“They never guessed it was there.  It was Sainte Claire, Madame, who saved it.  I poured her a glassful and we celebrated, Madame; we celebrated the victory down in our cave, ma’tiote Sainte Claire and I.”

* * * * *

Mademoiselle Froissart and I left the Poste de Secours one day, and started for a far away village that was said to be utterly wiped out.  Our drive lay over a terrific road.  We crossed a vast sad plain, intersected with trenches, with nothing in sight but one monster deserted tank, still camouflaged, and here and there the silhouette of a blasted tree against the lowering sky.  These dead trees of the battle line!  Sometimes, with their bony limbs flung forth in gnarled unnatural gestures, they remind me of frantic skeletons suddenly petrified in their dance of death.  They are frenzied, and unutterably tragic.  They seem to move; yet they are so dead.  And I imagine their denuded tortured arms reaching toward unanswering Heaven in an agony of protest against the fate that has gripped all nature.

We entered a torn and tangled forest.  The road was narrow and overgrown, and several times I had to dodge hand grenades that lay in the grassy ruts.  The Ford ploughed bravely through deep mud, skidded, recovered, fell into holes, and kept on.  My attention was so focused upon driving that I saw little else but the road ahead, though once at an exclamation from Mademoiselle Froissart, out of the corner of my eye I saw a machine gun mounted and apparently intact.  The motor was toiling, but in my soul I blessed its regular noise that told me all was well.  Leaving the wood we came to what appeared to be a large rough clearing.  There were no trees—­only bumps of earth covered with tall weeds.  To our surprise we caught sight of the jaunty blue figure of a poilu, and then a band of slouching green-coated prisoners who were digging in their heavy leisurely manner.  Mademoiselle Froissart inquired for the village of Evricourt.

“Mais c’est ici, Madame,” replied the soldier with a grin.

“Here!” We stared.  There was nothing by which one could have told that this was the site of a town, except an occasional bit of brick that showed beneath the weeds.  All the Germans had stopped work to look at these two women who had so unexpectedly penetrated to this God-forsaken spot.  We asked whether any of the inhabitants had returned.

“Just one old man,” said the poilu, “who lives all alone in his cellar, over there.”  He pointed, and suddenly from the ground emerged an aged man, white haired and erect.  He came toward us, an astonishingly handsome figure.  His beautifully modeled head was like a bit of perfect sculpture found suddenly among rank ruins, whose very fineness shocks us because of its contrast with its coarse surroundings.  His blue eyes were piercing under bushy white brows, while a snowy and curling beard, abundant yet well trimmed, set off the dark ivory of his complexion.  And on his head, above the silvery waving hair, was placed at a careful angle a blue callot.  He was dressed in that agreeable soft blue that distinguishes the garments of those who work out of doors, and a spotless white shirt was turned back at the throat.