At the gateway we held out our hands which he took and shook most heartily, renewing his protestations of delight at our visit, and begging us to "Come again soon."

"To be happy one must cultivate his garden," murmured H., quoting Voltaire as we made off down the road. And within a day or two we again had an excellent proof of this axiom when we discovered that Abbe L. still resided in his little home whose garden extended far into the shadow of St. Jean des Vignes.

That worthy ecclesiastic gave over every moment that was not employed in the exercise of his sacred functions to the joys of archaeological research, and was carefully compiling a history of the churches in the arrondiss.e.m.e.nt of Soissons and Chateau-Thierry. He had been our guest at Villiers, and I remember having made for him an imprint of two splendid low-relief tombstones which date back to the 15th century, and were the sole object and ornament of historic interest in our little village chapel.

This history was the joy and sole distraction of his entire existence, and he never ceased collecting doc.u.ments and photographs, books, plans and maps, all of which though carefully catalogued, threatened one day to take such proportions that his modest dwelling would no longer suffice to hold them.

We found him comfortably installed behind a much littered kitchen table in a room that I had heretofore known as his dining room. I was a bit struck by its disorder, and the good man was obliged to remove several piles of papers from the chairs before inviting us to be seated.

"I trust you will forgive this confusion," he begged, "but you see a sh.e.l.l hit my study yesterday noon, and has forced me to take refuge in this corner of the house which is certainly far safer."

"I've had an excellent occasion to work," he continued. "Our duties are very slight these days, and the extreme quiet in which we live is most propitious for pursuing the task I have undertaken."

"But, Monsieur l'Abbe," we cried. "What a paradox! And the bombardment?"

"Really, you know, I've hardly suffered from it--except when that sh.e.l.l struck the house the other morning. Of course, the whole edifice shook, and at one time I thought the roof was coming through upon my head. My ink bottle was upset and great streams trickled to the floor.

But Divine intervention saved my precious ma.n.u.script which I was in the very act of copying, and although my notes and files were a bit disarranged, they were easily sorted and set to rights. So you see there was nothing really to deplore and G.o.d has graciously seen fit to let me continue my work. It is such a joy to be able to do so."

Strange placidity! the immediate countryside for miles around having long since been delivered up to brutal destruction, wanton waste, hideous ma.s.sacre, and a goodly number of the churches of which the pious man was taking so much pains to record the history, were now but anonymous heaps of stone.

All the way home I could not refrain from philosophising on the happiness of life, perfect contentment, and the love of good. My reflections, while perhaps not particularly deep nor brilliant, were none the less imbued with a sense of grat.i.tude to the Almighty, and filled with pity and respect for poor human nature.

It is certain that for such people, the idea of escaping the terrors, the dangers and the sight of most horrible spectacles, had not weighed an instant in the balance against the repugnance of altering life-long habits, or abandoning an a.s.semblage of dearly beloved landscapes and faces.

Naturally enough, a certain number of commercial minded had remained behind, tempted by the possibility of abnormal gain through catering to the soldier; and to whatever had been their habitual merchandise, was soon added a stock of mandolins, accordions, cheap jewelry, kit bags, fatigue caps and calico handkerchiefs--in fact all that indispensable, gaudy trumpery that serves to attract a clientele uniquely composed of warriors.

But, besides these merchants, there were still to be counted a certain number of well-to-do citizens, professors, government employes, priests and magistrates, all simple honest souls who had stayed because they were unable to resign themselves to an indefinite residence away from Soissons, and there was no sacrifice to which they were not resolved in advance, so long as it procured them the joy of remaining.

I accompanied the President of the local French Red Cross Chapter on a visit to a lady who was much interested in an _ouvroir_, and who lived in a splendid old mansion located near the ruins of the Palais de Justice.

The little bell tinkled several times, resounding clearly in the deathlike silence, and presently a young maid-servant made her appearance at a small door that opened in the heavy portico.

"Is Madame at home?"

"Oh, no, Madame! Why didn't Madame know that both Monsieur and Madame left for the seash.o.r.e last evening? Shall I give Madame their address at Houlgate? They've been going there for the last twenty years. They will be back the first of September as usual."

"How stupid of me," exclaimed my companion. "I might have known though. We shall discover what we wish to know from Madame V."

We found the last mentioned lady and her daughter in a pretty dwelling on the boulevard Jeanne d'Arc. After presentations and greetings:

"You are not leaving town this Summer?"

"Not this season; unfortunately our country house is at present occupied by the Germans, and as the mountains are forbidden, and the sea air excites me so that I become quite ill, I fear we shall have to remain at home, for the time being at least. The garden is really delightfully cool though--we sit out there and sew all day."

I asked permission to admire the exquisite embroidered initials which both mother and daughter were working.

"I'm so glad you like them. Do you know we found that monogram on an old 18th century handkerchief? We merely enlarged it, and really feel that we have something quite unusual. But my table cloths are well worth it, they were the very last that were left at the Cour Batave. I doubt if any finer quality will ever be woven."

"Your daughter will have a wonderful trousseau."

"She will have something durable at least, Madame, a trousseau that will stand the test of time and washing," replied the good mother smiling blandly, touched by my appreciation.

"I still have sheets which came down to me from my great grand-mother, and I hope that my own great grand-sons will some day eat from this very cloth."

"But they will never guess under what strange circ.u.mstances it was hemmed and embroidered," gently proffered the young girl raising her big blue eyes and smiling sweetly.

"Bah, what difference does that make so long as they are happy and can live in peace? That's the princ.i.p.al thing, the one for which we're all working, isn't it?"

Such is the spirit that pervades all France. It is simple, undemonstrative heroism, the ardent desire of a race to last in spite of all. What more imperturbable confidence in its immortality could be manifested than by this mother and daughter calmly discussing the durability of their family linen, within actual range of Teuton gunfire that might annihilate them at any moment?

As we were about to leave Monsieur S. came up the front steps. He had been out in company of a friend, making his habitual daily tour of the city. Like most middle aged, well-to-do bourgeois his attire was composed of a pair of light trousers, slightly baggy at the knee, and a bit flappy about the leg; a black cutaway jacket and a white pique waistcoat. This cla.s.sic costume usually comports a panama hat and an umbrella. Now Monsieur S. had the umbrella, but in place of the panama he had seen fit to subst.i.tute a blue steel soldier's helmet, which amazing military headgear made a strange combination with the remainder of his civilian apparel. Nevertheless he bowed to us very skilfully, and at that moment I caught sight of a leather strap, which slung over one shoulder, hung down to his waist and carried his gas mask.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH HIS GAS MASK]

For several days I laboured under the impression that this mode was quite unique, but was soon proved mistaken, for on going to the Post Office to get my mail (three carriers having been killed, there were no longer any deliveries) I discovered that it was little short of general. Several ladies had even dared risk the helmet, and the whole a.s.sembly took on a war like aspect that was quite apropos.

Thus adorned, the octogenarian Abbe de Villeneuve, his umbrella swung across his back, his ca.s.sock tucked up so as to permit him to ride a bicycle, was a sight that I shall never forget.

"Why, Monsieur le Cure, you've quite the air of a sportsman."

"My child, let me explain. You see I can no longer trust to my legs, they're too old and too rheumatic. Well then, when a bombardment sets in how on earth could I get home quickly without my bicycle?"

As visitors to the front, we were guests of the French Red Cross Society while in Soissons. The local president, whose deeds of heroism have astonished the world at large, is an old-time personal friend.

A luncheon in our honour was served on a spotless cloth, in the only room of that lady's residence which several hundred days of constant bombardment had still left intact. Yet, save for the fact that paper had replaced the window panes, nothing betrayed the proximity of the German. Through the open, vine grown cas.e.m.e.nt, I could look out onto a cleanly swept little court whose centre piece of geraniums was a perfect riot of colour.

Around the congenial board were gathered our hostess, the old Cure de St. Vast, the General in command of the Brigade, his Colonel, three Aides-de-Camp, my husband and myself.

Naturally, the topic of conversation was the war, but strange as it may seem, it was we, the civilians, that were telling our friends of the different activities that were afoot and would eventually bring the United States to the side of the Allies.

Towards the middle of the repast our enemies began sending over a few sh.e.l.ls and presently a serious bombardment was under way. Yet no one stirred.

Dishes were pa.s.sed and removed, and though oft times I personally felt that the pattering of shrapnel on the tin roof opposite was uncomfortably close, I was convinced there was no theatrical display of bravery, no cheap heroism in our companions' unconsciousness. They were interested in what was being said--_voila tout_.

Presently, however, our hostess leaned towards me and I fancied she was about to suggest a trip cellarward, instead of which she whispered that on account of the bombardment we were likely to go without dessert since it had to come from the other side of town and had not yet arrived.

Then a sh.e.l.l burst quite close, and at the same time the street bell rang. The _cordon_ was pulled, and through the aperture made by the backward swing of the great door, I caught sight of a ruddy cheeked, fair haired maiden in her early teens, bearing a huge bowl of fresh cream cheese in her outstretched hands.

Steadily she crossed the court, approached the window where she halted, smiled bashfully, set down her precious burden, and timidly addressing our hostess:

"I'm sorry, Madame," said she, "so sorry if I have made you wait."

And so it goes.

I remember a druggist who on greeting me exclaimed:

"A pretty life, is it not, for a man who has liver trouble?" And yet he remained simply because it was a druggist's duty to do so when all the others are mobilised.

There was also the printer of a local daily, who continued to set up his type with one side of his shop blown out; who went right on publishing when the roof caved in, and who actually never ceased doing so until the whole structure collapsed, and a falling wall had demolished his only remaining press.