Where the Sabots Clatter Again | Page 7

be twenty francs then, Madame." This was too outrageous.
"Ah non," I said in my turn, but I laughed. "Ecoutez, do you know what
is in that box I am going to get? Toys for the little children of the
devastated regions. If I don't take it with me they will have nothing,
nothing at all for Christmas."
"Eh, what?" His old heart was moved. "Pays dévasté? C'est vrai? Bien,
Madame, I will take you anywhere you wish." And he started the car.
On our way through traffic he related to me over his shoulder how his
wife and children had fled from Soissons while he was driving a
camion at the front, and that their home was gone.
At the Grand Bazaar Mademoiselle Froissart was waiting with the
huge crate of toys. It was hoisted onto the front seat beside the
chauffeur, who, far from grumbling at its size, was most solicitous in
placing it so that it would not jar. "We mustn't break the dolls," he said
with a wink. Arriving at the station he insisted upon carrying it to the
baggage room for us. "Hey, mon vieux!" he addressed the baggage man,
"step lively and get that case on the train for Noyon. It's full of
dolls--dolls for the little girls." And the whole force laughed and flew
to the crate, and tenderly hustled it out to the train with paternal
interest.
"Merry Christmas and many thanks," I said to our driver, holding out
the twenty francs. He did not glance at the money and pushed back my
hand.
"Non, non, Mademoiselle, c'est un plaisir," he murmured. I protested,
but his whole expression pleaded. "It's not much, Mademoiselle. It's for
the little girls--out there."

Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and
watching us. He waved his hat.
"Bon voyage!" he called above the crowd. Then, turning, he went back
into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying
upon the intimidated and helpless public.

VAUCHELLES.
Three roads wander down from the hills and come together; and at the
point of meeting stands a crucifix. This large and dignified Calvaire,
though bearing the nicks of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds a
sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the more impressive because of these
marks of desecration. It forms the center of the tiny village, whose
houses cluster close to the mourning image and then straggle thinly
along the three roads. Not even the war which swept over in all its
ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. Many houses
have collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked
roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new tar
paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism. Vauchelles has met the
challenge of devastation and is setting things aright.
Is the town asleep? The healing July sun softly warms the silent houses
and their broken walls and closed doors. No one is in sight. Yet we
have come with our camionette well laden with clothing for the
inhabitants. Ah! they are all away working in the fields. Old
Mademoiselle Masson, peering through the one pane of glass that is left
in her window, sees us, and hobbles to the door to give us the
information. She beams upon us, an unkempt yet gracious figure, and
when she talks her false teeth move slightly up and down. She will run
and call her sister who is up on the hill, and she will tell Madame Riflet
as she goes. The news will spread. The news always spreads. Already
the people are gathering, for la Croix Rouge is its own introduction;
and these peasants, too proud--most of them--to go and ask, will accept
what is freely and gladly given at their doors.

The first person I call upon is Madame Cat. Shall I soon forget that
determined little face with its deep set blue eyes, and sharp features
unsoftened by the brown hair that is pulled back from her forehead? Or
the one room left in that tiny house, shattered and bare, yet stamped
indelibly with the character of its valiant occupants? The ashes are
swept in the fireplace. Two burnished shells tattooed in a careful
pattern and filled with flowers brighten the mantel. And the bed! Even
though made of fragments found in the debris, with naught but a hay
paillasse and a few old quilts dragged through the long flight and return,
it is nevertheless smooth and noble, adorned only with the reverence
and importance with which the French surround The Bed. The daughter
comes in, a thin music-voiced girl with a fine profile like her mother's.
They accept simply, and with appreciation, the useful things the Red
Cross offers. In this case