Not even the war which swept over in all its
ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. Many houses have
collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked
roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new
tar paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism. Vauchelles has met the
challenge of devastation and is setting things aright.
Is the town asleep? The healing July sun softly warms the silent houses
and their broken walls and closed doors. No one is in sight. Yet we have
come with our camionette well laden with clothing for the inhabitants.
Ah! they are all away working in the fields. Old Mademoiselle Masson,
peering through the one pane of glass that is left in her window, sees
us, and hobbles to the door to give us the information. She beams upon
us, an unkempt yet gracious figure, and when she talks her false teeth
move slightly up and down. She will run and call her sister who is up on
the hill, and she will tell Madame Riflet as she goes. The news will
spread. The news always spreads. Already the people are gathering, for
_la Croix Rouge_ is its own introduction; and these peasants, too
proud--most of them--to go and ask, will accept what is freely and
gladly given at their doors.
The first person I call upon is Madame Cat. Shall I soon forget that
determined little face with its deep set blue eyes, and sharp features
unsoftened by the brown hair that is pulled back from her forehead? Or
the one room left in that tiny house, shattered and bare, yet stamped
indelibly with the character of its valiant occupants? The ashes are
swept in the fireplace.
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