A Traveller in War-Time | Page 6

around
corners in Ford and Packard automobiles. And the atmosphere of our
communication headquarters was so essentially one of "getting things
done" as to make one forget the mediaeval narrowness of the Rue
Sainte Anne, and the inconvenient French private-dwelling
arrangements of the house. You were transported back to America.
Such, too, was the air of our Red Cross establishment in the ancient
building facing the Palace de la Concorde, where the unfortunate Louis
lost his head.

History had been thrust into the background. I was never more aware of
this than when, shortly after dawn Wednesday, the massive grey pile of
the Palace of Versailles suddenly rose before me. As the motor shot
through the empty Place d'Armes I made a desperate attempt to
summon again a vivid impression, when I had first stood there many
years ago, of an angry Paris mob beating against that grill, of the Swiss
guards dying on the stairway for their Queen. But it was no use. France
has undergone some subtle change, yet I knew I was in France. I knew
it when we left Paris and sped through the dim leafy tunnels of the Bois;
when I beheld a touch of filtered sunlight on the dense blue thatch of
the 'marroniers' behind the walls of a vast estate once dedicated to the
sports and pleasures of Kings; when I caught glimpses of silent
chateaux mirrored in still waters.
I was on my way, with one of our naval officers, to visit an American
naval base on the western coast. It was France, but the laughter had
died on her lips. A few women and old men and children were to be
seen in the villages, a bent figure in a field, an occasional cart that drew
aside as we hurried at eighty kilometers an hour along deserted routes
drawn as with a ruler across the land. Sometimes the road dipped into a
canyon of poplars, and the sky between their crests was a tiny strip of
mottled blue and white. The sun crept in and out, the clouds cast
shadows on the hills; here and there the tower of lonely church or castle
broke the line of a distant ridge. Morning-glories nodded over lodge
walls where the ivy was turning crimson, and the little gardens were
masses of colours--French colours like that in the beds of the Tuileries,
brick-red geraniums and dahlias, yellow marigolds and purple asters.
We lunched at one of the little inns that for generations have been
tucked away in the narrow streets of provincial towns; this time a
Cheval Blanc, with an unimposing front and a blaze of sunshine in its
heart. After a dejeuner fit for the most exacting of bon viveurs we sat in
that courtyard and smoked, while an ancient waiter served us with
coffee that dripped through silver percolators into our glasses. The
tourists have fled. "If happily you should come again, monsieur," said
madame, as she led me with pardonable pride through her immaculate
bedrooms and salons with wavy floors. And I dwelt upon a future
holiday there, on the joys of sharing with a friend that historic place.
The next afternoon I lingered in another town, built on a little hill

ringed about with ancient walls, from whose battlements tide-veined
marshes stretched away to a gleaming sea. A figure flitting through the
cobbled streets, a woman in black who sat sewing, sewing in a window,
only served to heighten the impression of emptiness, to give birth to the
odd fancy that some alchemic quality in the honeyed sunlight now
steeping it must have preserved the place through the ages. But in the
white close surrounding the church were signs that life still persisted. A
peasant was drawing water at the pump, and the handle made a noise; a
priest chatted with three French ladies who had come over from a
neighbouring seaside resort. And then a woman in deep mourning
emerged from a tiny shop and took her bicycle from against the wall
and spoke to me.
"Vous etes Americain, monsieur?"
I acknowledged it.
"Vous venez nous sauver"--the same question I had heard on the lips of
the workman in the night. "I hope so, madame," I replied, and would
have added, "We come also to save ourselves." She looked at me with
sad, questioning eyes, and I knew that for her--and alas for many like
her--we were too late. When she had mounted her wheel and ridden
away I bought a 'Matin' and sat down on a doorstep to read about
Kerensky and the Russian Revolution. The thing seemed incredible
here--war seemed incredible, and yet its tentacles had reached out to
this peaceful Old World spot and taken a heavy toll. Once more I
sought the ramparts, only to be reminded by