“To Belgium; and I worked, always. And hungry, always hungry; one has nothing, eh! to eat.”
On another occasion I was offered apples; not the small, sour ones from which cider was made, but luscious golden globes that adorned the narrow beams of the hut like a frieze.
“See,” said Monsieur. “I will put them in this sack, so that you can carry them the more easily.”
But I, thinking of the long miles yet ahead of me, ventured to suggest that I call on my return.
“Very well, only, look you, I shall not be here. But wait, I will hide them. Behold, in the chaudière,” and suiting the action to the word he lifted the cover of the cauldron and placed them within. “No one will think to look for them there. Au revoir, until you return.”
But a rain set in that afternoon; a slant mist which made Corot-like effects of brown autumn copses and shut one in from the sometimes too lonely sweep of the plain. At the same time, it beat persistently on my face, and made heavier at every step my woollen uniform. I did not stop therefore for my apples, and wondered for a few days what had been their fate. But not for long.
One morning at breakfast I was told that I had a caller. Now callers about this time of a morning had become frequent, ever since Monsieur le Maire of the commune told his villagers that they must apply to us rather than to him for beds and stoves and cupboards. I visualised the waiting crones of Hombleux whom in America we should have thrust into an Old Ladies’ Home. Not so the French Government, which respected their sentiment and built for each on her own plot her own baraque. Knowing well that we had no cupboards, and no prospect of getting any, I rose with a sigh. But my face brightened at the sight of M. Guilleux.
Over his back hung a sack, nor was it empty.
“You did not come for your apples,” he began. “I hope that you wish them, however.” He unslung the sack, opened it, and disclosed the golden fruit.