Where the Sabots Clatter Again | Page 5

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.
"Here!" We stared. There was nothing by which one could have told
that this was the site of a town, except an occasional bit of brick that
showed beneath the weeds. All the Germans had stopped work to look
at these two women who had so unexpectedly penetrated to this
God-forsaken spot. We asked whether any of the inhabitants had
returned.
"Just one old man," said the poilu, "who lives all alone in his cellar,
over there." He pointed, and suddenly from the ground emerged an
aged man, white haired and erect. He came toward us, an astonishingly
handsome figure. His beautifully modeled head was like a bit of perfect
sculpture found suddenly among rank ruins, whose very fineness
shocks us because of its contrast with its coarse surroundings. His blue
eyes were piercing under bushy white brows, while a snowy and
curling beard, abundant yet well trimmed, set off the dark ivory of his
complexion. And on his head, above