Round about Bar-le-Duc

by Susanne R. Day

The tug of war ended, as such tugs generally do, in our going together, smoothing hair that flew on end, flinging overalls into a corner and praying hastily that the Curé might be an unobservant man. He was. There was only one vision in the world for him; the air, the atmosphere, life itself were but mirrors reflecting it; but conceding that it was a large one, we found some excuse for his egoism. Large? Massive. He was some inches over six feet in height and his soutane described a wide arc in advance. His hands were thick and cushiony, you felt yours sink into their pneumatic fastnesses as you greeted him; he had a huge head, very little hair, a long heavy jowl, small eyes, and he breathed fatly, thickly. His voice was slightly smothered. Many years ago he had retired from his ministry, living at N. because he owned property there, but the war, which called all priests of military age and fitness to the colours, drew him from his life of ease and put the two villages, N. and R., under his spiritual charge. His gestures were large and commanding, he exuded benevolence—the benevolence of a despot. There would be no divided authority in the Curé's kingdom. It was not a matter for surprise to hear that he was not on speaking terms with his mayor, it would have been a matter for surprise if, had he been Pope, he had ever relinquished his temporal power.

He wasted little time on the usual preliminaries, plunging directly into his subject. At N. and R. there were refugees, pauvres victimes de la guerre dans la grande misère, sleeping on straw comme des bêtes, cold, half-clothed, in need of every necessary. He had heard of us, of our generosity (he called us "mes bonnes dames," with just a hint of condescension in his manner), he wished us to visit his people. Wished? He commanded. He implied, by an art I had not thought him capable of, that we were yearning to visit them, that our days would be storm-tossed, our nights sleepless unless we brought them relief. From mendicant, he transformed himself into benefactor, bestowing on us an opportunity which—it is due to our reputation to suggest—we craved.

It was well that our inclination jumped with his desire, for he was quite capable of picking us up, one under each arm, and marching off with us to N., had we refused. But how refuse in face of such splendid faith in our goodwill, and under a shower of compliments that set us blushing to the tips of our toes? We punctuated the flood or shower with murmurs of, "C'est un plaisir," or, "On ne demande pas mieux." We felt like lumbering elephants as we tried to turn aside his flattery, but he merely waved a benediction and swept on. We would go to N. next Wednesday; he, Monsieur, would meet us, and conduct us personally over the village. He would tell us who were the good Catholics—not that he wished to deprive the careless or sinful of our help; still, it would be as well for us to know. We read "preferential treatment" on this sign-post, and carefully reserved our opinion. When the visits were over, we would go to his house and eat an œuf à la coque with him, and some confitures. His modest establishment ... a gesture indicated an ascetic régime, the bare necessities of life, but if we would accept?...

"With pleasure, if Monsieur was sure it would not inconvenience him."

"Mes bonnes dames," he replied grandly, "rien ne me dérange dans le service du bon Dieu."[7]

Of course it rained on Wednesday—rained quietly, hopelessly, despairingly, but persistently. Nevertheless we set out, chiefly—so great was Monsieur's faith in us—because it did not seem possible to remain at home. We put on the oilskins which, with the uniform, we had been led to understand would save our lives in France, but the sou'westers we did not wear. There are limits. And when later on we saw a worker clad in both, we did not know which to admire most, the courage which enabled her to wear them, or the utter lack of imagination which prevented her from realising their devastating effect.

So we left the sou'westers on the pegs from which they were never taken, and arrived at N. in black shiny oilskins that stood out stiffly like boards from our figures, and were almost as comfortable to wear. We were splashed with mud, and we dripped audibly on the Curé's beautiful parquet floor.

We wished to begin at once? Bon. Allons. He, the Curé, had prepared a list, the name of every refugee was inscribed on it. Oh, yes, he understood parfaitement, that to make paquets we must know the age and sex of every individual. All was prepared. We would see how perfect the arrangements were.

No doubt from his point of view they were perfect, but from ours chaotic. We climbed the village street, he like a frigate in full sail, his wide cloak gathered about him, leading the way, we like two rather disreputable punts towing along behind. You know what happened at the first house—that illuminating episode of the seau hygiénique? Worse, oh, much worse was to befall us later! He discussed the possibilities of family crockery with a bluntness that was conducive to apoplexy, he left nothing to the imagination; perhaps he thought the Britishers had no imagination.