CHAPTERVII

chaptervii

iwasbilletedforatimewithotherwarcorrespondentsinanoldhouseintherueamiralcourbet,onthewaytotheriversommefromthestreetofthethreepebbles,andwithaviewofthespireofthecathedral,awonderfulthingofdelicatelinesandtracery,gravenwithloveineveryline,bymuirheadbone,andfrommydormerwindow.itwasthehouseofmme.delarochefoucauld,wholivedfartheroutofthetown,butdroveinnowandthentolookatthislittlemansionofhersattheendofacourtyardbehindwrought-irongates.itwasbuiltinthedaysbeforetherevolution,whenitwasdangeroustobeafineladywiththenameofrochefoucauld.thefurniturewasratherscanty,andwasofthelouisquinzeandempireperiods.someportraitsofoldgentlemenandladiesoffrance,withoneyoungfellowinascarletcoat,whomighthavebeenintheking'scompanyoftheguardaboutthetimewhenwolfescaledtheheightsofabraham,summoneduptheghostsofthehouse,andilikedtothinkofthemintheseroomsandgoingintheirsedan-chairsacrossthelittlecourtyardtohighmassatthecathedralortoagameofbeziqueinsomeothermansion,stillstandinginthequietstreetsofamiens,unlessinadayinmarchof1918theyweredestroyedwithmanyhundredsofhousesbybombsandgun-fire.mylittleroomwasonthefloorbelowthegarret,andhereatnight,afteralongdayinthefieldsupbypozieresormartinpuichorbeyond,byligny-tilloy,onthewaytobapaume,inthelongleandslaughterovereveryinchofground,iusedtowritemyday'sdespatch,tobetakennextday(itwasbeforewewereallowedtousethemilitarywires)byking'smessengertoengland.

thosearticles,writtenathighspeed,withanimpressionismbornoutofmanynewmemoriesoftragicandheroicscenes,wereinterruptedsometimesbyair-bombardments.hostileairmencameoftentoamiensduringthesommefighting,tounloadtheirbombsasneartothestationastheycouldguess,whichwasnotoftenverynear.generallytheykilledafewwomenandchildrenandknockedafewpoorhousesandashoportwointoawildrubbishheapofbricksandtimber.whileiwrote,listeningtothecrashingofglassandtheanti-aircraftfireoffrenchgunsfromthecitadel,iusedtowondersubconsciouslywhetherishouldsuddenlybehurledintochaosattheendofanunfinishedsentence,andnowandagaininspiteofmydesperateconflictwithtimetogetmymessagedone(thecensorswerewaitingforitdownstairs)ihadtogetupandwalkintothepassagetolistentotheinfernalnoiseinthedarkcityofamiens.butiwentbackagainandbentovermypaper,concentratingonthepictureofwarwhichiwastryingtosetdownsothattheworldmightseeandunderstand,untilonceagain,tenminuteslaterorso,mywill-powerwouldweakenandthelittledeviloffearwouldcreepuptomyheartandiwouldgouneasilytothedooragaintolisten.thenoncemoretomywriting...nothingtouchedthehouseintherueamiralcourbetwhilewewerethere.butitwasintomybedroomthatashellwentcrashingafterthatnightinmarchwhenamienswasbadlywrecked,andwelistenedtothenoiseofdestructionallaroundusfromaroominthehoteldurhinontheothersideoftheway.ishouldhavebeensleepingstillifihadsleptthatnightinmylittleoldbedroomwhentheshellpaidavisit.

therewerenolightsallowedatnightinamiens,andwhenithinkofdarknessithinkofthatcityintimeofwar,whenallthestreetswereblacktunnelsandonefumbledone'swaytimidly,ifonehadnoflash-lamp,betweentheoldhouseswiththeirpointedgables,comingintosharpcollisionsometimeswithotherwayfarers.butuptomidnighttherewerelittlelightsflashingforasecondandthengoingout,alongthestreetofthethreepebblesandinthedarkcornersofside-streets.theywerecarriedbygirlsseekingtoenticeenglishofficersontheirwaytotheirbillets,andtheyclusteredlikeglowwormsaboutthesidedoorofthehoteldurhinafternineo'clock,andoutsidetherailingsofthepublicgardens.asonepassed,thebrightbull's-eyefromapockettorchflashedinone'seyes,andintheradianceofitonesawagirl'sface,laughing,comingveryclose,whileherfingersfeltforone'sbadge.

“howdarkitisto-night,littlecaptain!areyounotafraidofdarkness?iamfulloffear.itissosad,thiswar,sodismal!itiscomradeshipthathelpsonenow!...alittlelove...alittlelaughter,andthen—whoknows?”

alittlelove...alittlelaughter—alluringwordstoboysoutofonebattle,expectinganother,hatingitall,lonelyintheirsoulsbecauseofthethoughtofdeath,inexilefromtheirownfolk,inexilefromallwomanhoodandtender,femininethings,upthereintheditchesandshellcratersofthedesertfields,orinthehutsofheadquartersstaffs,orinreservecampsbehindthefighting-line.alittlelove,alittlelaughter,andthen—whoknows?thesirenshadwhisperedtheirownthoughts.theyhadtranslatedintoprettyfrenchthetemptationofallthelittledevilsintheirsouls.

“unpeud'amour-”

oneflash-lampwasenoughfortwodownanarrowstreettowardtheriverside,andthenupalittledarkstairwaytoalamp-litroom...presentlythispoorboywouldbestrickenwithdiseaseandwishhimselfdead.