The Noulins themselves were among my earliest surprises. How they came I know not, but one day I found the trio, father, mother and daughter, tidying up the premises they had rented from M. Huillard. The outermost room, from the walls of which still depended half-charred pictures, gaped to the sky. But this was used as a store-room for neatly stacked wood and fodder; within, the main room served as both kitchen and épicerie; off it opened two bedrooms, and in the rear was a yard. The rooms were completely furnished and the yard stocked with hens and about thirty rabbits. In the stable stood a pony and a high-wheeled cart. All these goods had M. Noulin bought and brought back from Compiègne, whither he had fled at the outbreak of the war.
It was in the épicerie, which we provisioned, that I came to look for most of the news of Canizy. Here, about the table, might sit drinking the Moroccans who were repairing the canal. Here Mme. Moulin thrust into my hand an account of our own Unit in her fashion journal of the month; an account glowing with undeserved praise of America and concluding with the words: “Heureux pays, où sur les mairies des villages on pourrait écrire: ‘Aide-toi, l’Amérique t’aidera.’ Plus heureuses Américaines, qui peuvent et qui savent donner!”
Here she showed me a postal marked Deutschland, and bearing on its back the picture of a jovial-looking man in civilian dress. “It is my son,” explained Mme. Noulin. “He is a prisonnier militaire, and sends me this to show me how well he is. He writes, too, that he has plenty to eat, of sugar, of chocolate, and is always warm,—there is so much of coal! Think you it is true?”
On the table was lying a package, done up with many directions, all pointing to Germany. “What is this?” I asked. “That is for him; but the factrice could not take it to-day; such are her orders. No packages will be transported by Germany this week, or next, or who knows for how long? It is on account of a troop movement, she says.”
“But why then do you send, if he has no need?”
“There, what did I tell you?” broke in her husband. “Oh, these women; they have no minds! It is the enemy who sends the letters, that we may feel more bitterly the cold, the hunger, the misery, that we endure!”
It was at Mme. Noulin’s, in fine, that I first met M. l’Aumônier.
A snowy, windy morning it was, and the glare and the smart in my eyes blinded me so that I did not at first note anything unusual about the blue-clad soldier sitting by the fire. Declining Madame’s invitation to share the open bottle of wine on the table, I was proceeding with my errand when she’ interrupted, “Mademoiselle, I want you to know that this is M. l’Aumônier from Offoy, who takes an interest, like you, in Canizy.”
The chaplain arose at the informal introduction. A deprecatory smile became well his sensitive yet Roman features, and a quick flush heightened his colour. “But no,” he said, his enunciation betraying him a gentleman in spite of the plain uniform, “it is I who have been hearing of your goodness and that of your co-benefactresses, Mademoiselle.”
“Mademoiselle,” protested Mme. Noulin, “you should know that Monsieur walks from Offoy every morning before eight o’clock to conduct a class in the catechism in the church.”