“‘Allons, Mam’zelle, get your sleep to-night. If this arm of mine won’t keep quiet, I can be of some use. I’ll make the rounds.’”
“And the brave fellows who fretted because they couldn’t return soon enough to the lines! They were so gay. I remember a little Breton who had both legs gone, posing for his photograph, with stockings pinned to his trousers, and saying:
“‘When I get up to Paris, I’ll get a pair of legs that’ll make me two inches taller than this old Auvergnat over here!’”
“Those are the things that are good to remember. Poor boys! There were so many that died unnecessarily! We were so few, and we could do so little!”
“But you had doctors?”
She shook her head.
“I am speaking of the first months. Only from time to time a doctor, and, when the Germans had the village, never. But I think that was better.”
“I could not have done that,” I said, shaking my head. “I think I could meet what I had to meet but—day in and day out—to have seen others suffer, others die like that—”
“I only remember the look of gratitude in their eyes,” she said, simply. “And then, I had my part. I had to keep up their morale, you know, and send them back to the front with courage. It would never have done for me to weaken.” She turned with a smile and saw the profound gravity on my face. “Believe me, what I say is true,” she said solemnly. “It had its hardships, but they were days of beauty, and I never think on them without a thrill of pride in the France I have been privileged to know. Please don’t look so grave. I’m afraid I’ve been too serious.”