And her husband, writing from Germany, demanded news of them! He did not know that the farm was demolished, and that she was beggared. He asked for parcels, for comforts. She sent them to him, by what supreme effort of self-denial only she and the God she prayed to know. And she wrote him little notes, gay, brave little notes. She told him all about the children—how fat and how strong they were.... And Marie—ah, Marie was growing tall—so tall.... And Roger was able to talk now....
God only knows what it cost her to write those letters; God only knows with what agony she forced her tears back to their source lest one, falling on the paper, betray her. She went about her work white-faced and worn, hungering for the news that never came, and autumn faded into winter and spring was born and blossomed into summer, and then, and then only, did the shutter lift and a tiny ray of light come through.
Confused and frightened, the old women, burdened with the children, had lost their way in the darkness and wandered back into the German lines. They were now prisoners in Carignan (near the frontier); they managed to smuggle a letter through. The baby was dead. There was no milk to be had, so it died of starvation. Madame Breda had been offered freedom. If she wished she would be sent back into France through Switzerland. But the children's names were not on the list of those selected for repatriation.
"Could they go with her?"
"No."
"Eh bien, j'y reste."
The shutter snapped down again, the veil enclosed them, and Madame resigned herself to the long, weary waiting.
Was it any wonder that such stories as this—and there were all too many of them—filled us with hatred of everything German? In those first months of personal contact with war we were always at white heat, consumed with rage and indignation, and for my own part, at least, desirous of nothing less than the extermination of kultur and every exponent of it. As I walked home through the quiet afternoon, dark thoughts filled my mind. What a monster one can be! What longing for vengeance even the mildest of us can cherish! I thought of another village not far from that of Madame Lassanne's home, from which three hundred people had been driven into virtual slavery. Nearly all were old—over sixty, some few were boys and girls of fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, and of the old, eighty died in the first six months.
It was a long time now since any news had come through, and those who waited had almost given up hope of seeing their loved ones again.
And we were impotent. With an effort I shook off despondency. I would go and see Madame Leblan and rest a while in her garden. She was lonely and loved a little visit. It would amuse her to hear about the Curé and our visit to N.; any gossip would serve to drive away her memories. "Ça change les idées," she would say. "It is not well to sit and brood."