Part 24

The population of my own courtyard had quadrupled by five o'clock. People from St. Quentin, Ternier, Chauny--each with a tale of horror and sorrow--sought refuge for the night. Madame Guix was permanently established in the dispensary, and a line was formed as in front of the city clinics, each one waiting his turn, hoping that she might be able to relieve his suffering. At dusk a cart turned into the drive and a gray-haired man asked if we had a litter on which to carry his son to the house.

"What was the matter?" I inquired.

"A cough--such a bad cough."

I went with him towards the wagon, and there beheld the sad spectacle of a youth in the last stages of tuberculosis. Thin beyond description, a living skeleton, the poor boy turned his great glassy eyes towards me in supplication. I drew the father aside. It was best to be frank. I shook my head and said it would be useless to move his son. We had no doctor, and his illness was beyond our competence. Cover him well, and try to reach a big city as soon as possible.

As I turned away, a sturdy youth tapped me gently on the arm, begging shelter for his great-grandmother, a woman ninety-three years old, whom he had carried on his back all the way from St. Quentin. A cot in the entrance hall was all prudence permitted me to offer, and it was charming to see how tenderly the young fellow bore the poor little withered woman to her resting-place. She was so dazed that I fear she hardly realized what was happening, but tears of gratitude streamed down her cheeks when her boy appeared with a bowl of hot soup, coaxing her to drink, like a child, and finally curling up on the rug beside her bed.

Five times that evening the great refectory table was surrounded by hungry men and women; five times I ladled out soup and vegetables to forty persons, and five times we all helped to wash up. So when all was finally cleaned away, and Madame Guix and I fell exhausted onto two kitchen chairs, it was well onto eleven P. M.

My clever nurse informed me that she had arranged for the departure in a cart of the mother whose baby we had buried, and I in turn told her of my climb in the park and the approach of the cannon. It was evident that the Germans were bearing down on us, and swiftly. When we looked at the map and saw the names of the cities, towns and villages whose populations had succeeded each other down the road, it was clear that the French must be beating a forced retreat, or (and this was unlikely) panic had spread so quickly that the whole north of France was now moving south on a fool's errand. We cast this second hypothesis aside. We had heard too many tales of woe and seen too much misery to believe anything of the sort. Well, and then what? Our case was simple--either the Germans would be stopped before they reached us, or the French army would put in an appearance, in which latter case it would be time enough to leave, unless we were officially evacuated before! Having adopted this simple line of conduct, we retired, quite satisfied and not in the least uneasy.

In the cool gray dawn of Wednesday morning, September second, when I opened my shutters and looked out into the little square that faces the chateau, I was amazed to see that the refugees who had halted there were in carts and wagons whose signs were most familiar. They came from Soissons!

"Hello," thought I, "I'll go and see what they have to say! Things must be getting very bad if a big city like Soissons suddenly takes to its heels." (Soissons is but little over twenty miles from Villiers.) As I came down stairs I heard the drum roll, and George, who just then appeared with the milk, announced that the requisition of horses which should have taken place at Chateau-Thierry that morning, was indefinitely postponed. That was hardly reassuring, especially as it was the first official news we had received in a long time.

So busy were we helping those who had slept at the chateau to depart, that I had no time to put my first intentions into execution, and when finally I had a moment, I looked out of the window and saw that my friends from Soissons had vanished. They, too: well, well, well!

I was not astonished; in fact I gave the matter but little heed. We had taken our resolutions the night before and had no time to stop every five minutes and question as to whether we were right or wrong. At noon, however, when an old peasant woman called me through the kitchen window and announced that all Charly was leaving post haste, I must admit that I winced, but only for a second. If I had listened to all the different rumors that had been noised abroad within the last week I would have been a fit subject for a lunatic asylum by then!

Resolved, however, to get at the core of the matter, I sent George to Charly (our market town, four miles away) to see what he could find out. He returned on his bicycle at luncheon time, bearing the following astonishing information.

The hotel keeper and his wife, alarmed by the arrival of the Soissonais, had taken their auto and started for that city in quest of news. They had returned an hour later, having been unable to pass Oulchy-le-Chateau, fifteen miles from Charly, where all the bridges were cut or blown up! They were making their preparations for departure.

"And," continued George, in an excited tone, "as I came past the Gendarmerie the brigadier called to me and said good-bye. All the gendarmes had received orders to leave at once for their depot at--." (The name of some town the other side of the Marne, which I cannot remember.)

Instead of frightening me this information stimulated my nerves, which were beginning to be depressed by much work and little news.

"Good," I said. "Now then, we can expect the soldiers at any minute. Poke up the fire, Julie, and we'll fall to work to have hot soup ready when our boys arrive."

Then we were really going to be in the excitement. How glorious to be able to help--for in my mind ours was the only solution possible to the question.

I set to work with renewed vigor and, as on the day before, we were constantly in demand by refugees requiring treatment and attention. How well I remember a group of four, two men and two women, who staggered into the court and timidly knocked at the window. Three of them were glad to accept soup and wine, but the fourth, a middle-aged woman, sank down on the steps and buried her head in her hands.

"Why doesn't one of you men relieve her of that heavy parcel she has strapped to her shoulders?" I asked.

"She won't let us touch it. She's never put it aside a minute since we left home six days ago!"

"Is it as precious as all that?" I queried, eyeing the huge flat package which might have been the size of the double sheet of some daily paper.

"It's her son's picture. He's gone to the army and she's alone in the world."

"But why on earth is she carrying frame, glass, and all? It must be nearly killing her in this heat!"

"Madame," said the woman's friend solemnly, "she worked six months and put all her savings into that frame! Do you wonder she did not wish to leave it behind!"

I opened a side door and showed them a foot path across the hills, a short cut which carriages could not take, and was just turning the key in the lock when the telephone rang.

That was the first time since the second of August! What could it mean? Probably the arrival of wounded. I literally flew to answer the call.

I had some little difficulty recognizing Mademoiselle Mauxpoix' voice: it was trembling with emotion. She greeted me politely and then begging me not to be too alarmed, she announced that she had just received official orders to put all her telephones and telegraphic apparatus out of working order--to damage them so that repairs would be impossible.

"I have ten minutes more left," she continued. "A government motor is coming at four o'clock to take me, my employees and my books to Tours."