CHAPTERXIV

chapterxiv

theprettiestviewofamienswasfromthebanksofthesommeoutsidethecity,ontheeastside,andtherewasacharmingwalkalongthetow-path,pastmarket-gardensgoingdowntotheriverontheoppositebank,andpastthegardensoflittlechaletsbuiltforlove-in-idlenessindaysofpeace.theywereoffantasticarchitecture—thesecottageswherewell-to-docitizensofamiensusedtocomeforweek-endsofboatingandfishing—andtheirgardengatesattheendofwoodenbridgesoverback-waterswereofirontwistedintotheshapesofswansorflowers,andthereweresnailsofterra-cottaonthechimney-pots,andpaintedwoodworkonthewalls,intheworsttaste,yetamusingandpleasingtotheeyeintheirgreenbowers.irememberonecalledmonidee,andwonderedthatanymanshouldbeproudofsuchafreakishconceptionofacountryhouse.theywereabandonedduringthewar,exceptoneortwousedforcasualrendezvousbetweenfrenchofficersandtheirlighto'loves,andthetow-pathwasusedonlybystraycoupleswhocameoutforloneliness,andbritishsoldierswalkingoutwithfrenchgirls.themarket-gardenerspunteddowntheriverinlong,shallowboats,likegondolas,ladenhighwithcabbages,cauliflowers,andasparagus,andfartherup-streamtherewasaboat-housewhereorderliesfromthenewzealandhospitalinamiensusedtogetskiffsforanhour'srowing,leaningontheiroarstolookatthepictureofthecathedralrisinglikeamiragebeyondthewillowsandtheencirclingwater,withfleecycloudsaboveitsglitteringroof,orluridstorm-cloudswiththeredglowofsunsetbeneaththeirwings.intheduskorthedarknesstherewassilencealongthebanksbutforaceaselessthrobbingofdistantgun-fire,risingsometimestoafuryofdrummingwhenthefrenchsoixante-quinzewasatwork,outsideroyeandthelinesbeyondsuzanne.itwaswhatthefrenchcalllarafaledestamboursdelamort—theruffleofthedrumsofdeath.thewindingwatersofthesommeflowedinhigherreachesthroughthehellofwarbybiachesandst.-christ,thissideofperonne,wheredeadbodiesfloatedinslimeandblood,andtherewasalitterofbrokenbridgesandbarges,anddeadtrees,andammunition-boxes.theriveritselfwasahighwayintohell,andtherecamebackuponitstideinslow-movingbargesthewreckageofhumanlife,freshfromthetorturers.thesebargesusedtounloadtheircargoesofmaimedmenatacarpenter'syardjustbelowthebridge,outsidethecity,andoftenasipassedisawhumanbodiesbeingliftedoutandcarriedonstretchersintothewoodensheds.theywerethebadcases—frenchboyswoundedintheabdomenorlungs,orwiththeirlimbstornoff,orhopelesslyshattered.itwasanagonyforthemtobemoved,evenonthestretchers.someofthemcriedoutinfearfulanguish,ormoanedlikewoundedanimals,againandagain.thosesoundsspoiledthemusicofthelappingwaterandthewhisperingofthewillowsandthesongofbirds.thesightofthesetorturedboys,madeuselessinlife,tookthecoloroutoftheflowersandthebeautyoutofthatvisionofthegreatcathedral,splendidabovetheriver.womenwatchedthemfromthebridge,strainingtheireyesasthebodieswerecarriedtothebank.ithinksomeofthemlookedfortheirownmen.oneofthemspoketomeoneday.

“thatiswhatthegermansdotooursons.bandits!assassins!”

“yes.thatiswar,madame.”

sheputaskinnyhandonmyarm.

“willitgoonforever,thiswar?untilallthemenarekilled?”

“notsolongasthat,madame.somemenwillbeleftalive.theveryoldandtheveryyoung,andtheluckyones,andthosebehindthelines.”

“thegermansarelosingmanymen,monsieur?”

“heaps,madame.ihaveseentheirbodiesstrewnaboutthefields.”

“ah,thatisgood!ihopeallgermanwomenwilllosetheirsons,asihavelostmine.”

“wherewasthat,madame?”

“overthere.”

shepointedupthesomme.

“hewasagoodson.afineboy.itseemsonlyyesterdayhelayatmybreast.mymanweepsforhim.theyweregoodcomrades.”

“itissad,madame.”

“ah,butyes.itissad!aurevoir,monsieur.”

“aurevoir,madame.”