“Husbands!” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re married?”
“Mais si, Mademoiselle,—Maria has a little boy and I have a little girl,—they’re both three years old. They live with their grandmothers back home. We can see them only once a year!”
I simply couldn’t believe it. Why, those two are perfect kids themselves—little and rosy-cheeked, scared to death of Mme. H——, but often giggling apart in corners.
No one giggles, I can tell you, when you mention the war, and it’s only because they’ve been blessed with sunny natures that they can ever seem light-hearted. Their children, being in the war zone, seem a thousand miles away from them, because, even if Mélanie and Maria could afford the trip oftener, they couldn’t get the military permit to go through more than once a year. They can’t earn anything in the invaded district, and Heaven knows Paris is the worst place to move the whole family to, who are now fairly well off in the country. So here they are, Mélanie and Maria, working their legs off, doing all the chamber work, waiting on table and odd jobs for fourteen people—for the princely sum of six dollars a month and tips. Louise, the cook, is Mélanie’s aunt, a jolly soul, and one fine cook. She lets me come into the kitchen any time, and gives me a hot apple fritter or some grilled carrots. I found it was customary to give ten francs for the three maids to divide among them each month—three francs apiece—sixty cents for a month’s hard labor. I gave them twelve francs, and they were tickled to death. Then through the Vestiaire I got some warm things for Mélanie’s and Maria’s children for Christmas—a coat and dress for the little girl, and a doll and a purse filled with chocolate money covered with tinfoil (the kind Father used to enchant me with in East Orange days—he’s had to keep following it up, poor dear). Then for the little boy a coat and tiny trousers and blouse and necktie, and tin soldiers and candy. Louise has a little niece to whom I sent a dress and a darling doll’s tea-set—I used to have a set like it for my big Jean. Well, I’m sure the kids were pleased, and I know that the mothers have been beaming ever since. Mélanie puts a hot-water bottle in my bed every night now.
In the morning it is very dark, and I am correspondingly sleepy. She knocks at my door and says, “Sept heures et demie. Mademoiselle,—la journée commence,” and I turn over and in desperation sing (like Charles Woody), “Ferme la fenêtre, pour l’amour de Dieu!” Then I get up in the cold and light my candle—Madame won’t turn on the electricity in the morning—and the day does commence. At night the light goes off at eleven, so I not only dress by yellow candle-light, but write by it also—as I’m doing now.
The coal situation is terrific. For the last few days we’ve had no heat and no fires. It is just like out-of-doors in my room, and I sit in my fur coat and comforter all the time. It rains endlessly. I never thought that depression from mere weather could get me, but when you don’t see the sun for four weeks, the grayness gets inside of you. It gets dark at about half-past three or quarter of four. The other day I was walking down the Avenue de l’Opéra, and noticed that it was ten minutes past four. There was another clock beside the one I was looking at, which said quarter past eleven—New York time. It gave me a sort of a start, and I said right out loud, “Not even hungry for lunch yet.”
December 26.
Great Heavens! I started this ten days ago, and stopped because I had no more paper—now it’s after Christmas, and I have so much more to say, and so many, many things to thank you all for. We were all electrified at Father’s cable about the Ford. Did any girl ever have such a good father! I will write him at once! Then the “New Republic,” and Mother’s letter, and yours. Please write me about the things that you alone can tell me. Your letter was so fine the way it referred to what I had said before, and so gave me an idea what I had written and what you had thought of it. I’m certain you think I’m bad about writing—I will try to do better.
My Christmas was a very pleasant one. On Saturday the 23d I helped trim the tree and do up packages at one of the smaller hospitals here. It was Mrs. Lane who asked me to help, a charming American woman whose husband is head of the hospital. He had been called to the front by the illness of their son, one of the American Ambulance men near Verdun. Sunday night I went to the tree celebration, and it was a great experience. In the first place, the hospital is in an old French private mansion—hôtel, as they call it—and is quite a gorgeous place. What was once the salon was filled with convalescents, all well enough to be in uniform. At one end was the tree, the stage, and a piano, and at the other end we guests sat. All in between was a mass of soldiers in Joffre blue, laughing and jostling one another, expectant as children. There were a few musical numbers, and then a playlet with songs. I happened to be sitting by the mother of the girl in the playlet, and we had a beautiful time together. The girl was lovely, and how the men clapped and cheered!
Then there were speeches, and the tree was lighted. Before the presents were given out, the “Marseillaise” was sung. I hadn’t heard any singing here,—men together especially,—and to see them all facing the tree with the light on their faces, many of them pale, some bandaged, singing with their whole hearts, it was too much for me. Some had only one leg to stand on, and had their arms around the next fellows’ necks, some couldn’t see, and looked so alone. I wouldn’t let any one see the tears in my eyes, for tears seemed to be their last thought.