My Home In The Field of Honor by Frances Wilson Huard
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Frances Wilson Huard >> My Home In The Field of Honor
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12 MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR
BY FRANCES WILSON HUARD
I
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 _habitues_ 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.
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