Part 10

Our dinner was very pleasant. We were ten at table--W. and I, Henrietta, and a niece. The men talked easily, some of them Parisians, knowing every one. They knew that W. had remained at the château all during the Franco-German War, and were much interested in all he told them of the Prussian occupation. Only one of them had, as a very young fellow, served in 1870. All the rest were too young, and, like all young soldiers who have not been through a war and seen the horrors of it, were rather anxious to have their chance, and not spend all the best years of their lives in a small, dull garrison town.

We discussed the plans for the next day. They were going to have a sham fight over all the big fields in our neighbourhood, and advised us to come and see it. They said the best time would be about ten in the morning, when they were to monter à l'assaut of a large farm with moat and drawbridge near Dammarie. They were to make a very early start (four o'clock), and said they would be very pleased to have some hot coffee before mounting, if it could be had at that unearthly hour. They were very anxious about choosing a horse out of their squadron for the general, who was an infantryman, very stout, very rheumatic, and a very bad rider. The horse must be sure-footed, an easy mouth, easy canter, no tricks, accustomed to drum and bugle, to say nothing of the musket-shots, etc.

Henrietta and I rather amused ourselves after dinner teaching the commandant and another officer halma, which was just then at the height of its popularity. We had brought it over from London, where the whole society was mad over it. We were staying in a country house one year where there were seven tables of halma in the long gallery. The gentlemen rather disdained it at first, but as the game went on and they began to realise that there was really some science in it, and that our men were placing themselves very comfortably in their little squares, while theirs were wandering aimlessly about the centre of the board, they warmed to their task, and were quite vexed when they were badly beaten. They wanted their revanche. W. came in and gave a word of advice every now and then. The others finished their billiards, came to look on, each one suggesting a different move, which, of course, only complicated matters, and they lost again. Then some of the others tried with the same result. I think we played five or six games. They were so much pleased with the game that they asked us to write down the name and where to get it, and one of them afterward told my nephew, also a cavalry officer, that they introduced it at their mess and played every night instead of cards or dominoes. It was really funny to see how annoyed they were when their scientific combinations failed. The next morning was beautiful--a splendid August day, not too hot, little white clouds scurrying over the bright blue sky, veiling the sun. We started about nine, W., Francis, and I riding, the others driving. There were a good many people about in the fields and cross-roads, a few farmers riding, and everybody wildly interested telling us which way to go. Janet, my American niece, who was staying in the country in France for the first time, was horrified to see women working in the fields, couldn't believe that her uncle would allow it on his farm, and made quite an appeal to him when we all got home, to put an end to such cruel proceedings. It seems women never work in the fields in America, except negresses on some of the Southern plantations. I have been so long away that I had forgotten that they didn't, and I remember quite well my horror the first time we were in Germany, when we saw a woman and an ox harnessed together.

We separated from the carriage at the top of the hill, as we could get a nice canter and shorter road across the fields. We soon came in sight of the farmhouse, standing low, with moat and drawbridge, in rather an isolated position in the middle of the fields, very few trees around it. There was no longer any water in the moat. It was merely a deep, wide, damp ditch with long, straggling vines and weeds filling it up, and a slippery, steep bank. Soldiers were advancing in all directions, the small infantrymen moving along with a light, quick step; the cavalry apparently had been on the ground some time, as they were all dismounted and their horses picketed. We didn't go very near, as W. wasn't quite sure how the horses would stand the bugle and firing. They were already pulling hard, and getting a little nervous. It was pretty to see the soldiers all mount when the bugle rang out, and in a moment the whole body was in motion. The rush of the soldiers over the wide plains and the drawbridge looked irresistible--the men swarmed down the bank and over the ditch--one saw a confused mass of red trousers and kepis. The cavalry came along very leisurely, guarding the rear. I looked for the general. He was standing with some of his staff on a small hill directing operations. He did look stout and very red and warm; however, it was the last day, so his troubles were over for the present.

One of the officers saw us and came up to pay his respects; said they wouldn't be back at the château until about five; perhaps the ladies would come to the stable-yard and see the pansage. It was quite interesting; all the horses ranged in a semi-circle, men scrubbing and combing hard, the sous-officiers superintending, the officers standing about smoking and seeing that everything was being packed and ready for an early start the next morning. I was astonished to see how small the horses were. My English horse, also a chestnut, was not particularly big, but he looked a giant among the others. They admired him very much, and one of the officers asked Hubert if he thought I would like to sell him.

Our dinner was again very pleasant, and we had more halma in the evening. W. played once or twice, and as he was a fairly good player, the adversaries had no chance. We broke up early, as they were to start again at some unearthly hour the next morning. It seems they were very lively in the stables after dinner--we heard sounds of merriment, singing, and choruses, and, I fancy, dancing. However, it made quite a pleasant break in our summer, and the big place seemed quieter and lonelier than ever after such unusual animation. W. said the war talk was much keener than the first day when they were smoking in the gallery; all the young ones so eager to earn their stripes, and so confident that the army had profited by its bitter experience during the Franco-German War.

* * * * *

Election day is always a very important day in France. The village farmers and labourers put on their best clothes--usually a black coat, silk hat and white shirt--and take themselves solemnly to the Mairie where the voting takes place. For weeks beforehand agents and lecturers come from Paris and bamboozle the simple village people with newspapers, money and wonderful promises. It is astounding how easily the French peasant believes all that the political agents tell him and all that he reads in the cheap papers, for, as a rule--taken en masse--they are very intelligent and at the same time suspicious (méfiants), manage their own little affairs very well and are rarely taken in; but there is something in the popular orator that carries them away and they really believe that a golden epoch is coming--when there will be no rich and no poor and plenty and equality for all. They don't care a bit what form of government they live under as long as their crops are good, and they can have regular work and no war. The political agitators understand that very well. They never lay any stress on Royalist or Bonapartist, or even a military candidate. The "People's Candidate" is always their cry--one of themselves who understands them and will give them all they want. They are disappointed always. The ministers and deputies change, but their lives don't, and run on in the same groove; but they are just as sanguine each time there is an election, convinced that, at last, the promised days of high pay and little work are coming.

I tried to reason with a nice, respectable man one day, the village mason--one of the most fiery orators at the café, over his dominoes, but in everyday life a sober, hard-working man, with a sickly wife and several children, who are all clothed and generally looked after by us. His favourite theme was the owners of châteaux and big houses who lived in luxury and thought nothing of the poor.

I said to him, "Why do you listen to all those foolish speeches that are made in the cafés? You know it isn't true half they say. Whenever you come and ask for anything for your wife and your children, it is always given to you. You know quite well whenever any one is ill in the village, they always come here for wine, old linen, or bouillon."

"Oh, oui, Madame is good, but Madame does not understand."

"But it is you, mon ami, who don't understand. Once the election is over, and they have got your vote, no one will think about you any more."

"Oh, yes, Madame, everything will be divided--there will be no more big houses, every one will have a garden and rabbits--not all for the rich. It is not right; Madame knows it is not right." It was quite useless talking to him.

Women in France never take the active part in elections that they do in England. It interested me so much when we were living in England to see many of the great ladies doing all they could for their candidate, driving all over the country, with his colours on servants and horses, a big bill in the windows of their carriages with "Vote for A." on it. In the drawing-room windows of a well-known society leader there were two large bills--"VOTE FOR A." I asked W. one day, when he was standing for the Senate, if he would like me to drive all about the country with his colours and "VOTE FOR WADDINGTON" on placards in the windows of the carriage; but he utterly declined any such intervention on my part, thought a few breakfasts at the château and a quiet talk over coffee and cigars would be more to the purpose. He never took much trouble over his elections the last years--meetings and speeches in all the small towns and "banquets de pompiers" were things of the past. He said the people had seen him "à l'oeuvre" and that no speeches would change a vote.

The only year that we gave ourselves any trouble was during the Boulanger craze. W. went about a great deal and I often went with him. The weather was beautiful and we rode all over the country. We were astounded at the progress "Boulangism" had made in our quiet villages. Wherever we went--in the cafés, in the auberges, in the grocer's shop--there was a picture of Boulanger prancing on his black horse.

We stopped one day at a miserable little cottage, not far from our place, where a workman had had a horrible accident--been caught in the machine of one of the sugar mills. Almost all the men in the village worked in W.'s woods and had always voted--as one man--for him or his friends. When we went into the poor little dark room, with literally nothing in it but the bed, a table, and some chairs, the first thing we saw was the well-known picture of Boulanger, on the mantelpiece. We talked a little to the man and his wife (the poor fellow was suffering terribly), and then W. said, "I am surprised to see that picture. Do you know General Boulanger? Have you ever seen him?" The man's face quite lighted up as he looked at the picture, and he answered: "Non, Monsieur, je ne l'ai jamais vu--mais il est crâne celui-là," and that was all that he could ever get out of him--"il est crâne." I don't know exactly what he meant. I don't think he knew himself, but he was quite excited when he spoke of the hero.

Boulanger's campaign was very cleverly done. His agents distributed papers, pictures and money most liberally. One of the curious features of that episode was the quantity of money that was given. Gold flowed freely in to the General's coffers from all parts of France; great names, grandes dames, giving largely and openly to the cause--a great deal sent anonymously and a great deal in very small sums.

Boulanger lived in our street, and I was astounded one day when I met him (I did not know him) riding--always with a man on each side of him. Almost every one took off his hat to him, and there were a few faint cries of "Vive Boulanger," proceeding chiefly from the painters and masons who were building a house just opposite ours.

Certainly for a short time he had the game in his hands--could, I think, have carried the country, but when the moment to act arrived, his nerve failed him. It is difficult to understand what made his great popularity. Politics had not been satisfactory. The President--Grévy--had resigned under unfortunate circumstances. There had been a succession of weak and inefficient cabinets, and there was a vague feeling of unrest in the country. Boulanger seemed to promise something better. He was a soldier (which always appeals to the French), young and dashing, surrounded by clever unscrupulous people of all classes. Almost all the young element of both parties, Radical and Conservative (few of the moderate Republicans), had rallied to his programme--"Révision et Dissolution." His friends were much too intelligent to let him issue a long "manifesto" (circular), promising all sorts of reforms and changes he never could have carried out, while his two catch words gave hopes to everybody. A revision of the constitution might mean a monarchy, empire, or military dictatorship. Each party thought its turn had come, and dissolving the chambers would of course bring a new one, where again each party hoped to have the majority.

The Paris election by an overwhelming majority was his great triumph. The Government did all they could to prevent it, but nothing could stop the wave of popularity. The night of the election Boulanger and his État-major were assembled at Durand's, the well-known café on the corner of the Boulevard and the rue Royale. As the evening went on and the returns came in--far exceeding anything they had hoped for--there was but one thought in every one's mind--"A l'Élysée." Hundreds of people were waiting outside and he would have been carried in triumph to the Palace. He could not make up his mind. At midnight he still wavered. His great friend, the poet Déroulède, then took out his watch--waited, in perfect silence, until it was five minutes past twelve, and then said, "Général, depuis cinq minutes votre auréole baisse." Boulanger went out by a side door, leaving his friends--disappointed and furious--to announce to the waiting crowd that the General had gone home. He could certainly have got to the Elysée that night. How long he would have stayed, and whom he would have put there, we shall never know.

MAREUIL, October 31st.

It has been a beautiful, warm, bright autumn day and, for a wonder, we have had no frost yet, not even a white one, so that the garden is still full of flowers, and all day the village children have been coming--begging for some to decorate the graves for to-morrow. I went in to the churchyard this afternoon, which was filled with women and children--looking after their dead. It is not very pretty--our little churchyard--part of a field enclosed on the slope of the hill, not many trees, a few tall poplars and a laurel hedge--but there is a fine open view over the great fields and woods--always the dark blue line of the forest in the distance. They are mostly humble graves--small farmers and peasants--but I fancy they must sleep very peacefully in the fields they have worked in all their lives--full of poppies and cornflowers in summer and a soft gold brown in the autumn, when the last crops are cut and the hares run wild over the hills.

I think these two days--the "Toussaint" and the "Jour des Morts"--are the two I like best in the Catholic Church, and certainly they are the only ones, in our part of the world, when the churches are full. I walked about some little time looking at all the preparations. Every grave had some flowers (sometimes only a faded bunch of the last field flowers) except one, where there were no flowers, but a little border of moss all around and a slip of pasteboard on a stick stuck into the ground with "à ma Mere" written on it. All the graves are very simple, generally a plain white cross with headstone and name. One or two of the rich farmers had something rather more important--a slab of marble, or a broken column when it was a child's grave, and were more ambitious in the way of flowers and green plants, but no show of any kind--none of the terrible bead wreaths one sees in large cities.

There was a poor old woman, nearly bent double, leaning on a stick, standing at one of the very modest graves; a child about six years old with her, with a bunch of flowers in a broken cup she was trying to arrange at the foot of the grave. I suppose my face was expressive, for the old woman answered my unspoken thought. "Ah, yes, Madame, it is I who ought to be lying there instead of my children. All gone before me except this one grandchild, and I a helpless, useless burden upon the charity of the parish."

On my way home I met all the village children carrying flowers. We had given our best chrysanthemums for the "pain bénit," which we offer to-morrow to the church. Three or four times a year, at the great fêtes, the most important families of the village offer the "pain bénit," which is then a brioche. We gave our boulanger "carte blanche," and he evidently was very proud of his performance, as he offered to bring it to us before it was sent to the church, but we told him we would see it there. I am writing late. We have all come upstairs. It is so mild that my window is open; there is not a sound except the sighing of the wind in the pines and the church bells that are ringing for the vigil of All Saints. Besides our own bells, we hear others, faintly, in the distance, from the little village of Neufchelles, about two miles off. It is a bad sign when we hear Neufchelles too well. Means rain. I should be so sorry if it rained to-morrow, just as all the fresh flowers have been put on the graves.

November 2nd. "Jour des Morts."

We had a beautiful day yesterday and a nice service in our little church. Our "pain bénit" was a thing of beauty and quite distracted the school children. It was a most imposing edifice--two large, round brioches, four smaller ones on top, they went up in a pyramid. The four small ones go to the notabilities of the village--the curé, two of the principal farmers and the miller; the whole thing very well arranged, with red and white flowers and lighted tapers. It was carried by two "enfants de choeur," preceded by the beadle with his cocked hat and staff and followed by two small girls with lighted tapers. The "enfants de choeur" were not in their festal attire of red soutanes and red shoes--only in plain black. Since the inventories ordered by the government in all the churches, most of the people have taken away their gifts in the way of vestments, soutanes, vases, etc., and the red soutanes, shoes and caps, with a handsome white satin embroidered vestment that C. gave the church when she was married, are carefully folded and put away in a safe place out of the church until better times should come.

After luncheon we went over to Soissons in the auto--the most enchanting drive through the forest of Villers-Cotterets--the poplar trees a line of gold and all the others taking the most lovely colours of red and brown. Soissons is a fine old cathedral town with broad squares, planted with stiff trees like all the provincial towns in France; many large old-fashioned hotels, entre cour et jardin, and a number of convents and abbeys, now turned into schools, barracks, government offices of all kinds, but the fine proportions and beautiful lines are always there.