“Everything!” answered the officer. “And worse than everything!”
Griffon spoke German, and had a short colloquy with the officer about us. This rather annoyed me, for as I did not understand, I imagined that he was urging the general to prevent our starting. I nevertheless resisted all persuasions, supplications, and even threats. A few minutes later, a well-appointed vehicle drew up at the door of the shed.
“There you are,” said the German officer roughly. “I am sending you to Gonesse, where you will find the provision train which starts in an hour. I am recommending you to the care of the station master, the Commandant—after that may God take care of you!”
I stepped into the general’s carriage, and said farewell to my friend, who was in despair. We arrived at Gonesse, and got out at the station, where we saw a little group of people talking in low voices. The coachman made me a military salute, refused what I wished to give him, and drove away at full speed. I advanced toward the group, wondering to whom I ought to speak, when a friendly voice exclaimed: “What, you here! Where have you come from? Where are you going?” It was Villaret, the tenor in vogue at the Opera. He was going to his young wife, I believe, of whom he had had no news for five months. He introduced one of his friends, who was traveling with him, and whose name I do not remember, General Pelissier’s son, and a very old man, so pale and so sad-looking and woebegone that I felt sorry for him. It was M. Gerson, and he was going to Belgium, to take his grandson to his godmother’s. His two sons had been killed during this pitiful war. One of the sons was married, and his wife had died of sorrow and despair. He was taking the orphan boy to his godmother, and he hoped to die himself as soon as possible afterwards. Ah, the poor fellow, his wish must have been accomplished very quickly, for he was only fifty-nine then, and he was so cruelly ravaged by his grief that I took him for seventy.
Besides these five persons, there was an unbearable chatterer, named Théodore Joussiau, a wine dealer. He did not require any introduction.
“How do you do, madame!” he began. “How lucky we are that you are going to travel with us! Ah! the journey will be a difficult one. Where are you going? Two women alone! It is not at all prudent, especially as all the routes are crowded with German and French sharpshooters, marauders, and thieves. Oh, haven’t I demolished some of those German sharpshooters! Sh—we must speak quietly, though. These sly fellows are very quick of hearing!...” He then pointed to the German officers who were walking up and down. “Ah, the rascals!” he went on. “If I had my military costume and my gun they would not walk so boldly in front of Théodore Joussiau. I have no less than six helmets at home....”
The man got on my nerves, and I turned my back on him and looked to see which of the men before me could be the station master. A tall young man with his arm in a sling, came toward me with an open letter. It was the one which the general’s coachman had handed to him, recommending me to his care. He held out his well arm to me but I refused it. He bowed and led the way, and I followed him, accompanied by Mlle. Soubise.
On arriving in his office he gave us seats at a little table, upon which knives and forks were placed for two persons. It was then three o’clock in the afternoon, and we had had nothing, not even a drop of water, since the evening before. I was very much touched by this thoughtfulness, and we did honor to the very simple but refreshing meal prepared for us by the young officer.
While we lunched I looked at him when he was not noticing. He was very young, and his face bore traces of recent suffering. I felt a compassionate tenderness for this unfortunate man who was crippled for life, and my hatred for war increased still more.
He suddenly said to me, in rather bad French: