Part 41

"Ah, nothing this mail, thank Heaven!"

"Why, what were you expecting?"

"Oh, I wasn't expecting anything, but I live in terror of finding that fatal official bulletin announcing the death of some man in our community. Each time I leave the house, the eyes of every living soul are fairly glued to me. The women here love me, I know, and yet I feel that I frighten them.

"If on going out I start up the road, those who live below here breathe again, relieved. You cannot imagine the tricks I must resort to in order not to arouse false suspicions. Then, as soon as I open their door they know the reason of my coming, and what poor miserable creatures I often take in my arms and try vainly to console.

"Ah, Madame, the wives you can cope with, say things to, put their babies in their arms. But the mothers, Madame, the mothers!"

"And no one complains, Madame Dumont?"

"No one, Madame, they all know that we've got to win this war."

All along the road home I walked slowly, lost in reverie. But I had no time for musing after my arrival, for Aunt Rose met me at the doorstep, a small boy by her side.

"Listen, my dear," she cooed, "I've a great favour to ask you. Would you mind walking around to the farms and telling them that Maxence will be here to-morrow morning? His little boy has just come over to tell me."

The coming of Maxence produced an indescribable enthusiasm wherever I announced the news. Maxence is the only blacksmith in Neuilly. Of course he's serving in the artillery, but during his quarterly ten-day permissions, he tries to cover all the work that is absolutely indispensable to the welfare of the community. He arrived much sun-burned and tanned, accompanied by two other chaps who were not expected, having travelled two days and two nights without stopping.

They seated themselves before a succulent repast prepared by Madame Maxence, and in the meantime the crowd began gathering in the shop.

"Get in line! Get in line!" he called to them joyfully. "Give me time to swallow my coffee and I'll be with you."

Abandoning his uniform, he put on his old clothes, his sabots and his leather apron, and for ten long days the hammer beat incessantly upon the anvil.

Sometimes between strokes he would look up and smile, calling out:

"Why, they won't even give me time to catch a mess of fish, or go to see my grandmother at Paray!"

There is always some tool to be repaired, a last horse to be shod.

"What do you know about this for a furlough! And every time it's the same old story."

The others, all those whom I have seen return from the front, do exactly as did Maxence.

Pushing open the gate, they embrace their pale and trembling wives, cuddle the children in their arms, and then five minutes later one can see Jean or Pierre, clothed in his working suit, seized and subjected by the laws of his tradition.

Sunday though, the whole family must go to Mass. The careful housewife has brushed and cleaned the faded uniform, burnished the helmet, put new laces in the great thick-soled shoes. The children cling to their father, proud of his warlike appearance. Then afterwards, of course, there are many hands to be shaken, but no extraordinary effusions are manifested.

"Ah, home at last, old man!"

"You're looking splendid. When did you get here?"

"Did you come across Lucien, and Bataille's son?"

They hardly mention the war. They talk of the weather, the crops, the price of cattle, but never of battle. I have even found a certain extraordinary dislike for discussion of the subject. Or when they can be persuaded to speak, they laugh and tell of some weird feat.

"There are those who make the shells, those who shoot them, and those who catch them. We're doing the catching just at present. There doesn't seem to be much choice!"

They return, just as they came, without noise, without tears.

"Gigot's son's gone back this morning."

"Is that so? How quickly time flies!"