Part 11

"'Dubois.'

"'Well then, Dubois, what's all this nonsense? The cross is yours.'

"'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic! I'm a foundling, haven't any family. What's a war cross more or less to me? Now Paul here keeps a cafe; just think of the pleasure it will give his clientele to see him come back decorated.'

"The captain who knows his men, understood Dubois' sincerity, and so Paul got the medal.

"I believe it was Peguy who said that 'Joan of Arc' has the same superiority over other saints, as the man who does his military service has over those who are exempt.' But it's only the soldiers who really understand that, and when they say On les aura, it means something more from their lips, than when uttered by a lady over her tea-cups, or a reporter in his newspaper."

During this involuntary monologue we had strolled along the road which Nourrigat had originally indicated as the direction of our friend Pistre. Presently he led us into the church, a humble little village sanctuary. A shell had carried away half the apse, and sadly damaged the altar. The belfry had been demolished and the old bronze bell split into four pieces had been carefully fitted together by some loving hand, and stood just inside the doorway.

St. Anthony of Padua had been beheaded, and of St. Roch there remained but one foot and half his dog. Yet, a delightful sensation of peace and piety reigned everywhere. From the confessional rose the murmur of voices, and the improvised altar was literally buried beneath garlands of roses.

In what had once been a chapel, a soldier now sat writing. His note books were spread before him on a table, a telephone was at his elbow.

Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate indicate that this is the "Bureau de la 22e."

An old bent and withered woman, leaning on a cane, issued from this office-chapel as we approached.

"Why that's mother Tesson," exclaimed Nourrigat. "Good evening, mother; how's your man to-day?"

"Better, sir. Much better, thank you. They've taken very good care of him at your hospital."

The old couple had absolutely refused to evacuate their house. The Sous-Prefet, the Prefet, all the authorities had come and insisted, but to no avail.

"We've lost everything," she would explain. "Our three cows, our chickens, our pigs. Kill us if you like, but don't force us to leave home. We worked too hard to earn it!"

And so they had hung on as an oyster clings to its rock. One shell had split their house in twain, another had flattened out the hayloft. The old woman lay on her bed crippled with rheumatism, her husband a victim of gall stones. Their situation was truly most distressing.

But there were the soldiers. Not any special company or individual--but the soldiers, the big anonymous mass--who took them in charge and passed them on from one to another.

"We leave father and mother Tesson to your care," was all they said to the new comers as they departed. But that was sufficient, and so the old couple were nursed, clothed and fed by those whom one would suppose had other occupations than looking after the destitute.

Three times the house was brought to earth. Three times they rebuilt it. The last time they even put in a stove so that the old woman would not have to bend over to reach her hearth. New beds were made and installed, the garden dug and planted. The old man was operated upon at the Division Hospital, and when he became convalescent they shared the contents of their home packages with him.

Who were they? This one or that one? Mother Tesson would most surely have been at a loss to name the lad who returned from his furlough bringing two hens and a rooster to start her barnyard. She vaguely remembered that he was from the south, on account of his accent, and that he must have travelled across all France with his cage of chickens in his hand.

They entered her home, smoked a pipe by her fireside, helped her to wash the dishes or shell peas; talked a moment with her old man and left, saying au revoir.

Another would come back greeting her with a cordial "Bonjour, mere Tesson."

"Good day, my son," she would reply.

And it was this constantly changing new found son who would chop wood, draw water from the well, write a letter that would exempt them from taxes, or make a demand for help from the American Committees.

Thus the aged pair had lived happily, loved and respected, absolutely without want, and shielded from all material worry. And when some poor devil who has spent four sleepless nights in the trenches, on his return steals an hour or two from his well earned, much craved sleep, in order to hoe their potato patch, one would doubtless be astonished to hear such a man exclaim by way of excuse for his conduct--

"Oh, the poor old souls! Just think of it! At their age. What a pity."

We found Pistre making a careful toilet with the aid of a tin pail full of water.

"This is a surprise, on my soul!"

We hastened to give him news of his family and friends.