My Home in the Field of Honor. Frances Wilson Huard
went in to dinner but conversation lagged. Each one seemed preoccupied and no one minded the long silences. We were so quiet that the Angelus ringing at Charly, some four miles away, roused us with something of a shock.
Saturday morning, August 1st, the carryall rolled up to the station for the early train. All made a general rush for the papers which had just arrived and all of us were equally horrified when a glance showed the headline-Jaures, the Great Socialist Leader, Assassinated. Decidedly the plot thickened and naturally we all jumped to the same conclusion—a political crime.
"There's a stronger hand than the murderer's back of that felony," murmured a plain man from the corner of our compartment.
"What makes you say that?"
"Why, can't you see, Monsieur, that our enemies are counting on the deed to stir up the revolutionary party and breed discord in the country! It's as plain as day!"
That was rather opening the door to a lengthy discussion, but our friends refused to debate, especially as we could hear excited masculine voices rising high above the ordinary tone in the compartments on either side of us.
The journey drew to a close without any further remarkable incident. It seemed to me that we passed more up trains than usual, but were not a moment overdue. There was nothing to complain of. As we approached La Villette and drew into the Gare de l'Est everybody noticed the extraordinary number of locomotives that were getting up steam in the yards. There were rows and rows of them, just as close together as it was possible to range them, and as far as the eye could see their glittering boilers extended down the tracks in even lines. Each one had a freshly glued yellow label, on which was printed in big black capitals the name of its home station. That was the most significant preparation we had witnessed as yet. Presently we observed that the platforms of freight and express depots had been swept clear of every obstacles and the usually encumbered Gare de l'Est was clean and empty as the hand of man could make it.
In the courtyard our party separated, promising to meet for the five o'clock express—"Unless something serious prevents."
I accompanied H. to the Caserne des Minimes where he went to see if his military situation was registered up to date in his livret, and all along the streets leading from the station we met women silently wiping their eyes.
What a sight the courtyard of that barracks presented! Some five or six thousand men of all ages, classes and conditions who up until that moment had never thought that the loss of a military book entailed the slightest consequence, had one and all been pushed by that single thought, "Be ready for duty." Here they were, boys of twenty and men of forty, standing in line, braving their all-time enemy, the gendarme, each silently waiting his turn to explain his situation. To the credit of the gendarme and all those in authority, it must be said that contrary to their usual custom they acted like loving fathers with these prodigal sons of the Republic—possible information without the sign of a grumble, and advising those who were still streaming in at the door to come back towards five o'clock, when the line should have advanced a little. It was then scarcely ten A. M.!
H. had finished in no time.
"All I've got to do is to go home and wait until I am called for," he explained as we walked away at a brisk gait.
Like most country people when they come to town I had numerous errands to do, so we set off towards the Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville, renowned for its farming implements.
At the corner of the Rue des Archives we met Monsieur Gauthier on his way to his Museum.
"Grave—tre's grave—la situation, Monsieur," was all he could say.
"What would you advise us to do?"
"Well, to speak plainly, I should advise you to shut up the chateau, leave a guardian, and open your Paris apartment. You're in the east, you know! I shall go down by the five train and bring back Elizabeth and the children. I'd be easier in my mind if I knew they were in a big city! I If you have to leave, Madame Huard would be better off here."
H. was very sober as we left Mr. Gauthier.
"Bah! Cheer up! I'm afraid our friend is an alarmist. You know he has two young children!"
We entered the Bazar, which is the "biggest" of the big stores in Paris. Every day in the week, and Sundays included, it is usually so crowded with buyers and sellers that one has to elbow one's way, and literally serve one's self. To our amazement it was empty—literally empty. Not a single customer—not a single clerk to be seen. The long stretches of floor and counters were vacant as though the store were closed. I gasped a little in surprise and just as I did so a female voice from behind a distant desk called out:
"What is your pleasure, Madame?"
I turned, and a little woman in black advanced towards me.
"Yes, I know the place looks queer, but you see all our clerks are young men and everyone of them has been obliged to join his regiment since closing time last evening!"
"Leave farming alone and come over to Conard's. He's bound to have some news," said H. impatiently.
Conard's is a big publishing firm on the boulevard, renowned as a meeting place for most of the well-known political men.
Conard greeted us in silence. He knew no more than we, and we fell to talking of the latest events and trying to come to a conclusion. Then one of the habitués stepped in.
"Eh bien, Monsieur, what news?"
The person addressed kept on perusing the titles of the books spread along the counter, and drawing a long puff from his cigarette and without lifting his eyes, said, "The mobilization is for four o'clock! Official. Have you something entertaining to read on my way to the front?"
"What?"
"Yes, gentlemen."
"War?"'
"It looks very much like it!"
Though almost expected, the news gave us a thrill. We stood spellbound and tongue-tied.
What to do? There were so many decisions to be made at a moment's notice! H. was for our coming to Paris, as all the men must necessarily leave the chateau.
"Mobilization doesn't necessarily mean war, man. Besides if it does come it can't last long. You'd better go back to your place in the country, Huard. A big estate like that needs looking after," said Conard.
"Where do you live?" questioned the gentleman who had given us the news.
"Villiers—sixty miles east of Paris."
"Well, if you decide to go there I advise you to take the soonest train. The eastern railway belongs to the army, and only the army, beginning at noon to-day."
H. looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven, and our next train left at noon sharp. We jumped into a taxi.
"Drive to the Gare de l'Est and on the way stop at Tarides! We must have maps, good road maps of the entire north and east," said H., turning to me.
It seemed as though he had had that thought in common with the entire Parisian population, for all down the boulevards the bookshops and stationers were already overflowing with men, chiefly in regimentals, and as to the shoe-shops and boot-makers—there was a line waiting outside of each. Yet there was no excitement, no shouting, not even an "extra."
What a different sight our station presented to that of two hours before! The great iron gates were shut, and guarded by a line of sergents de ville. Only men joining their regiments and persons returning to their legitimate dwellings were allowed to pass. And there were thousands of both. Around the grillwork hovered dense groups of women, bravely waving tearless adieux to their men folk.
After assuring himself that there was still a noon train, H. led me to the restaurant directly opposite the station.
"We'll have a bite here. Heaven knows what time we shall reach home!"
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