Miss Aldrich, a woman of courageous soul and great heart, is an unspeakable consolation to the little group of women who have remained near her. Filled with the most generous sentiments, giving lavishly of her sympathy and guidance, she charms all who come in contact with her.

I go to see Miss Aldrich every day. Her conversation delights me and her qualities of mind and heart fill me with admiration. By her force of character in the tragic hours we are living through she helps us to rise above emotions that at times nearly sweep us off our feet.

If a bit of good news reaches her, I am sure to see her come hurrying down the hill towards our house to talk over with us what she has just learned.

She is truly French at heart, and knows just what to say to make us feel the same confidence she feels herself. If, before she came, we were beginning to waver, we discover after she has been here that we are once more strong and brave.

Will you allow me, Miss Aldrich, to pay you the tribute of my admiration for the lofty courage you have shown, and to express to you my gratitude for the comfort you have given my family during these early days of September?

We learned from Captain Simpson at Miss Aldrich's that German patrols had crossed the Marne in advance of the English. English aviators have seen them. Can it be that the horses we have been hearing for several nights back belong to these patrols?

The soldiers of the King's Own Yorkshire Regiment mount guard until 6 P.M. in Voisins and also along the canal that joins the Marne to the Morin. At that time Captain Simpson suddenly receives marching orders and starts off at once in the direction of Crécy. The Yorkshiremen are promptly replaced by a regiment of Bedfordshire Light Infantry.

General French and the English General Staff are at Villeneuve-le-Comte, it is said. Motorcycle messengers maintain communications between the various English corps that surround us.

VII

This morning, Madame Benoist told us of these orders, and urged us to leave, and, for the sake of the children, as quickly as possible. The Germans are advancing rapidly. They are at Saint-Soupplets, she tells us. She kindly offers us a horse and carriage, saying that it is almost out of the question to take the train.

The trains crawl along at a snail's pace, gathering up everyone in their path. Refugees wait all along the track, and at the stations are jammed together pell-mell in the midst of all sorts of luggage and supplies.

The station at Esbly is to be closed and the hospital moved away.

We accept Madame Benoist's offer with gratitude, for we must make sure that the children are safe.

So we pack up hastily and load the carriage, which we have no small difficulty in finding, as it is haled in every direction by people who are trying to escape. Everyone is getting more and more distracted.

We start out without locking up anything, or even so much as closing the doors. We can't help feeling that we shall not go very far.

Before being bestowed on us, the horse has already made several trips and carried heavy loads. He is fagged out. After going a few steps, he falls on his knees. We manage to get him up. Will he start off again? Certainly not. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and puts up a most lively resistance. We can't make him budge an inch.

The English are blowing up, one by one, all the bridges around us, so as to cut off the advance of the Germans. After each explosion we begin to dread the next one. They shake the house and make the furniture slide around. The people living near these bridges all had to leave; the inhabitants of Condé are taking refuge on our plateau, where they can watch at a safe distance the masses of stone hurled violently into the air by the explosions.

The Couilly bridge is as yet only mined. The English will not blow it up until they have crossed to the other side, in case they are obliged to retreat.

Captain Simpson said that General Joffre's orders are to make a final stand at the Marne. His orders are explicit on this point. If our troops are forced back over the Marne, they will fall back to the Morin, but the enemy will not come that far, he adds.

This morning the English artillery placed batteries at the bottom and top of Justice Hill, commanding the town of Meaux. From the road-maker's cabin where they have established an observation post, likewise from the roof of an isolated house on the top of the hill, they sweep the plain and direct movements of troops. Road-maker Duchesne is invited by the English to look through their field-glasses, and as the weather is very clear, he sees the Germans arrive in close formation and in great numbers beyond Lizy, marching towards La Ferté-sous-Jouarre.

Artillery and infantry are on the move. Some of the troops have halted and are camping. At this moment a loud booming of cannon is heard in the direction of May-en-Multien, Acy. But Duchesne cannot make out anything in that quarter, as it is in a valley cut off by the heights of Monthyon and Penchard.

In the direction of Trilbardou Chauconin, Neufmontiers, Penchard, he sees French troops coming up and taking positions.

Presently, at two o'clock, the artillery receives orders to start for the forest of Le Mans, in an attempt to check the Germans who are coming down the hill and advancing towards the forest. The German troops seen near Lizy are marching at this moment upon Mary, Germigny-l'Evêque, Saint-Jean-les-deux-Jumeaux, Montceaux, Villemareuil, Pierrelevée, on the way to Coulommiers.

English engineers continue to blow up bridges. Between three and four o'clock they blow up the bridges of Trilport, the railroad bridge, that of the State road, and likewise that between Moulins and Meaux.

The Cornillon bridge, over the canal, is mined.

The last inhabitants have left Meaux; they went by on the road at the same time as a detachment of infantry, falling back before the enemy.

As they go along they shout to us: "They have blown up the bridges behind us. The Germans are already at Trilport!"

"But," asks a woman, "isn't there any way of stopping them?"

A lieutenant who heard her question answers: "You might as well try to stop the waters of the sea. They pour in from everywhere—from every highway and byway and back-alley—a regular tidal wave. Unless some miracle happens they will be here by to-night."

It is impossible, even if we wished it, to leave by way of Esbly. There are no more trains! Impossible to leave on foot—the roads are choked with troops and supplies. Moreover, all the bridges are destroyed, the bridge of Lagny along with the rest. So we shall stay. God be merciful to us!

There is no more mail—not the slightest communication with the outside. We are completely cut off from the rest of the world.

The new English General Staff has taken up headquarters at the château of Quincy. The English are camping along State road number 36, between Quincy and Voisins.

The roar of the cannon is coming nearer and nearer. The sound electrifies me. I cannot keep still, but go back and forth from Quincy to Esbly to get news, and more especially to try to send news to my brother. I seem to be the only human being on the roads.

What a feeling of sadness it gives one to go through these empty villages. Every house is like a tomb. But those who have gone did not take away everything. Their hearts and souls remain behind, keeping watch over all that memory holds dear.

VIII