M. Yvette accompanied me to the train at the Gare du Nord, and as I bade him "Farewell," he referred to the familiar and deep impression made upon everyone of the profound unity of the people, telling me that the Catholic Abbé Marcadé whose services at Le Bourget had attracted so much praise, had dined with the officers of the regiment and with the socialist mayor of the commune. He added, "I tell you, M. Lupin, the cementation of France is extraordinary. National cohesion has made us incompressible."
"Ah," I answered as I stepped into the almost empty train, "remember, M. Yvette, there is also such a calamity as pulverization."
My spirits had undergone a complete change since my talk with Père Grandin, and a gnawing feeling of hopelessness tormented me.
But how inexpressibly sweet it all was at St. Choiseul, and in the lovely and beloved country about it, as I walked along the familiar road from Briois, with the scent of the meadows, slowly ripening and withering at the summer's close; caught the long glimpses of the white road—lit now only by the light of the stars—indistinctly heaped, under the straight poplars, with the falling leaves, and then after the little stone bridge was passed with the liquid eyes of the stars gazing up to me as if from depthless nether worlds in the deep pools, I saw the massed houses of our village with hospitable lights shining from their windows. The urgent smell of flowers breathed from its walled gardens, and I prayed aloud that the hand of the destroyer or the cruel fury of bomb and shell and shrapnel might not invade the entrancing spot. The fresh odors—roses, heliotrope, verbena—enriched with an added effluence from the wet ground, bestowed upon the place a sort of consecration of beauty, peace, and sweetness.
I passed Privat Deschat's, and there was no light in the upper story window where he often read late into the night. I instantly caught sight of our home, where the windows of the library sent out so bright a light, that as I stood before the gate I could distinguish its occupants. Lights in other rooms shone out more timidly. The old home had doubtless gathered our group of friends, and it was an auspicious moment for me to enter. I raised the knocker and let it fall with a rub-a-dub-dub that I invariably used. I heard the running footsteps within, and the door flew open and I fell into the arms of Gabrielle.
"Alfred, Alfred. How good. O! We are glad to see you. And our friends are here, and we are all wild with anxiety to know what is being done; what is happening. Come, come," and the impatient creature pulled me into the now filled doorway of the library, where one by the other stood father and mother, Père Antoine, Père Grandin, the captain, and Privat Deschat, with Dora Destin, the little circle of our intimates, all peering with wide-open eyes at me as the bearer of new tidings, new hopes perhaps.
An embrace of mother and father and of the Capitaine, a hearty hand-shake of Père Grandin and Père Antoine, of good Privat Deschat, and an unreluctant kiss from the pretty Dora brought me well into the room.
"Where," I said, "is Quintado?"
"O! Monsieur Lupin," it was the half wailing voice of Dora, "He has gone to the regiment and is on his way to the front."
I looked intently at the half weeping child, and discovered a budding romance there.