XII
8 September, 1914.
WE were up at four this morning. The officers billeted in the house were not expecting to break camp until seven or eight o'clock, but they were suddenly roused by a messenger with orders to start at once. A hasty breakfast, and the signal for departure was given.
I run out into the wet grass of the garden to gather all the roses I can find. I hand them to the soldiers as they leave us saying: "From your mothers—from your sisters."
Tears come into their eyes, poor fellows! One of the officers takes my hand, kisses it and says:
"Your reminding us of our mothers and sisters, Mademoiselle, touches us deeply. It is with much emotion that I tell you, in behalf of my comrades and my men, who are too moved to speak for themselves, how grateful we are for the gracious vision we shall carry away with us to the battlefield with these roses."
I am afraid of breaking down, so I turn away abruptly and go to distribute fruit to the soldiers.
Several weeks later I received from the mother of one of them a letter thanking me for the kindness I had done in her name.
No need to thank me, Madam. In the face of the feelings that stirred me at that hour—feelings that I could not put into words—this act was small indeed. Those brave boys starting forth to face the cannon that boomed so near at hand—how could I make them understand that our prayers were with them—followed them? This poor makeshift was all I could find to let them know at this tragic moment that I longed to serve as a bond between them and their loved ones who were so far away.
I could not help thinking, too, that if one of them were to fall, he would at least have this little flower with him, and so be less alone.