A sound of voices was heard beneath us, and the clang of the shovels being placed against the stone walls of the cellar.

“Those are the travailleurs.  The sergeant will be coming in and I must report to him.  Good-bye, American friend, and come again.”

A melancholy dusk was beginning as I turned home from the romantic house, and the deserted streets were filling with purplish shadows.  The concussion of exploding shells had blown almost all the glass out of the windows of the Church of St. Laurent, and the few brilliant red and yellow fragments that still clung to the twisted leaden frames reminded me of the autumn leaves that sometimes cling to winter-stricken trees.  The interior of the church was swept and garnished, and about twenty candles with golden flames, slowly waving in the drafts from the ruined windows, shone beneath a statue of the Virgin.  There was not another soul in the church.  A terrible silence fell with the gathering darkness.  In a little wicker basket at the foot of the benignant mother were about twenty photographs of soldiers, some in little brassy frames with spots of verdigris on them, some the old-fashioned “cabinet” kind, some on simple post-cards.  There was a young, dark Zouave who stood with his hand on an ugly little table, a sergeant of the Engineer Corps with a vacant, uninteresting face, and two young infantry men, brothers, on the same shabby finger-marked post-card.  Pious hands had left them thus in the care of the unhappy mother, “Marie, consolatrice des malheureux.”

The darkness of midnight was beginning at Pont-a-Mousson, for the town was always as black as a pit.  On my way home I saw a furtive knife edge of yellow light here and there under a door.  The sentry stood by his shuttered lantern.  Suddenly the first of the trench lights flowered in the sky over the long dark ridge of the Bois-le-Pretre.

Chapter VIII

Messieurs Les Poilus De La Grande Guerre

The word “poilu,” now applied to a French soldier, means literally “a hairy one,” but the term is understood metaphorically.  Since time immemorial the possession of plenty of bodily hair has served to indicate a certain sturdy, male bearishness, and thus the French, long before the war, called any good, powerful fellow—­“un veritable poilu.”  The term has been found applied to soldiers of the Napoleonic wars.  The French soldier of to-day, coming from the trenches looking like a well-digger, but contented, hearty, and strong, is the poilu par excellence.

The origin of the term “Boche,” meaning a German, has been treated in a thousand articles, and controversy has raged over it.  The probable origin of the term, however, lies in the Parisian slang word “caboche,” meaning an ugly head.  This became shortened to “Boche,” and was applied to foreigners of Germanic origin, in exactly the way that the American-born laborer applies the contemptuous term “square-head” to his competitors from northern Europe.  The word “Boche” cannot be translated by anything except “Boche,” any more than our word “Wop,” meaning an Italian, can be turned into French.  The same attitude, half banter, half race contempt, lies at the heart of both terms.