Part 2

And I soon saw--no one could fail to see--the change that day by day came over our reserved companion. The stern line of her lips relaxed. In amazement one day we heard her laugh. Then her laughter began to break forth on all occasions; and we listened to her singing above in her room, and we smiled at each other. That tightness of her brow dissolved in a carefree radiance. At work, she mixed up her faultless card catalogues and laughed at her mistakes. Once, during our busy hours of distribution, we caught her blithely granting the request of fat Mère Copillet for a cook stove and thereupon absently presenting that jovial dame with a pair of sabots, much too small for her portly foot, to the amusement of all the good wives gathered in the Red Cross office. They laughed loudly in a sympathetic crowd, and Mademoiselle Gaston laughed also, and they loved her more than ever. When they learned that she had chosen to be married in the ruined cathedral of her native town, their affection turned to adoration. Not a peasant in the region but took this to be an honor to his city and to himself. Gratitude and a nameless hope filled the hearts of the people of Noyon.

The day was at hand. The poste was closed, for within there was a feast to prepare and a bride to adorn. In the early morning the sun-browned peasant women brought flowers, masses of goldenrod and asters. These we arranged in brass shells, empty husks of death, till the bleak spaciousness of our shattered house was gay. The rooms, still elegant in proportion, lent themselves naturally to adornment; and I found myself wondering what former festivities they had sheltered, what other brides had passed down this stately corridor before the bombs let in the wind and the rain and the thieves; and what remote luxuries had been reflected in the great mirror of which only the carved gilt frame was left? Today, goldenrod and asters bloomed against the mouldy walls and one little tri-colored bouquet. Flowers of France, in truth, sprung on the battle field and offered by earth-stained fingers to her who had served.

From the kitchen came noises of snapping wood, and a sizzling which tempted me to the door. It was a fine old kitchen, though now the tiles were mostly gone from the floor, and the cracked walls were smeared with uncouth paintings, the work of some childish soul--some German mess sergeant, perhaps, who had been installed there, but today Jeanne reigned again, bending her philosophic face over the smoking stove, and evoking with infallible arts aromatic and genial vapors from her casseroles. At her side, Thérèse, pink and cream in the abundance of her eighteen years, fanned the fire, her eyes wide open with the novel excitement of the occasion.

"La guerre est finie, Mademoiselle Miss!" cried Jeanne with spoon dripping in mid air. "Today I have butter to cook with. Now you shall taste a French dinner comme il faut!"

In the garage, Michel, all seriousness, polished the Ford that was to carry away the bridal pair. Recently demobilized, he wore the bizarre combination of military and civilian clothes that all over France symbolized the transition from war to peace--black coat encroaching upon stained blue trousers, khaki puttees, evidence of international intimacy and--most brilliant emblem of freedom--a black and white checked cap, put on backwards. His the ultimate responsibility at our wedding ceremony and he looked to his tires and sparkplugs with passion.

The married sister, beautiful and charming in her Paris gown, was superintending the toilette; and when all was ready, we were called up to examine and admire. The bride was sweet and calm, smiling dreamily at us in the foggy fragment of mirror. Below, somewhat portly and constrained in his black coat and high collar, the bridegroom marched with agitation back and forth in the corridor, clasping and unclasping his hands in their gray suède gloves. The Paris train was due. Relatives and friends began to arrive; and little nieces and nephews, all in their best clothes. Noyon had not seen anything so gay in years. There was bustle and business and running up and down stairs. The poste, usually clamorous with the hoarse dialect of northern France, hummed and rippled with polite conversation and courtly greetings. The bride appeared. The bridegroom's face lost its perturbed expression in his unaffected happiness at seeing her. Photographs were taken; she, gracious and bending in a cloud of tulle; he, stiffly upright but smiling resolutely. They were off in a string of carriages--sagging old carriages resurrected from the dust--while a few of us hastened to the cathedral by a short cut to take more pictures as they entered.

The vast nave engulfed us in its desolation. The mutilated apse seemed to be far, far away, and one looked at it fearfully. High above through the broken vaulting shone the indestructible blue, and through the hollow windows the breath of Heaven wandered free. The little bride stepped bravely between the piles of refuse, daintily gathering her dress about her. A dirty sheet on the wall flapped without warning, and we had a glimpse of a gaunt and pallid crucifix, instantly shrouded again in a spasm of wind. Passing under an arch we entered a less demolished chapel. Here all Noyon was waiting.

Thin and quavering through the expectant hush came the chords of a harmonium. Rustlings and whisperings among the closely packed people as the misty white figure advanced slowly into sight. At the altar the silver-haired bishop turned his scholarly face upon her, full of tenderness; and when he spoke, his voice seemed an assurance of peace and purity. The service was long. In France one listens to a sermon when one is married, and the pretty bridesmaids came round for three collections. The bishop talked of her father, his friend, who had died under cruel circumstances. Shoulders heaved in the congregation, and in a dark corner a sob was stifled.

"You have suffered, my children. There has been a mighty mowing and a winter of death, and our mother the earth has lain barren. But today stand up, O children, and listen and feel. We are united in these ruins by more than sorrow. What are these pulsations that beat this day upon our soul?"

The words flowed on following the ancient grooves of sermons, but the loving voice thrilled us. It floated through the dim atmosphere into our consciousness, holding us as in a dream, dovelike and soothing.

My eyes trailed to the delicate bride kneeling beside a great cracked column, and I thought of the tiny blossom again by the road, and of those stretches without the town, no longer gray, but brushed with new color. I saw the daisies and the grasses waving out on No Man's Land: like heralding banners of the triumph march they waved, leading out of sight beyond the horizon. And as the priest talked, my heart throbbed its own silent canticle:

"Joy in the new dawned day, and in peace-awakened fields. Hope of the flower that blooms again. Faith in the unfolding of petals, gently, forever, and in season."

"Soyez loué, Seigneur!" the voice deepened and concluded.

Decisively, now, burst forth the reedlike chords of music. A wave of movement throughout the crowd. And the bowed form trembled a moment within its sheathing veil, against the cold stone pillar.

LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND

Shall I tell you about the old woman and her statue of Sainte Claire? She was a true native of Picardy, and if I could give you her dialect, this story would be more amusing. We came upon her in the course of our visits, living in her clean little house that had been well mended. She was delighted to have someone to talk to.

"Come in, my good girl," she patronized the queenly and aristocratic Madame de Vigny. "Come in, everybody," and we all went in.

"Sit down, my dear," again to Madame de Vigny. "Those barbarians didn't leave me many chairs, but here is one, and this box will do for these young ladies." She herself remained standing, a stout old body in spite of her eighty years. Her blue eyes were clear and twinkled with fun, and she had a mischievous way of smiling out of the corner of her mouth, displaying two teeth. She loved her joke, this shrewd old lady.

"Dites, Madame," she said, "is it true that you give away flannel petticoats and stockings?"

"Yes, Madame, when one has need of them."

"Is it possible? And for nothing? Ah, that is good, that is generous. Tonight I shall tell Sainte Claire about you. Would you like to see my 'tiote Sainte Claire?" We followed her back through a little yard and down into a cellar. "You see, Mesdames, when the villains bombarded Noyon, I stayed right here. I wasn't going to leave my home for those people. One night the convent opposite was struck, and the next morning in the street I found my Sainte Claire. She wasn't harmed at all, lying on her back in the mud. 'Now God will protect me,' I said, and I picked her up in my arms and carried her into my house. And Sainte Claire said to me, 'Place me down in the cave, and you will be safe.' So I brought her down."

She led us to a tiny underground apartment, probably a vegetable cellar, and there, on a bracket jutting from the mildewed wall, stood the painted plaster image of the saint.

"Voilà ma Sainte Claire!" exclaimed the old peasant woman, crossing herself. "She and I have lived down here during the bombardment and the entire occupation. She has protected me. Look, Madame--" and she showed us a corner of the ceiling that had been newly repaired. "The obus passed through here, and never touched us. I kept on praying to the Sainte, and she said, 'Do not move and you will be safe.' All night I was on my knees before her, and toward morning the house was hit--only one meter away the wall fell down, and we were not harmed, Madame, neither the Sainte nor I. Then Sainte Claire said to me, 'The Boches are coming. Take half of your potatoes and bring them down here.' I had a beautiful pile of potatoes, Madame, just harvested. But I took only half and put them in a sack and stuffed it with hay. For thirteen months, Madame, I slept on those potatoes. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Take half your wine, and put it down the well.' I wanted to hide it all, but she said 'No, take only half.' And I sunk one hundred bottles, Madame, of my best wine in the well. The Boches came. Five of them came to my house. Five grands gaillards with square heads. Oh, they are ugly, Madame! 'Show us your wine,' they ordered. 'It is there, Messieurs, in the cellar,' I answered meek as a lamb. And they all began drinking till they were drunk. Then one of them dragged me down here by the arm, and for thirteen months, Madame, I lived in this hole with Sainte Claire while they possessed my house. They made me cook for them, the animals; but I should have starved, Madame, if I had not had my potatoes. Then the French began their bombardment. Ah, it was terrible, Madame, to be bombarded by one's friends. I did not leave this cave, and I prayed and prayed, 'Sainte Claire, save me once more!' and Sainte Claire replied, 'The French are coming. We shall not be hurt.' One morning it was suddenly quiet: the cannon had stopped. I listened and heard nothing, and I came up into my house. It was empty, Madame. The Boches had gone. One shell had fallen through the roof into my bedroom--that was all. But ah, Madame! Noyon, pauvre Noyon! She was like a corpse. Ah lala, lala! Qué'malheur! The next day our soldiers came. Ah, how glad I was. And I asked Sainte Claire, 'May I not go to the well and bring up a bottle of wine?' And she said 'No, not yet.' So we waited, Madame, until the day of the Armistice. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Now you may go and bring up all the wine.' And, Madame, what do you think? I went to the well and I hauled up the wine and out of the hundred bottles only two were broken." The old woman laughed with delight at the trick she had played on the invader.

"They never guessed it was there. It was Sainte Claire, Madame, who saved it. I poured her a glassful and we celebrated, Madame; we celebrated the victory down in our cave, ma'tiote Sainte Claire and I."

* * * * *

Mademoiselle Froissart and I left the Poste de Secours one day, and started for a far away village that was said to be utterly wiped out. Our drive lay over a terrific road. We crossed a vast sad plain, intersected with trenches, with nothing in sight but one monster deserted tank, still camouflaged, and here and there the silhouette of a blasted tree against the lowering sky. These dead trees of the battle line! Sometimes, with their bony limbs flung forth in gnarled unnatural gestures, they remind me of frantic skeletons suddenly petrified in their dance of death. They are frenzied, and unutterably tragic. They seem to move; yet they are so dead. And I imagine their denuded tortured arms reaching toward unanswering Heaven in an agony of protest against the fate that has gripped all nature.

We entered a torn and tangled forest. The road was narrow and overgrown, and several times I had to dodge hand grenades that lay in the grassy ruts. The Ford ploughed bravely through deep mud, skidded, recovered, fell into holes, and kept on. My attention was so focused upon driving that I saw little else but the road ahead, though once at an exclamation from Mademoiselle Froissart, out of the corner of my eye I saw a machine gun mounted and apparently intact. The motor was toiling, but in my soul I blessed its regular noise that told me all was well. Leaving the wood we came to what appeared to be a large rough clearing. There were no trees--only bumps of earth covered with tall weeds. To our surprise we caught sight of the jaunty blue figure of a poilu, and then a band of slouching green-coated prisoners who were digging in their heavy leisurely manner. Mademoiselle Froissart inquired for the village of Evricourt.

"Mais c'est ici, Madame," replied the soldier with a grin.