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_ Deeper and deeper into flowery France! That was the sentence
Claude kept saying over to himself to the jolt of the wheels, as
the long troop train went southward, on the second day after he
and his company had left the port of debarkation. Fields of
wheat, fields of oats, fields of rye; all the low hills and
rolling uplands clad with harvest. And everywhere, in the grass,
in the yellowing grain, along the road-bed, the poppies spilling
and streaming. On the second day the boys were still calling to
each other about the poppies; nothing else had so entirely
surpassed their expectations. They had supposed that poppies grew
only on battle fields, or in the brains of war correspondents.
Nobody knew what the cornflowers were, except Willy Katz, an
Austrian boy from the Omaha packing-houses, and he knew only an
objectionable name for them, so he offered no information. For a
long time they thought the red clover blossoms were wild
flowers,--they were as big as wild roses. When they passed the
first alfalfa field, the whole train rang with laughter; alfalfa
was one thing, they believed, that had never been heard of
outside their own prairie states.
All the way down, Company B had been finding the old things
instead of the new,--or, to their way of thinking, the new things
instead of the old. The thatched roofs they had so counted upon
seeing were few and far between. But American binders, of
well-known makes, stood where the fields were beginning to
ripen,--and they were being oiled and put in order, not by
"peasants," but by wise-looking old farmers who seemed to know
their business. Pear trees, trained like vines against the wall,
did not astonish them half so much as the sight of the familiar
cottonwood, growing everywhere. Claude thought he had never
before realized how beautiful this tree could be. In verdant
little valleys, along the clear rivers, the cottonwoods waved and
rustled; and on the little islands, of which there were so many
in these rivers, they stood in pointed masses, seemed to grip
deep into the soil and to rest easy, as if they had been there
for ever and would be there for ever more. At home, all about
Frankfort, the farmers were cutting down their cottonwoods
because they were "common," planting maples and ash trees to
struggle along in their stead. Never mind; the cottonwoods were
good enough for France, and they were good enough for him! He
felt they were a real bond between him and this people.
When B Company had first got their orders to go into a training
camp in north central France, all the men were disappointed.
Troops much rawer than they were being rushed to the front, so
why fool around any longer? But now they were reconciled to the
delay. There seemed to be a good deal of France that wasn't the
war, and they wouldn't mind travelling about a little in a
country like this. Was the harvest always a month later than at
home, as it seemed to be this year? Why did the farmers have rows
of trees growing along the edges of every field--didn't they take
the strength out of the soil? What did the farmers mean by
raising patches of mustard right along beside other crops? Didn't
they know that mustard got into wheat fields and strangled the
grain?
The second night the boys were to spend in Rouen, and they would
have the following day to look about. Everybody knew what had
happened at Rouen--if any one didn't, his neighbours were only too
eager to inform him! It had happened in the market-place, and the
market-place was what they were going to find.
Tomorrow, when it came, proved to be black and cold, a day of
pouring rain. As they filed through the narrow, crowded streets,
that harsh Norman city presented no very cheering aspect. They
were glad, at last, to find the waterside, to go out on the
bridge and breathe the air in the great open space over the
river, away from the clatter of cart-wheels and the hard voices
and crafty faces of these townspeople, who seemed rough and
unfriendly. From the bridge they looked up at the white chalk
hills, the tops a blur of intense green under the low,
lead-coloured sky. They watched the fleets of broad, deep-set
river barges, coming and going under their feet, with tilted
smokestacks. Only a little way up that river was Paris, the place
where every doughboy meant to go; and as they leaned on the rail
and looked down at the slow-flowing water, each one had in his
mind a confused picture of what it would be like. The Seine, they
felt sure, must be very much wider there, and it was spanned by
many bridges, all longer than the bridge over the Missouri at
Omaha. There would be spires and golden domes past counting, all
the buildings higher than anything in Chicago, and
brilliant--dazzlingly brilliant, nothing grey and shabby about it
like this old Rouen. They attributed to the city of their desire
incalculable immensity, bewildering vastness, Babylonian hugeness
and heaviness--the only attributes they had been taught to admire.
Late in the morning Claude found himself alone before the Church
of St. Ouen. He was hunting for the Cathedral, and this looked as
if it might be the right place. He shook the water from his
raincoat and entered, removing his hat at the door. The day, so
dark without, was darker still within; . . . far away, a few
scattered candles, still little points of light . . . just before
him, in the grey twilight, slender white columns in long rows,
like the stems of silver poplars.
The entrance to the nave was closed by a cord, so he walked up
the aisle on the right, treading softly, passing chapels where
solitary women knelt in the light of a few tapers. Except for
them, the church was empty . . . empty. His own breathing was
audible in this silence. He moved with caution lest he should
wake an echo.
When he reached the choir he turned, and saw, far behind him, the
rose window, with its purple heart. As he stood staring, hat in
hand, as still as the stone figures in the chapels, a great bell,
up aloft, began to strike the hour in its deep, melodious throat;
eleven beats, measured and far apart, as rich as the colours in
the window, then silence . . . only in his memory the throbbing
of an undreamed-of quality of sound. The revelations of the glass
and the bell had come almost simultaneously, as if one produced
the other; and both were superlatives toward which his mind had
always been groping,--or so it seemed to him then.
In front of the choir the nave was open, with no rope to shut it
off. Several .straw chairs were huddled on a flag of the stone
floor. After some hesitation he took one, turned it round, and
sat down facing the window. If some one should come up to him and
say anything, anything at all, he would rise and say, "Pardon,
Monsieur; je ne sais pas c'est defendu." He repeated this to
himself to be quite sure he had it ready.
On the train, coming down, he had talked to the boys about the
bad reputation Americans had acquired for slouching all over the
place and butting in on things, and had urged them to tread
lightly, "But Lieutenant," the kid from Pleasantville had piped
up, "isn't this whole Expedition a butt-in? After all, it ain't
our war." Claude laughed, but he told him he meant to make an
example of the fellow who went to rough-housing.
He was well satisfied that he hadn't his restless companions on
his mind now. He could sit here quietly until noon, and hear the
bell strike again. In the meantime, he must try to think: This
was, of course, Gothic architecture; he had read more or less
about that, and ought to be able to remember something. Gothic .
. . that was a mere word; to him it suggested something very
peaked and pointed,--sharp arches, steep roofs. It had nothing to
do with these slim white columns that rose so straight and
far,--or with the window, burning up there in its vault of gloom
. . . .
While he was vainly trying to think about architecture, some
recollection of old astronomy lessons brushed across his
brain,--something about stars whose light travels through space
for hundreds of years before it reaches the earth and the human
eye. The purple and crimson and peacock-green of this window had
been shining quite as long as that before it got to him . . . .
He felt distinctly that it went through him and farther still . .
. as if his mother were looking over his shoulder. He sat
solemnly through the hour until twelve, his elbows on his knees,
his conical hat swinging between them in his hand, looking up
through the twilight with candid, thoughtful eyes.
When Claude joined his company at the station, they had the laugh
on him. They had found the Cathedral,--and a statue of Richard
the Lion-hearted, over the spot where the lion-heart itself was
buried; "the identical organ," fat Sergeant Hicks assured him.
But they were all glad to leave Rouen. _
Read next: Book Five: "Bidding the Eagles of the West Fly On": Chapter 5
Read previous: Book Five: "Bidding the Eagles of the West Fly On": Chapter 3
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