Where the Sabots Clatter Again | Page 3

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