XIV RETURN TO MASEVAUX

November 9th.—I was received so warmly by the amiable Demoiselles Braun, who had my room ready for me; so kindly by Captain Bernard, who came a moment afterward to tell me he would call for me at seven-fifteen; so dearly by Laferrière, who also called for me, that I felt I had indeed got “home.” As we were walking along to the popote Captain Tirman joined us in the darkness and told us that Bavaria had proclaimed itself a republic, and that there was news (military news by radio) of the abdication of the Kaiser. Somebody cried, “Demain, de quoi demain sera-t-il fait?” as we entered the house where the little cat, the forgetful, unabashed little cat, who but three short days before had done such well-nigh disastrous things to my fur coat, also awaited me.

Again a charming dinner, conversation about that first August of the war, the retreat from Mons, of Charleroi, and many, many other places; of forced marches and aching feet; of fatigue and hunger and thirst, now packed away gloriously in memory, though sometimes the strange look appeared on their faces as they talked. Stories were told of those who had gone to “faire un bridge à Limoges”[21] and remained there, and of others, like Mangin, who had come back, Mangin, the booty of whose glorious Tenth Army now overflows the Place de la Concorde. And of Foch who had nearly gone there. And of the immense glory hanging over each and every battlefield, for, though black crosses were evoked, each was entwined with colors too bright for human eyes. And then we turned our thoughts from tempus lachrymarum to the New Day, in whose sun, though not like to the brightness of those fallen, we all shine. The long destiny is heavy and dark beside the light, bright way of heroes, and never did one realize till now how truly the gods love those whom they snatch young. We, after all, as one of the officers remarked, will die in our beds or by accident—and is it so desirable?

Then Sérin told his oft-repeated, but now dearly loved, story of “Bravo, Capitano,” of the Capitano who thanked the Madonna for the thirteen trenches and the sea of barbed wire between himself and the enemy, but which I won’t tell. And Captain Antoni told the story of the wounded Boche who was given the Croix de Guerre, and how the French general said, as he entered the hospital ward:

“Are these the brave men who so valiantly held their position on the twenty-fourth? With inexpressible pleasure I give each one his well-merited Croix de Guerre,” and then proceeded down the line of beds. On Number 33 was lying a man with closely bandaged head, only one gleaming eye visible, and the Croix de Guerre was pinned also on his valiant breast, and if it was removed by the Angel of Death or by orders of the colonel I forget. Neither is it recorded if the German smiled.

And I told of the swift passing of the autos, mine and the commandant’s, on the dark hills of the Route Joffre, when I was coming back from St.-Amarin and he going there. How sadly I had seen its kind lights rise along the heights and disappear, and there had been no friendly handclasp on the hills, nor words of thanks from me in the dim light of the blurred Pleiades and the young, half-veiled, white moon.

After dinner some one hazarded the word “bridge,” but there must have been that in my eye making for solitude rather than companionship, for the next thing I heard from some Frenchman, perceptive as to woman’s looks, was:

“Madame est sans doute bien fatiguée et nous jouerons demain.”

And soon I was stumbling home on one or two or three blue-sleeved arms, in the inky darkness of a starless and moonless Masevaux.

I had found St.-Amarin charming, and I left with deep regret, but at Masevaux I was experiencing the sensation, very agreeable, I must say, of one who, having wandered, returns to his or her first love; and any one who has done it will know exactly how I felt, and I don’t have to tell them. As for those who have never returned, they wouldn’t understand if I did explain.