We had late breakfast together and they paid for it and then I went around to Morgan-Harjes. I read the expression on the clerk’s face as I stepped up to the window. When I left, I discovered there was a spring to my step which had been absent on the previous days.
I walked rapidly back to Henry’s and into the hotel. Henry was in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. As he saw me, I observed the expression on his face—he was not wearing his glasses but his eyes were squinted into little slits. I knew what was coming as he said he would like to speak to me. I cheerfully replied: “It is all right, the cablegram has come.”
When I saw Ned Townsend, “Red” Day and “Farney,” I told them they were to have supper at a certain quiet little café of mine, opposite the “Chinese Umbrella.”
XIX
Aillianville
Though my leave had not expired, I decided to return to the front with Townsend, “Red” Day and “Farney.” The Section had moved down into Lorraine, in the foot hills of the Vosges, the land of Joan of Arc. We found our Section in the town of Aillianville. There a barn had been converted into a dining room and up in the loft some of the men had placed their cots, while others were billeted in the homes of the townspeople—plain but wonderfully kindhearted peasant folks whose dress was in keeping with the surroundings and who splashed around the muddy streets in their wooden sabots—and the streets were often muddy, for it rained a great deal of the time. But in spite of frequent rains it was none the less delightful here. It was a most pleasant contrast to the desolation in front of Verdun—to see unmolested forests, the foliage turning to autumn colors—to see cows grazing in the fields—sometimes a dog on a frolic, barking at their heels—to see peasant women sitting in the fields with their knitting and keeping a watchful eye on the cattle—and the war not so very many miles away.
Ned Townsend and I lost no time in finding quarters in the home of a peasant. The house, which could not have been built later than the seventeenth century, had two rooms and a garret. One room with open fire place served as a kitchen, living room and bedroom all combined. A bed was built in the wall and during the day was hidden by curtains. Here slept the patron Tourgant and his wife. Townsend and I took the other room, which had two beds in it. One of the window panes was gone, but this was none the less luxury. Our work was light and we enjoyed the life to the fullest extent. We could retire at night with a sense of security that we were not likely to be disturbed before morning. The house stood under the shadow of an ancient church and if we did lie awake, we could hear the clock in the steeple chiming off the quarter hours. It was sometimes pleasant to awaken in the middle of the night to hear the clock striking the hour and then to fall asleep again with the thought that there were some hours left for undisturbed rest.
It was usually Madame Tourgant, with wrinkled face, bronzed like a gipsy, who called us in the morning and set a cup of hot coffee by our beds. Sometimes when we came in late, chilled and wet with the rain, Monsieur Tourgant would get out of bed, pull on a few clothes, kick the dying embers of the faggots on the hearth into life and heat a cup of coffee for us. And so if there was some work to do, there was time for rest and relaxation.
In this country, it had once been the sport of kings to hunt the wild boar. Now the kings were otherwise engaged, but it was still the sport of peasants and poilus. Kings do not control all the sport there is—especially now.