They were engaged, and every little while he would fly over from his station to see Suzanne. Those were in the early days and aviation—well, even at that, it hasn’t changed so much.
One day a letter came for Suzanne, and with a catch at her throbbing heart she read that her fiancé had been killed. [v]“Mort pour la patrie,” it said, and Suzanne was never the same afterward.
For many months the poor girl grieved, but, finally, she began to realize that what had happened to her had happened to thousands of other girls, too, and, gradually, she took up the attitude that you find throughout this glorious country. Only her eyes now tell the sad story.
One evening two men walked into the café and from their talk Suzanne knew they were from l’ecole. She sat down and listened to them. They talked about the war, about aviation, about deeds of heroism, and Suzanne drank in every word, for they were talking the language of her dead lover. The two aviators stayed to dinner, but the big room was not good enough. They must come back to the family dinner—to the intimacy of the back room.
They stayed all night and left early next morning, but before they left they wrote their names in a big book. To-day, Suzanne has the book, filled full of names, many now famous, many names that are only a memory—that is how it started.
When the two pilots went back to l’ecole, they spoke in glowing terms of “Suzanne’s,” of the soft beds, of the delicious dinner, and, I think, mostly of Suzanne.
Visitors came after that to eat at “Suzanne’s,” and to see her famous book. They came regularly and, finally, “Suzanne’s” became an institution.
Always, a pilote was taken into the back room; he ate with the family, he told them all the news from l’ecole, and, in exchange, he heard stories about the early days, stories that will never be printed, but which embody examples of the heroism and intelligence that have done their part to develop aviation.
Soon, we went in to dinner, and such a dinner! Truly, nothing is too good for an aviator at “Suzanne’s,” and they give of their best to these wandering strangers. They do not ask your name, they call every one Monsieur, but before you leave you sign the book and they all crowd around to look, without saying anything. Your name means nothing yet, but a year from now, perhaps, who can tell? In the first pages are names that have been bywords for years and some that are famous the world over.
After dinner, Suzanne slipped away, presently to reappear with a special bottle and glasses. I felt sure this was part of the entertainment afforded all their winged visitors, for they went about it in a practised manner; each was familiar with his or her part, but to me it was all delightfully new.