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_ A rainy autumn night; Papa Joubert sat reading his paper. He
heard a heavy pounding on his garden gate. Kicking off his
slippers, he put on the wooden sabots he kept for mud, shuffled
across the dripping garden, and opened the door into the dark
street. Two tall figures with rifles and kits confronted him. In
a moment he began embracing them, calling to his wife:
"Nom de diable, Maman, c'est David, David et Claude, tous les
deux!"
Sorry-looking soldiers they appeared when they stood in the
candlelight, plastered with clay, their metal hats shining like
copper bowls, their clothes dripping pools of water upon the
flags of the kitchen floor. Mme. Joubert kissed their wet cheeks,
and Monsieur, now that he could see them, embraced them again.
Whence had they come, and how had it fared with them, up there?
Very well, as anybody could see. What did they want
first,--supper, perhaps? Their room was always ready for them; and
the clothes they had left were in the big chest.
David explained that their shirts had not once been dry for four
days; and what they most desired was to be dry and to be clean.
Old Martha, already in bed, was routed out to heat water. M.
Joubert carried the big washtub upstairs. Tomorrow for
conversation, he said; tonight for repose. The boys followed him
and began to peel off their wet uniforms, leaving them in two
sodden piles on the floor. There was one bath for both, and they
threw up a coin to decide which should get into the warm water
first. M. Joubert, seeing Claude's fat ankle strapped up in
adhesive bandages, began to chuckle. "Oh, I see the Boche made
you dance up there!"
When they were clad in clean pyjamas out of the chest, Papa
Joubert carried their shirts and socks down for Martha to wash.
He returned with the big meat platter, on which was an omelette
made of twelve eggs and stuffed with bacon and fried potatoes.
Mme. Joubert brought the three-story earthen coffee-pot to the
door and called, "Bon appetit!" The host poured the coffee and
cut up the loaf with his clasp knife. He sat down to watch them
eat. How had they found things up there, anyway? The Boches
polite and agreeable as usual? Finally, when there was not a
crumb of anything left, he poured for each a little glass of
brandy, "pour cider la digestion," and wished them good-night. He
took the candle with him.
Perfect bliss, Claude reflected, as the chill of the sheets grew
warm around his body, and he sniffed in the pillow the old smell
of lavender. To be so warm, so dry, so clean, so beloved! The
journey down, reviewed from here, seemed beautiful. As soon as
they had got out of the region of martyred trees, they found the
land of France turning gold. All along the river valleys the
poplars and cottonwoods had changed from green to yellow,--evenly
coloured, looking like candle flames in the mist and rain. Across
the fields, along the horizon they ran, like torches passed from
hand to hand, and all the willows by the little streams had
become silver. The vineyards were green still, thickly spotted
with curly, blood-red branches. It all flashed back beside his
pillow in the dark: this beautiful land, this beautiful people,
this beautiful omelette; gold poplars, blue-green vineyards, wet,
scarlet vine leaves, rain dripping into the court, fragrant
darkness . . . sleep, stronger than all. _
Read next: Book Five: "Bidding the Eagles of the West Fly On": Chapter 13
Read previous: Book Five: "Bidding the Eagles of the West Fly On": Chapter 11
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