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Potterat and the 
 War 
 
 By 
 
 Benjamin Vallotton 
 
 Author of 
 Propos du Commissaire Potterat," "Monsieur Potterat se marie," etc. 
 
 !••.••• I 3 * 
 
 New York 
 
 Dodd, Mead & Company 
 
 1918 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 ? I like this place immensely !" and with a wide sweep 
 of both arms towards the horizon, David Potterat added : 
 " The Alps on the left, the Jura on the right, the Lake 
 in front, the Jorat behind, the sun blazing away in the 
 heavens, a garden, and me in the middle of it. . . . 
 What more could a man want V* 
 
 So then, after a career full of honours and of dangers, 
 the retired Police Superintendent had settled down to 
 cultivate his flowers, grow salads, and employ his detec- 
 tive talents in tracking down snails and slugs. 
 
 Was it really nine years since he and his wife and two 
 cats had come to live in this old house, above whose 
 doorway, half hidden by the climbing ivy, might be 
 read the poetic name 'Eglantine Cottage.' . . . Nine 
 years ! But happiness is not to be measured by years. 
 
 Often would Potterat lean upon his spade, and look 
 up at the house, the overhanging eaves of which made it 
 look like an old face in a poke bonnet. With a musically 
 monotonous note the fountain behind the thicket 
 plashed ceaselessly into its basin; and the arched door 
 of the shed, the dormer windows, the laurels, and the 
 thousand and one flowers which faithfully came to keep 
 tryst with the seasons, the jasmine, honeysuckle, tulips, 
 larkspurs, carnations, and roses, lay always under the 
 magic of its voice. 
 
 Potterat loved to sit on the bench in the shade, and 
 smoke his pipe after the day's work. The fragrance of 
 coffee roasting in preparation for the evening meal, and 
 
 459571 
 
2 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 the scent of the flowers borne on the warm air, mingled 
 with the fragrant tobacco smoke, made an atmosphere 
 which it was good to breathe, which invigorated both 
 mind and body. 
 
 In the spotless kitchen, the deal table, the wooden 
 benches, the saucepans, the pots and pans, cups and 
 saucers, patterned with blue forget-me-nots, conveyed a 
 suggestion of peaceful torpor after many meals. In the 
 thickness of the wall a door opened on six steps leading 
 down to a cool cellar, where two casks reposed, in com- 
 pany with pots of jam in orderly rows. A second cellar 
 served as a general storeroom, workshop, and woodshed. 
 
 All these, however, shrank into unimportance beside 
 ' the room/ a good-sized chamber, not so small as to 
 make one feel cramped, nor so large as to make one feel 
 lost in it. Two windows, in deep embrasures, admitted 
 a discreet amount of light to the faded wallpaper on which 
 shepherdesses disported themselves; and to the old fur- 
 niture, ranged along the walls in orderly regularity. 
 Here were some shooting prizes, handsomely framed, 
 and the commissions of the master of the house to his 
 various grades, from sergeant to superintendent; some 
 photographs of heavily moustached policemen, others of 
 fellow-members of the brass band to which he belonged; 
 one of a smiling grandmother, whom the artist had 
 represented as standing by a cage of brilliantly plumaged 
 birds; and lastly, resplendent in their bridal veils, 
 Potterat's two wives, side by side on one wall, beamed 
 on a portrait of Potterat himself on the opposite wall, 
 Potterat in full uniform, the buttons of which shone 
 out from the dark cloth like dandelions on a grassy field, 
 and with his chest well thrown out. When the original 
 of the portrait sat on the sofa below, it could easily be 
 seen that the painter, in spite of all his efforts, had not 
 done full justice to Potterat's radiant cheeks, his plump, 
 easy-going good-nature, his merry eyes, and the smiling 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 3 
 
 gaiety of the whole face which arched his eyebrows, 
 wrinkled up his nose, creased his double chin, and made 
 his cheekbones glisten. 
 
 " That man of mine," Madame Potterat would say. 
 " He's always got his joke !" 
 
 For nine years his laugh had filled Eglantine Cottage. 
 The first few months of his settling there, however, had 
 not been without a certain melancholy. With the con- 
 tradictoriness of human nature, whilst he was in uniform, 
 promenading the streets, keeping vigilant guard, Super- 
 intendent Potterat was always longing for the country, 
 recalling the sights and sounds of his childhood in 
 Thierrens, a remote country village, and at Bioley-Orjulaz; 
 yet when he had retired to private life and the peaceful 
 cultivation of a garden, he yearned for the excitements 
 of life in the Police. But very soon Potterat banished 
 these weaknesses as unworthy of a man with so perfect 
 a digestion as his. 
 
 A true son of the earth, a lover of trees, of blue horizons 
 of wandering paths, he appreciated the minutes wasted 
 here and there in the mornings and evenings in watching 
 the promontories of the Lake, and the play of the light 
 on the translucent water. 
 
 It is like a scene on the stage \" said he to his wife. 
 
 " Except that there are no actors." 
 
 " Actors ? . . . What about you, and me, and the 
 hens, and the cats, and the bats, and the swallows ! 
 We make up our parts as we go. . . . There is nothing 
 so untrue to life as the theatre ! When I was a police- 
 man, I used to have to go there sometimes, in my pro- 
 fessional capacity. I generally sat up at the back of 
 the gallery. . . . Talk about actors ! It took them 
 three hours, sometimes four, to get to the point of saying 
 ' I love you !' and this in good pieces, mind you ! In the 
 other sort . . . nothing but inconstant husbands, light 
 women, emancipated girls, illegitimate births, revolver 
 
4 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 shooting, in fact, ' the devil and all his works '! Often 
 have I seen women apparently breathing their last, 
 lying flat on the linoleum ! But I only laughed in my 
 sleeve. I knew very well that I should see them the 
 next day as usual, tiptoeing about on their little high- 
 heeled shoes, their faces whiter with powder than a 
 plasterer's ! No, in the theatre, everything is made-up, 
 artificial; in the country, everything is natural." 
 
 Madame Potterat, also born in the country, and later 
 transplanted to the town, a milliner before she became 
 the wife of a gardener, had felt somewhat the same as 
 her husband. Her feelings were different, however; 
 more hidden, but perhaps stronger and more enduring. 
 While she was in daily contact with velvets, plumes, 
 aigrettes, ostrich feathers, artificial flowers, etc., she used 
 to indulge in wonderful dreams of some grand future. 
 Now, leaning over the cradle of a young Potterat, she 
 built castles in the air for her son, saw him at last married 
 to some high-born damsel. . . . Meantime, what was 
 to be his name ? . . . Gerard ? . . . Gontran ? . . . 
 Hugo ? . . . Fedor ? . . . Sweeping all these high- 
 sounding names aside contemptuously, Potterat insisted 
 on his being christened ' Charles.' 
 
 " Give him a decent name that won't attract atten- 
 tion !" he said. 
 
 By dint of coaxing, Madame Potterat persuaded him 
 to allow the child to be called ' Carlo ' instead of ' Charles,' 
 and for the sake of peace Potterat gave in. 
 
 " All right, call him ' Carlo ' ! That won't make him 
 die a day sooner !" 
 
 Only a hedge separated Potterat's garden from that of 
 his son-in-law, Justin Schmid. The two men did not 
 get on well together; one all good-nature, sociable, 
 talkative, animated; the other silent, reserved, jealous 
 of the little pension which enabled his father-in-law to 
 live in tolerable comfort without anxiety. That his 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 5 
 
 father-in-law, in addition to this, had the cheek to sell 
 some of his vegetables and fruit amongst his friends and 
 to the cooks of some rich families plunged Schmid into 
 a fury of jealous resentment that was perfectly obvious 
 to everyone, in spite of his silence. The great jovial 
 laughs that rang out at every turn from the garden the 
 other side of the hedge were detestable to him; and, 
 moreover, his father-in-law's continual jokes on a certain 
 subject annoyed him exceedingly. 
 
 " And the son and heir ? . . . When is he going to 
 appear ? . . . You must tell Louise to hurry up. Ours 
 is already two months old. ... It would be pretty, 
 an uncle and a nephew of the same age. ..." 
 
 Carlo was still a baby in arms when Louise at last had 
 a boy. They called him Louis. Tenderly, Potterat and 
 his wife bent over the new baby, who wailed continually. 
 
 " W 7 hat a great whopping boy !" 
 
 " He is the image of you, Louise," said Madame 
 Potterat, " but he is going to be fair, like his father. ..." 
 
 ' Too bad !" murmured Potterat softly. Then aloud: 
 "How d'ye do, young man ? How do you like this 
 world ? . . . It might be better, hey ! . . . and it 
 might be worse. You have to take the rough with the 
 smooth. ... In another seventy years or so, you will 
 be nearly ready to leave it again. You will have had 
 bad times and good times, like everybody else. The 
 great thing is to have a good digestion and a good con- 
 science. The rest will look after itself." 
 
 Schmid, taciturn and dour, watched his father-in-law 
 out of the corner of his eye. 
 
 ' Was there ever such a deaf-mute of a man ! If the 
 good God, at the Judgment Day, demands account of 
 every idle word, his examination won't take long !" 
 
 So thought Potterat to himself a little later, as he 
 planted tomatoes. This work done, he filled his watering- 
 cans, walked about with short steps, holding the water- 
 
6 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 ing-pot at arm's length, his huge apron standing out 
 round him, his braces lost in the folds of his shoulders, 
 his face radiant with happiness in this beautiful month 
 of May. 
 
 On the other side of the hedge, Justin Schmid per- 
 formed the same work in grim silence, methodically, 
 sparing of distances, of trouble, sparing also of manure, 
 the heap of which had scarcely diminished at all. More 
 prodigal, the sun shone impartially on the twin gardens, 
 on the house with its two entrances, glanced off the edge 
 of a tool, penetrated in shafts into a clump of raspberry 
 bushes. Along a path, with its tail high, its whiskers 
 flying on the wind, begging for caresses, the cat Mi-Fou 
 joined his master. 
 
 " You're getting old, my friend," said Potterat to him. 
 " How is the lumbago ?" 
 
 Mi-Fou mewed by way of reply. 
 
 " That's right !" said his master. " I like cats who 
 talk, I do !" 
 
 These words were carried by the wind to the ears of 
 Justin Schmid. Others followed them: 
 
 " You're planting those tomatoes too closely. . . . 
 They want plenty of room. . . . You must give them 
 space to fill out properly, to look at each other, to get a 
 good bright red. ..." 
 
 This advice annoyed Schmid exceedingly. Potterat 
 was rather fond of giving advice. Grumpily he replied 
 in a gruff voice: 
 
 " Everyone's got his own way of doing things !" 
 
 " Cross-grained brute !" muttered Potterat to himself, 
 as he picked up a fresh watering-can. " Always cranky, 
 suspicious, obstinate, sneering. . . . Oh, he's a nice 
 specimen to have for a neighbour !" 
 
 Potterat delighted in the society of his fellows. He 
 was never happy without an audience. Nothing pleased 
 him so much as the social evenings spent amongst his 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 7 
 
 friends, the time-honoured toasts drunk in company, 
 the little stories which provoked roars of laughter. 
 
 He belonged to a Choral Society, was a member of a 
 huge brass band called ' La Brise du Lac,' and of various 
 other societies for mutual improvement. To indulge still 
 more his sociable taste, he had even cut some openings 
 in the hedge which bordered the road, and at one or other 
 of these he might often be seen, leaning with folded arms 
 on the battlement of foliage, his broad shoulders filling 
 up the space completely. 
 
 " How are things going in the Police ?" he inquired 
 one day of Sergeant Delessert, as he passed. 
 
 Delessert eyed longingly a peach-tree laden with fruit, 
 as he answered with a smile : 
 
 " The Police ? . . . Oh, everything's changing. . . . 
 In your time things were pretty easy-going. Now the 
 discipline is simply Prussian. . . . Ah, you retired at 
 the right time. . . . Fine time you have here ! You 
 plant, you reap, you eat your own peaches ! . . ." 
 
 A little ashamed of his easy life, Potterat returned to 
 the subject: 
 
 ' What's the latest news at the Station ?" 
 
 2 Oh, the same old round: they catch the little thieves, 
 and let the big thieves go free. ... A fortnight ago, 
 they ran in Belisaire again, for the thirty-second time. 
 . . . Begging, peddling without a licence, poaching, . . . 
 but you know him better than I do ! . . . He came out 
 on Saturday. So look out for your fruit ! He's prowling 
 about this neighbourhood, I believe !" 
 
 " Ho, the devil he is ! That explains some things ! . . ." 
 
 For some days, as a matter of fact, some mysterious 
 being had been groping with grimy hands among the 
 downy peaches. Potterat had put it down to the black- 
 birds at first. 
 
 One evening, soon after this, as eleven o'clock was 
 just striking, and the moon came out suddenly from 
 
8 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 behind a cloud, Potterat's fist closed firmly on a thin 
 shoulder, and dragged into the tool-shed a man with an 
 old hat pulled down on his ears, a shabby bent back, 
 and frail legs lost in the accordion-like folds of trousers 
 much too large for him. 
 
 " Well, I'm dashed !" spluttered Potterat. " People 
 may steal bread if they're hungry, but not peaches. Just 
 you wait till I get a spade-handle — I've got a good hard 
 one here — and I'll give you a thrashing you won't forget 
 in a hurry ! . . . The cheek of the beggar ! . . . Coming 
 after my peaches ! . . ." 
 
 The moon threw on the wall of the garden the shadows 
 of Potterat's portly corporation, and the emaciated 
 figure of the thief in a comical silhouette. In the shed 
 a lantern was lighted. 
 
 " It is him, right enough !" breathed Potterat. ' Him ' 
 being none other than Belisaire, the spoilt child of the 
 Police, the incorrigible drunkard, innocent and gentle as 
 a child, the timid pilferer, a true gipsy, loving the open 
 roads, the hedges, the woods, the wayside inns at cross- 
 roads; Belisaire, dirty and in rags, a quid of tobacco 
 always in his left cheek, bright-eyed, and with a matted 
 beard. 
 
 ' Wretch !" began Potterat, in a voice, however, so 
 deep and so kindly, in spite of the circumstances, that 
 tears came to the eyes of the incorrigible old dreamer. 
 " At your age, to creep through fences, to climb plum- 
 trees ! . . . You're mad, quite mad ! Nobody else in 
 the world would think of doing such things ! . . . Well, 
 well ! . . . To be robbing orchards when you are old 
 enough to be a grandfather !" 
 
 A silence followed these words. Half turned away, 
 Belisaire' s narrow, rather foxy face could no longer be 
 seen, but only his sharp, Punch-like profile. 
 
 " Ah, things are very different now from what they 
 were when you were in the Police ! For nothing at all 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 9 
 
 scarcely, they run me in now on the ground that I am 
 a worry to them. ... I can't roam about now as I 
 used to do. People don't understand things nowadays ! 
 . . . Oh, one time or another, some wet night, I'll have 
 to buy a bit of rope . . . there's always a tree handy ! . . ." 
 
 With arms folded across his chest, moved by that 
 plaintive voice, Potterat looked at Belisaire: "What a 
 lot of white in his beard !" thought he. " And is it 
 really quite the thing for you, prosperous, retired, twice 
 married, to be so hard on this tramr> ? This poor, lonely, 
 feeble old man !" 
 
 " Look here, Belisaire," said he at last, with a kindli- 
 ness in his voice that the sharp ears of the old man were 
 quick to note, " how many weeks in the month are you 
 drunk V* 
 
 A growl was the only reply. 
 
 " Now, see here ! You're fond of the country, aren't 
 you ? Planting, watering, weeding, gathering fruit and 
 vegetables, smoking a pipe while you dig a little now 
 and then — that ought to suit you pretty well, eh ?" 
 
 " Oh, one might do worse ! . . ." 
 
 " Well, would you like to have a job here for some 
 days ? If all goes well, we can come to some agreement. 
 I want someone to help me just now. There are such 
 a lot of little things to be done in the garden at this 
 season, that I cannot keep pace with them all. And I 
 have lately bought a couple of goats too: I'll have to 
 rent a piece of meadow-land, and mow it. . . . You can 
 have a shake-down in the garret, an old coat from time 
 to time, five francs at the end of every month, and your 
 food, and I don't think that's at all a bad offer for a 
 man like you ! . . . But remember, if you make a 
 beast of yourself, if you come home drunk once too often, 
 out you go ! . . . An old man like you, full of rheu- 
 matism, and with a bad cough ! It's about time you 
 thought of settling down, isn't it ? Well, what do you 
 
io POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 say ? Yes, or no ? If no, then up to the police-station 
 you go for stealing my plums ! If yes, I'll take you up 
 to the garret at once." 
 
 Belisaire saw in imagination a plate of hot soup for 
 him at a corner of the table ; a bed of his own in a garret 
 where one could through the little round window touch 
 the tiles, the topmost branches of the lime-trees, talk 
 to the cats and the birds. . . . This garden, too, ap- 
 pealed to him. . . . Not to mention that he was to be 
 allowed some little latitude ! . . . Overcome with 
 emotion, Belisaire sat down, touched to the heart by the 
 kindness that was being shown him, and Potterat under- 
 stood that he accepted the conditions. 
 
 " Come along then ! . . . To-morrow I'll show you 
 what to do." 
 
 So Belisaire took his place in the little household. 
 Quite a handy man in his way, he mended the tools, 
 repaired the canary's cage, and generally did his best to 
 make himself useful. Madame Potterat, however, in- 
 sisted on his taking an occasional bath in the Lake, and 
 gave him a towel and a piece of soap. Belisaire always 
 returned clean, but slightly drunk, and when they scolded 
 him, he replied gently: " Baths don't agree with me !" 
 Belisaire grew quite attached to the household — the very 
 way they pronounced his name showed a kindly feeling 
 towards him; they gave him some tobacco; Carlo smiled 
 at him from his cradle. Yet in spite of all this, he dis- 
 appeared once or twice, to come back, creeping in noise- 
 lessly, penitent, half starved, tearful: happy to find 
 himself once more before the big soup tureen, happy 
 even in the scoldings which showed he was cared for. 
 
 " Ha ! So there you are, you silly owl !" Potterat 
 would remark perhaps, and that was all. However, as 
 one ages, one grows tired of everything, even of roaming. 
 The tramp himself acknowledged this: he said to him- 
 self: 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR II 
 
 " To be a wanderer is all very well, up to about sixty. 
 . . . After that one ought to settle down. ..." 
 
 As November lessened the necessary work of the 
 garden, and Belisaire, with so much spare time on his 
 hands, was beginning to show signs of falling away again, 
 Potterat said to him one day: 
 
 " I say, suppose we put up a fowl-house ? . . . I 
 believe we could build a really good one between us . . . 
 like some of those model poultry houses one sees in cata- 
 logues. ..." 
 
 " Right you are !" 
 
 Madame Potterat joined in the discussions: the chicken- 
 house appealed to her : 
 
 " I should like this design, I think," she said. " It 
 is very ornamental, yet quite rustic and simple." 
 
 " All right ! Leave it to us." 
 
 For some time the two men worked on it. They 
 plaited the thatch. They finished it off by painting 
 little green and white shutters on the outsides of the 
 house. An inclined plank led up to the front door, 
 and above this door was a shield, on which could be 
 read the motto " Liberty and Country." And below this 
 couplet : 
 
 "The man who works, and the fowl that lays, 
 Are equally worthy of all men's praise." 
 
 A little fence marked off the boundaries of the poultry 
 domain. . . . When all was ready, they made a big 
 openwork crate, and with this on a handcart they set 
 off to buy their stock. Their return was heralded by 
 protesting squawks, continuous cacklings, energetic 
 quackings, etc., as the vehicle bumped over the stones 
 of the road. 
 
 '! Here comes Barnum's Menagerie !" shouted some wit 
 of a passer-by. 
 
 " Yes, and if you want a job, there's still a vacancy 
 amongst the monkeys," retorted Potterat haughtily. 
 
12 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Belisaire stalked on, quite oblivious of these silly jokes, 
 his hands pushing the shafts, his scanty beard floating 
 on the wind, one eye half closed, his thin body enveloped 
 in an old overcoat, so faded that no one could tell the 
 original colour. The neighbours, Burnand, Griotte, 
 Bigarreau, watched the unpacking of the crate. The 
 ducks and drakes waddled out placidly, the turkeys 
 uttered wild, raucous cries, the geese promenaded along 
 gravely, their heads held high in air, the cock and hens 
 streamed along in a frightened procession. Schmid him- 
 self presently appeared on the scene. Half jealously, he 
 watched the proceedings, but made only one remark: 
 " You're wasting a lot of space over them. ..." 
 Enthusiastically, Potterat expounded his idea: 
 " Well, nothing annoys me more than to see the little 
 pigsties that some people think good enough for poultry. 
 . . . No, they need plenty of room, and a tree or two 
 for those who like a view . . . and a stream for the 
 ducks . . . and plenty of roosts of different heights for 
 the fowls. . . . Then you'll have plenty of good eggs. 
 . . . I'll guarantee them to be full weight and more . . . 
 and they'll have the taste of fresh air and sunshine and 
 health. . . . There are some eggs that are positively 
 unwholesome to eat, because the fowls are kept mewed 
 up in coops." 
 When the neighbours had gone, he said to his wife : 
 " Did you hear Schmid ? Nothing but fault-finding 
 and objections. . . . He's the sort of man I simply 
 can't stand. . . ." 
 
 " Do be quiet, David. For Louise's sake it's better to 
 say nothing. After all, each of you has his own garden. 
 . . . What's the good of letting him worry you ? Every- 
 one has his own way." 
 
 " That's true; and I prefer mine." 
 As one knows, Potterat was a man of fixed opinions 
 and settled ways. On the first Sunday of every month 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 13 
 
 he always went to church: a matter of duty and habit. 
 It mattered little to him who happened to be preaching. 
 Seated on the last bench, in the shadow of the organ loft, 
 he listened to the droning of the preacher's voice, slept 
 a little generally, during the development of the preacher's 
 ' secondly ' and ' thirdly,' then woke up in time to rise 
 and sing with the rest of the congregation. In summer, 
 how small the congregations were ! ' Decidedly,' thought 
 Potterat, ' church is going out of fashion.' Outside, the 
 bustle of traffic, the smart toilettes which one could not 
 help seeing through the big plate-glass windows, which 
 had cost twenty francs the square yard, the various notes 
 of the motor horns, all said to the people seated on those 
 hard benches: 
 
 " What are you doing there ? . . . Come out and 
 enjoy yourselves." While all the time the voice from 
 the pulpit upheld spiritual blessings as opposed to tem- 
 poral welfare. 
 
 At the midday dinner, before a plate laden with beef 
 and vegetables, Potterat would give utterance to his 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Religion, nowadays, is a delicate matter. If you 
 preach the devil and hell fire, you shock people. . . . 
 If you say that everyone will be saved . . . ' Well, then, 
 what does it matter ? Here goes.' ... If you try to 
 combine the two points of view, they don't understand 
 what you're driving at. . . . Oh, it's jolly difficult. . . . 
 Then again, these aeroplanes, they don't help religion 
 much. . . . You see, all these flying men, they go right 
 up into the sky, and find nothing but clouds there. . . . 
 On the other hand, we are not exactly outside with the 
 dogs, at least, not all of us. Religion is a good thing, 
 but it's hard to practise. Yet one must have it. The 
 great thing is, I should think, to know how to present 
 it: A description of beautiful scenery, which might well 
 be taken from our mountains, a country modelled on 
 
14 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 our motto ' One for all, all for one ' . . . a word about 
 death and resurrection ... a judgment which is not 
 too discouraging, something kindly and welcoming, 
 where one could explain his case, plead extenuating 
 circumstances, and all that. ... If you expect per- 
 fection, you see, nothing can be done. . . . We all know 
 too well what life is. . . . There are times when it is 
 most necessary to prevaricate, to finesse ... in dealing 
 with people. . . . Yes, to attract people, religion must 
 be democratic, popular. What do you think, Belisaire ?" 
 
 Half frightened, Belisaire fixed his eyes on his plate. 
 
 " To tell you the truth, I haven't had time to think of 
 these things, I've never had decent enough clothes to go 
 to church. ..." 
 
 Madame Potterat seized her husband's arm : 
 
 " Don't talk about these things before the child. He 
 begins to understand. ..." 
 
 M So much the better. What I say is only common 
 sense. ..." 
 
 When April came in again, Potterat, choosing a fine 
 afternoon, betook himself to the cemetery. He pruned 
 the shrubs growing round the grave of his first wife, so 
 that her name, graved on the stone, could be clearly 
 seen: ' Jenny Potterat.' Some blackbirds were singing: 
 under the overhanging arch of heavy foliage, their voices 
 melted away. 
 
 44 You see that I remember," said Potterat. 
 
 He paid a visit also to the tomb of Bolomey, the first 
 husband of his present wife. To him, he said simply, 
 " Greeting !" He said it very sincerely, out of the sociable 
 friendliness of his heart. Then he wandered along the 
 paths amongst the graves. ' I have finished my course, 
 I have kept the faith,' ran the inscription on the tomb- 
 stone of a man who had hanged himself. That other 
 had drunk away a fortune. This woman had been 
 divorced. ... Ah ! when one has been thirty years in 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 15 
 
 the Police, one gets to know all these little histories. . . . 
 '■ Decidedly," he thought, " it would seem almost better 
 that the good God should not know everything. . . . 
 There's too much wickedness altogether going on in this 
 world. ... I don't believe He'll ever be able to manage 
 a wholesale resurrection. He'll have to raise them in 
 sections, about twenty per cent., not more. . . ." 
 
 Each year Potterat had much the same impressions 
 and thoughts. Presently he went back to his wife's 
 grave, picked some of the violets that dotted the grass 
 round about in splashes of beautiful colour, and went 
 away, carrying his empty watering-can. In the newer 
 part of the cemetery, the headstones were very white, 
 and there were many faded bouquets and tawdry glass 
 ornaments. Occasionally he met a funeral procession, 
 with the coffin almost hidden by flowers, and the train of 
 mourners and friends bathed in the light of the setting sun. 
 
 " A funeral wants music," he thought. " Prayers are 
 all very well. But there's nothing like a hymn, and a 
 beautiful air played by a band. That touches the heart 
 more than anything. ..." 
 
 On his return to the house, he said to his wife : 
 
 "I've just been to see them at the cemetery. . . . 
 They're sleeping very peacefully. ..." 
 
 The seasons passed, each one bringing its accustomed 
 occupations and duties. In the spring, his broad chest 
 outlined by a green apron, the pruning scissors in his hand, 
 and some strands of raffia between his teeth, Potterat 
 wandered about the paths of his garden lopping off a too 
 advanced bud here, a wandering branch there; and the 
 raspberry bushes, peach trees, plum and apple trees, 
 were subjected to a daily inspection. . . . The click 
 of his pruning scissors was heard continually. Excited 
 by the warmth and sunshine, the hens laid eggs and 
 cackled incessantly. The grapes ripened, the garden 
 was filled with perfume. ... In the birds' nests, little 
 
16 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 chirpings were heard, and presently, the nestlings began 
 to make their first flights. . . . Potterat, reigning 
 paternally over this little world of open beaks, would 
 catch Mi-Fou, and shut him up in the cellar day after 
 day, not, however, without explaining to him the reason 
 for this imprisonment: 
 
 " Everyone must live, you know. . . . And to eat 
 them when they don't yet know how to fly is not exactly 
 the thing, Mi-Fou. . . . Wait until by-and-by, when 
 they come after my strawberries. . . . Then you can 
 creep along on your stomach, and leap suddenly on them, 
 to your heart's content. You can carry off the biggest 
 of them into the hedge at the minute when he is going 
 to eat my finest strawberries. . . . There, that's all 
 fair and square . ... If you steal . . . I'll eat you. 
 . . . Do you understand ?" ... 
 
 Seated on the top of a packing-case, Mi-Fou mewed 
 " Yes." 
 
 In the evenings some people came for vegetables. 
 There was a little procession of cooks : Eva, Olga, Aimee, 
 etc.; some members of Potterat's band; some friends 
 from Ouchy ; Logeon, known to his friends as Forget-me- 
 not; Noverraz, nicknamed Me-and-my-Boots ; another 
 friend, who rejoiced in the name of Bluebeard, a giant 
 of a fellow, terrible in a scuffle, with his short pipe clutched 
 between his teeth; and Delessert, and the flute-player 
 of the Ouchy Orchestra, who bought vegetables for his 
 little band, and Regamey the accountant, who was 
 always talking about defending the frontiers, and some 
 police constables who had a weakness for tomatoes, etc. 
 They all met in Potterat's porch, and chatted as they 
 waited. 
 
 " How much did that nose of yours cost you ?" . . . 
 Delessert asked Belisaire. " It must have run you into 
 close upon ten thousand francs." 
 
 Belisaire, watering the strawberries, merely remarked 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 17 
 
 that it was a safe investment, and, having emptied his 
 watering-pot, philosophically filled his pipe. 
 
 " My mistress spends a thousand francs a year on 
 perfume alone/' said Eva, a thin, red-haired woman, in 
 white cap and apron. 
 
 lt And mine thinks only of her two dogs. The master 
 and the children are nowhere. It is everything for those 
 dogs. They must have their hot bath every day. . . . 
 And they are so disgustingly fat that they can hardly 
 walk upstairs. . . ." 
 
 " What a wicked woman I" remarked Delessert. 
 And Bluebeard added gloomily: 
 " They're all cracked — these rich people." 
 " Oh, nonsense ! . . . It takes all sorts to make a 
 world," Potterat put in, anxious to be conciliatory. 
 " After all, everybody has a hobby of some kind: scent, 
 dogs, the bottle, the banjo, stamps. . . . They must kill 
 time somehow !" 
 Madame Potterat closed the discussion by saying : 
 "Oh, don't say a word against riches. Just think 
 how delightful to be able to do as one likes, to order 
 what one likes, to have nice furniture, and clothes . . . 
 to go to parties. ..." 
 
 From June onwards, it was a beautiful summer. . . . 
 The long hot hours went by, laden with perfume, vibrating 
 with the sound of many wings; the garden was a perfect 
 blaze of flowers; they picked baskets full of cherries. 
 . . . Closed shutters made patches of green on the white 
 walls of the house, the stream dried up, the ducks sought 
 every scrap of shade. The white hats of some school- 
 girls on their daily walk might be seen bobbing up and 
 down above the hedge as they passed. . . . Lots of 
 jam was made. . . . Potterat weighed out the sugar, 
 helped to stone the plums, tasted all the pots, and pinched 
 the cheeks of Louis and Carlo, whose faces were per- 
 petually sticky with sugar and besmeared with jam. 
 
18 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " That's enough, David," Madame Potterat would say. 
 " The children will be ill." 
 
 " Nonsense ! It won't do them any harm. Jam's 
 good for them." 
 
 Then halfway through August, Potterat took the 
 honey from the two hives, with Bigarreau's aid. He 
 donned a thick veil round his head, a pair of gloves on 
 his hands, and tied up the ends of his trousers, yet in 
 spite of this an occasional angry bee would find a means 
 of getting in somewhere. Then there were yells : 
 
 " D n the beast !" . . . a flight into the bushes, 
 
 frenzied gestures, low crouchings, energetic rubbings. . . . 
 
 " Don't get so excited !" cried Bigarreau. " One 
 would think you were finishing up a patriotic speech." 
 
 " A-ee ! A-ouh !" replied Potterat, doubled up behind 
 a dwarf apple-tree. The bee had planted its sting in 
 the nape of his neck, on which he rained blows like hail 
 with his fist. 
 
 '■' Damn ! Every year they sting me in the very same 
 place." 
 
 " If they sting you in the same place as last year, 
 you ought not to feel anything." 
 
 After that Potterat kept at a safe distance, giving much 
 lordly advice in a stentorian voice, holding a leek pressed 
 on the back of his neck, and ready to dart off into the 
 bushes at a moment's notice. > 
 
 Followed by a golden cloud, the frames were with- 
 drawn, one by one, from the hives, and carried into the 
 wash-house, the windows of which were tightly closed. 
 Armed with a sharp-edged trowel, Bigarreau cut out the 
 combs. With his coat off and his sleeves rolled up to 
 the elbow, Potterat turned the handle of the extractor, 
 ten turns or so slowly at first, then quicker and quicker. 
 The machine droned like a great bumble-bee, and the 
 honey suddenly flowing out noiselessly into the waiting 
 pots seemed like an imprisoned rav of sunshine, rejoiced 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 19 
 
 to be free again. . . . Outside, the whole garden re- 
 sounded with a loud quarrelsome hum. The bees flew 
 furiously about, dashing madly, in their blind rage, 
 against the windows, circling the house a hundred times, 
 flying into the hive, and then coming out again more 
 enraged than ever. Belisaire from time to time weighed 
 the pots. " Ten kilos . . . fifteen kilos. . . . How good 
 it tastes. ... It is as if one were grinding up flowers." 
 
 " You'll spoil it if you go on doing that," protested 
 Potterat. 
 
 At last they had finished, and at nightfall they regained 
 the house where Madame Potterat and Carlo, with all 
 windows and doors prudently shut up, waited the close 
 of the operations. 
 
 " Close the door !" someone cried, as they entered. 
 
 The savoury omelette, the salad, the ham, the fragrant 
 coffee, the good wine, were very inviting. . . . The full 
 moon rose higher and higher above the tree-tops. 
 
 " Belisaire and I are both trying to make ourselves 
 as like the man in the moon as possible," declared Pot- 
 terat. " His nose is swollen until it seems to be floating 
 over his face, and one of his eyes looks towards the 
 Jura. ... I've got a neck so swollen that you can't 
 tell where the neck ends and the chin begins. . . . We do 
 look pretty, to be sure ! . . . We should do for a show. 
 . . . But I'm your own old Potterat all the same. . . . 
 And I'm as happy as a king. That's a fact. . . . Yester- 
 day I was passing one of those new blocks of flats five 
 stories high. Everybody was out on their verandas to 
 get a breath of fresh air, and everybody looked bored to 
 death. On the ground floor, because they had eaten 
 too much at dinner; on the first floor, because they had 
 been out late dancing the night before; on the second 
 floor, because they were trying to ape their betters; on 
 the third because they had not enough amusement or 
 variety; on the fourth because they were sleepy; and on 
 
20 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 the fifth because they were jealous of the others. . . . 
 But we, now, we're all right; we eat our own ham from 
 our own pig, salad from our own garden, honey from our 
 own hives. . . . We are all right." 
 
 Now that the bees had settled down in their hives 
 again, the windows were opened, and Potterat breathed 
 deeply, drawing in the fragrance of the warm earth. 
 " The good brown earth !" he thought. " How it does 
 its work, nourishing the box-borders, pushing out the 
 spinach, the cabbages and cauliflowers, and the rest, and 
 sending the sap right up to the tops of the trees. ..." 
 
 " It's a jolly fine life in the Police, but it's not a patch 
 upon the life of a gardener. ..." 
 
 " What about the weeds ?" objected Belisaire, as he 
 tenderly rubbed his bent spine. 
 
 " Oh, they're all right. If we had no weeds, we should 
 get too lazy altogether. ..." 
 
 Potterat loved the beautiful Lake over which he gazed 
 every day not only for its romantic beauty, but also for 
 the fish which it hid in its bosom. For a mere trifle, 
 Bluebeard would let his boat to his friends, and then 
 Potterat, Vidoudez, Sergeant Delessert, and, when he 
 could get a day off, Regamey, the double bass of the 
 band, would board it cautiously, and Bluebeard, with a 
 vigorous push, and a parting shout of " Good luck !" 
 would send it out into deep water, not without a little 
 qualm on the part of those not much accustomed to small 
 boats. 
 
 Now in a journey on land, it is merely a matter of 
 mutual agreement for the trip to be a success. But 
 once on the water, well, there one is, and there one's 
 got to stay. One can't say " I've had enough of this. 
 I'm going home." Fortunately, however, this boat's 
 crew were very congenial. Delessert, the Sergeant, 
 made one think of a bantam cock. Precise, punctual, 
 with prominent eyes, one could tell by his alert, upright 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 21 
 
 carriage, as well as by his mania for foretelling excep- 
 tional luck in fishing, or fearsome storms, that he had 
 an unusually vivid imagination. 
 
 As for Regamey, he was always either in the clouds 
 or in the depths. He enjoyed everything with the 
 keenest zest, yet he had his hours of depression, of 
 moody silence. ... It was easy to see that Vidoudez 
 was a clerk in a counting-house, from his chubby fingers, 
 always stained with red ink. Fond of good living, 
 original and full of fun and life, careless as to public 
 opinion, he had had an unhappy married life. Now 
 divorced, he consoled himself with his pipe. 
 
 Potterat, with his cool self-confidence, his fiery in- 
 dignation, tempered by his good-nature, his way of 
 stirring up a quarrel and then ending it with a word, 
 his good-humoured chaffing, above all, his big hearty 
 laugh, made him the central figure of this band of friends. 
 As he leaned overboard, drawing Jiis hand idly through 
 the water, his broad face beaming with delight shone 
 reflected in the rippling wavelets. . . . From the edge 
 of the Lake to the boat stretched, as it were, a sheet 
 of light. Away off, on the flank of the hill, vineyard- 
 covered slopes and little villages could be clearly seen, 
 perched here and there on the hillside, with their deep 
 hollows, and their little steep streets. ... A fishing 
 boat glided slowly past, with big slow sweeps of the oars. 
 Potterat hailed the occupants: 
 
 " Hallo ! Have you got any fish ?" 
 
 " Oh, a good few. . . ." 
 
 " Are they all the same kind ?" 
 
 Some lissom shadows glided about under the water. 
 
 " Don't they roam about, the gay creatures. There 
 is no greater gadabout than a fish. . . . However, that's 
 hardly their fault; when one has no hands one can't 
 drive in a nail, or plane a board. ..." 
 
 There fell a long silence. A woman on the bank was 
 
22 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 washing clothes, the measured blows rang out over the 
 water almost to the Savoy coast. Swans glided placidly 
 about; the sky, the water, the mountains all were blue. 
 One felt vaguely happy, bathed in the sweet warm air. 
 
 " Suppose the bottom of the boat were to fall out ? . . ." 
 
 " That would be an awkward sort of thing to happen. 
 The fat ones would float, the thin ones would go to the 
 bottom. . . . Every man has his fate." 
 
 Presently they drew in the net, and a stream of silver 
 poured into the bottom of the boat . . . little frisking 
 fish. 
 
 " They're getting beastly small ..." grumbled 
 Potterat. " Long ago we used to catch fish twice and 
 three times as big as these . . . nowadays they're posi- 
 tively midgets. . . . Thirty years ago we could scarcely 
 draw up the nets . . . such big whoppers ! . . . And 
 we used to sit on the bank, in the shade of big trees . . . 
 cool, and fresh, and delightful ... we never even 
 troubled to look at the float. . . . Just fix a worm 
 on a hook and draw up your line and you had enough 
 delicious fish for breakfast and supper, fera, with no more 
 bones than a fillet of veal. . . . Ah, in those days there 
 were fish in the lake, people in the churches, and grapes 
 on the vines. . . . To-day, you may look for them. ..." 
 
 " That's true," said Sergeant Delessert. " The fishing 
 is not nearly so good as when I was a boy." 
 
 "Is it because we're growing more stupid, or because 
 the fish are getting cleverer?" asked Vidoudez, but the 
 question remained unanswered. 
 
 In spite of these pessimistic remarks, fish accumulated 
 in the wicker baskets. The distant chiming of a clock 
 came floating across the water; an express train rushed 
 along the side of the Lake, throwing behind it on the 
 still air its pennon of white smoke. Midday. They 
 unpacked the luncheon basket. The corks flew. The 
 bread, the ham, the cheese, the fruit seemed more de- 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 23 
 
 licious than usual, eaten like this away from the busy 
 world. ... A Lake steamer passed, gay with multi- 
 coloured sunshades. An orchestra was playing on board, 
 and the waves in the wash of the steamer seemed to 
 dance to the measure of the waltz that was being played. 
 With an impulse of joyous good-fellowship, Potterat 
 raised his glass and drank to the health of all these 
 unknown good people. He shouted: 
 
 " Here's to your very good health ! . . . Hurrah for 
 Switzerland ! . . . Hurrah for the Canton de Vaud ! . . ." 
 
 No one replied. 
 
 " Uncivil brutes ! some of these foreigners. ... If 
 we wished we could kick them all out. ..." 
 
 " My friend," said Vidoudez, M kindly feelings and 
 politeness are out of fashion now. The other day there 
 was a party of us at the Rochers de Naye, and we had 
 intended to sing ' Hail, glaciers sublime !' at the rising 
 of the sun, but I'm blest if we hadn't got to be quiet. 
 . . . It's not the thing, nowadays, it appears. It is 
 only on the Lake, two miles or more out, that one can 
 begin to feel at home." 
 
 Everyone gave his opinion, and various suggestions 
 were made for dealing with a situation that one of them 
 characterized as ' past all bearing.' ... At sunset, they 
 came back to the shore, hearts and eyes alike filled with 
 the exquisite peace and beauty of the Lake. 
 
 As soon as he got home, Potterat emptied his basket 
 on the kitchen table, and seizing a fish by the tail, he 
 threw it to Mi-Fou. " Here, little one, eat that and get 
 strong." 
 
 December at last came round. Belisaire, in red 
 woollen gloves, covered the salads with dead leaves. 
 One morning everything was covered with snow. The 
 bran, mixed with hot water, that he was carrying to the 
 fowl-house, smoked in the frozen air. Under its coating 
 
24 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 of ice, the little brook sang no longer, and some snow- 
 flakes lingered in Belisaire's beard. 
 
 Carlo, now six, was given a sledge for a Christmas 
 present. From that moment he had only one idea: 
 " Father, let's go luging. ..." 
 
 For thirty years, first as policeman, then as superin- 
 tendent, Potterat had been down on lugers and sliders, 
 a race dreaded by old ladies and by busy people in a 
 hurry. Was he now in his old age to join the ranks of 
 these disturbers of the public peace ? Also there were 
 other considerations. Potterat said to himself: 
 
 " The last time you went luging, it was at Bioley- 
 Orjulaz, in 1870, the year when you got engaged. In 
 those days, you were supple and quick on your feet, 
 smart and lively and young, and as light as a feather. 
 . . . The heavier one is, the faster the luge goes. . . . 
 You'll be going over the gasometer, if you don't look 
 out. . . ." 
 One evening, however, he decided: 
 " Get your luge, Carlo, and we'll go." 
 They joined the stream of lugers; Englishmen in white 
 caps, slim young girls in bright-coloured jerseys, boys, 
 shop assistants, cooks with untidy hair, and Bigarreau, 
 and the pirate-like boatmen of Ouchy, and his comrades 
 of the brass band, and even Belisaire, a little tipsy, who 
 came down the slope on a packing-case, which made a 
 noise like heavy artillery charging down a hard road. . . . 
 All ages, all types of humanity went up and down in 
 the giddy procession, shouting, laughing, yelling, all 
 intoxicated by rapid motion in the clear frosty air which 
 stung their cheeks. 
 
 " Off we go !" yelled Potterat, fired with enthusiasm. 
 . . . " It's quite easy. If we run too much to the left, 
 you must stick your right heel down; if we go to the 
 right, stick your left heel down. Now, are you ready ? 
 Gp I" 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 25 
 
 " But I can't sit down properly/' complained Carlo. 
 " There's not enough room." 
 
 " Oh, don't talk so much. . . . Cling on anyhow . . . 
 we're off. ..." 
 
 What a pace ! With a cloud of light snow encircling 
 them like a halo. 
 
 " One can't see anything clearly," said Potterat. 
 " Look out ! Look out !" he yelled. . . . His ava- 
 lanche upset at the next turning. They clutched 
 wildly at the ground with the nails of their shoes 
 but to no purpose. Over went father and son, in- 
 extricably mixed up with each other, into a field of 
 cabbages, where they found themselves at length sitting 
 in a snowdrift. 
 
 " Bother !" shouted Potterat. " We were going all 
 right, only we couldn't see properly. . . . But I know 
 the way of it now. In going round a turn, you must 
 just hug the slope, then lean away from the turn, then 
 a touch of the heel on the right, a lurch to the left, 
 and the corner is rounded. . . . Now off we go 
 again. ..." 
 
 They tried again, facing the landscape. A shock, a 
 rapid whirl, and they brought up against the foot of a 
 street lamp, in the arms of an English girl. 
 
 " People who go in for luging ought to know how to 
 guide a luge," said Potterat, with a cynical politeness. 
 " It isn't the thing to crash into people from behind 
 like that, people who are going along interfering with 
 nobody. ..." 
 
 " A-ow !" the young miss tried to apologize. Then 
 Potterat was magnanimous: 
 
 " All right, all right ! . . . but don't do it again. . . . 
 It's against the rules. . . . Play the game, please. ..." 
 
 After that, Potterat managed his own luge in a most 
 finished style. His eyes starting almost out of his head, 
 his mouth wide open, barking out excited directions 
 
26 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 every moment, now addressing himself to the piste, now 
 to the luge, vituperating it when it threatened to skid, 
 he steered with energetic heels, pushed it on with his 
 chest, reined it in with his stomach, at any rate in in- 
 tention, if not in fact. Arrived at the bottom of the 
 course, he was openly triumphant : 
 
 "Ah, not many can do that with a heavy load." 
 
 But his boasting was premature. Full speed down 
 the piste came a luge, and crashed into him, chest to 
 chest, the arms of the runaway clutching wildly the first 
 thing they encountered ; they spun round in a mad waltz, 
 broken off abruptly by the trunk of a tree. Then a 
 man every whit as fat as Potterat, out of breath, in- 
 dignant, rose from the snow in which he was buried. 
 Ready for the encounter, Potterat, flat on his stomach, 
 jumped up with a quickness of which one would hardly 
 have believed him capable. Suddenly, both gave a great 
 shout of laughter, as Potterat recognized Bigarreau, and 
 Bigarreau recognized Potterat. Potterat was the first 
 to recover himself : 
 
 " My poor Bigarreau ! Without our padding we 
 should have been done for. . . . There is nothing like 
 a good behind for softening a shock ... it acts like a 
 spring. . . ." 
 
 About ten o'clock Madame Potterat came to look for 
 Carlo. Childhood has no secrets. Running to meet his 
 mother, he shouted with immense delight : 
 
 " We were upset three times . . . once by ourselves, 
 once with an English girl, and once with ..." 
 
 " Bah !" said Potterat authoritatively. " What of 
 that ? It's the best lugers who come the croppers !" 
 
 The winter was a long one. Twice a week in the 
 evening, leaving his wife chatting to some neighbours, 
 or buried in a book, Potterat betook himself to Etraz, 
 where, over a friendly glass or two of the wine of the 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 27 
 
 country, a few friends were in the habit of meeting. 
 Customs officials, postmen, retired civil servants of the 
 lower ranks rathered round the little tables, and with 
 shrewd common sense, not unmixed with sarcasm, 
 reviewed the events of the hour. At these times, they 
 remade the map of Europe, they addressed imaginary 
 remonstrances, of a somewhat primitive frankness, to 
 the great ones of the earth; they brought out to the 
 light of day the secrets of the Chancelleries, discussed 
 openly the plots of the various diplomats, and their 
 supposed motives. 
 
 " No one can tell me anything new about politics," 
 declared Potter at. " I can always read between the 
 lines; I study these questions; I spot their significant 
 silences; ... I look for the motives that are behind 
 their actions, and I can generally find them. . . . When 
 an Emperor goes about amongst the people distributing 
 presents ... a watch to this one, a diamond pin to 
 that, I say to myself,   So the lion-tamer distributes 
 lumps of sugar to his beasts before he makes them go 
 through their tricks. Now look out ! ' " 
 
 Potterat's opinion carried great weight. With him 
 there were no surprises, no uncertainties, no opinions 
 changing with every breath of wind. Consistently and 
 always, he was opposed to strikes, which upset society 
 and increased the cost of living; against the circulation 
 of motor-cars on Sundays; against the hotels, and the 
 huge blocks of flats, which brought crowds of people, as 
 he used to say, coming and going like doves round about 
 a dovecot ; against Socialism, against Anarchy, against 
 Women's Suffrage. . . . 
 
 " A woman's place is in the home. Knitting, sewing, 
 bringing up children, cooking . . . that's her sphere. . . . 
 We men will look after all the rest. ..." 
 
 And as the sum of all his remarks, Potterat would 
 freely give his friends his recipe for happiness : 
 
28 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 "It is these enormous buildings of six and eight 
 stories and more which are pouring folly and madness 
 into the world. Man was never intended to exist in 
 little pigeon holes. In the long run, it must turn his 
 brain upside down, head over heels, or rather heels over 
 head. No, to be really happy, a man must have both 
 his feet firmly planted on the earth, wash his hands in 
 the water of his own fountain, grow his own flowers and 
 vegetables, pick his own fruit from his own trees, enjoy 
 the fruit of his own labours. There is nothing better 
 than that/' 
 
 Forgetting for the moment their flat landings, with the 
 mats before each door, and the dingy windows lighting 
 the corridors, Potterat's hearers felt, as it were, the 
 freshness of a garden steal into their hearts. 
 
 When the Cathedral clock sent out on the night twelve 
 slow strokes, they left the little inn where they had their 
 meetings. Sometimes a few insistent shadows would dog 
 their footsteps for a while, and then the group would 
 make remarks for their benefit : 
 
 " This is a nice sort of thing," Potterat would protest. 
 * In Turkey, they say, women are never allowed to go 
 out alone. In Central Europe, it's the men who will 
 soon not be able to go out without a chaperon. These 
 ladies with their indiarubber heels, one can't hear them 
 coming. They creep up to one like a cat after sausages. 
 ... In my young days, women used to be modest. As 
 for me, when I was twenty even, I was as innocent as 
 a primrose. And when I was courting my first wife, ay 
 and even my second, I used to blush if I only passed her 
 house. But to-day. ..." 
 
 On other evenings, Schmid and his wife and child 
 would perhaps come to Eglantine Cottage for the evening. 
 He, stiff, silent, and reserved as usual; she, a devoted 
 little wife and mother; the child a fat little fellow, with 
 an incredibly red head, as silent and reserved almost as 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 29 
 
 his father. After they went, Potterat always indulged 
 in a grumble: 
 
 " What a son-in-law for a man to have ! . . . He 
 doesn't drink — he doesn't smoke — he saves every penny, 
 forsooth. What a deadly bore of a fellow. . . . Nothing 
 affable, nothing pleasant and agreeable, nothing com- 
 fortable about him. ..." 
 
 Of all his favourite words and phrases, Potterat liked 
 the word ' comfortable ' best. It had such a lot of 
 meaning, it expressed so much. 
 
 In February, the Brise du Lac orchestra gave a concert, 
 in the big hall of the Cafe* de la Navigation. Anxious to 
 maintain their reputation, Potterat, Bigarreau, Regamey, 
 and Bluebeard had frequent rehearsals of their parts in 
 the hospitable sitting-room of Eglantine Cottage. Listen- 
 ing to the lively music, everyone and everything seemed 
 gay. The three pictures, representing the story of St. 
 Genevieve, were reflected in the brightly polished copper. 
 Potterat 's two wives seemed to smile at the company 
 from the depths of their frames. Mi-Fou, lying full length 
 under the sofa, stretched out a cautious head, his ears 
 flat against his head. Carlo danced gaily round the 
 table, and Madame Potterat and Belisaire, sitting behind 
 the little iron stove, beat time with heads and feet. 
 
 " That ending ought to be a little more rounded, a 
 little softer, with a touch of melancholy in it," said the 
 master of the ceremonies, " after the high note let out 
 for all you're worth, well marked, swinging, magnificent, 
 the sort of thing that grips you in the pit of the stomach. 
 The first phrase, as it were, is solemn and slow, like church 
 music; the second is like a march to victory. . . . Now 
 then. . . . Wet your lips first . . . (the bottles were on 
 the table). . . . Are you ready ? At three all begin. 
 . . . I'll count a bar first. . . . One, two, three. . . ." 
 
 Regamey, who played an instrument with an enormous 
 
30 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 bell mouth, took the bass part, and lowed and bellowed 
 with tremendous vigour, descending into fathomless 
 depths, hanging on to one deep cavernous note for an 
 eternity, his eyes dilated, his cheeks swollen, a triangle 
 of purple veins standing out upon his forehead. With 
 the tubes of his trombone, which he stopped to empty 
 frequently, Bluebeard nearly swept the glasses from the 
 table. But the leading parts were taken by Potterat and 
 Bigarreau. Potterat, who loved all dance music, played 
 with immense verve and vigour; he interpreted the mean- 
 ing of the composer (which was fairly obvious, it must 
 be confessed), with sympathy and feeling, letting fall 
 lightly the shower of chromatic notes ; at times his cornet 
 seemed almost to laugh. As for Bigarreau, when his 
 turn came to take the lead, his anxiety to do his part 
 worthily was great. It was really very funny to see this 
 big fat man, with his broad red face, scarlet cheeks, and 
 fiercely waxed moustache, pursing up a tiny little mouth 
 in order to draw from his absurd little flute the piercing 
 sounds which soared above the deeper notes of the 
 trombone, the final note losing itself, organ-like, in the 
 ceiling. 
 
 Then silence reigned while the four performers, each 
 with his nose buried in a glass, awaited the verdict of the 
 audience. 
 
 N That's jolly fine," murmured Belisaire at last. 
 
 " There's one little bit there that always makes me 
 want to cry," added Madame Potterat. " What a lovely 
 thing ! What is the name of it ? . . ." 
 
 " The Last Rose." 
 
 " Who is the composer ?" 
 
 " Poschammer. . . . Pity he should be a Frenchman, 
 and not a Swiss. All the same, he's a fellow who 
 knows his trade." 
 
 Then each of the performers was complimented in 
 turn; Regamey, perhaps, a little less than the others, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 31 
 
 because he was one of those modest retiring men who 
 are only praised after they are dead. 
 
 When the concert was over and the instruments put 
 back in their cases in a corner of the room, Mi-Fou 
 doubtfully emerged from his retreat. 
 
 " Now there's a real good judge for you. ... If you 
 play a false note he closes his eyes. . . . When you are 
 playing particularly fine passages, he purrs like anything. 
 . . . How many people there are of whom one couldn't 
 say as much. I tell you it is very rare to find anyone 
 who really feels good music. . . . When I was in the 
 Police, I used to have to go pretty often to the band 
 concerts, in the service of public order, you understand. 
 . . . My word, what a performance ! Well, you could 
 call it music if you liked, but beyond the fact that the 
 violin bows went up and down at the same time, and 
 that they all finished together, there was mighty little 
 music about it. Nothing but sharps, and flats, and 
 naturals, and worrying discords. . . . Frogs and mag- 
 pies would be more musical. . . . Say what you will, 
 that is the music of neurasthenics, of the dissipated and 
 decadent. Music that is popular doesn't trouble itself 
 with all these twiddles and twistings. ... In music, as 
 in everything else, the people's word is law. Now we 
 Swiss, we know where we are; when we like a thing we 
 say so; when we are annoyed, we show it; when we are 
 thirsty we drink. . . . But these people who fly about 
 day and night in motor-cars, who live all the time amidst 
 tinsel and gilding, who lie abed late in the morning, and 
 gad about till midnight, what sort of music do you think 
 they would be capable of appreciating ? . . . The kind 
 of music a monkey would like. ... Oh no, to my mind 
 there is nothing sweeter than Belisaire's ocarina. Go 
 and get it, Belisaire, and play us the ' Pretty Little Boat 
 Girl.' " 
 
 Very soon Belisaire's thin fingers were wandering up 
 
32 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 and down his little terracotta instrument, while his goat- 
 like profile lit up with pleasure. He seemed like a faun 
 trying to charm with his music some sportive nymph. 
 The others accompanied him with voice and gesture : 
 
 ** Pretty little boat maiden, 
 
 Leave your boat awhile. ..." 
 
 " Ah, that's the sort of music that reaches the heart," 
 said Bigarreau. 
 
 Eleven o'clock ! They all said good-night, and for a 
 few moments a pathway of rosy light streamed out from 
 the open door across the carpet of snow. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 At eight years old, Carlo was a self-confident young man, 
 with critical eyes and a pert little nose, greatly absorbed 
 in the manufacture of paper aeroplanes. As he dug, 
 Potterat noticed the occupation of his son and heir, 
 and said to Belisaire: 
 
 " Nowadays, the boys think of nothing but inventions. 
 . . . What do you think that young rascal said to me 
 yesterday ? ' When I'm grown up I'm going to be an 
 aviator. I'll take you to Berne on my aeroplane for a 
 thousand francs.' ... Go in an aeroplane, indeed ! 
 I'd a deal rather go on a merry-go-round. It's astonish- 
 ing to me how different boys are now, from what they 
 were in my young days. And it's only human beings 
 who change like that. Mi-Fou's forefathers, even as far 
 back as the one that climbed into Noah's ark, looked 
 exactly the same, and had the same tastes. It's only 
 we who are so tormented by the devil." 
 
 School accounted for six hours of Carlo's day, but the 
 moment he was free, as Belisaire said, ' he drove them 
 all crazy.' He certainly was a mischievous boy; he 
 respected nothing and no one, delighted in imitating the 
 groans, the hobbling steps, and the weird ways and 
 gestures of the old man. If Belisaire climbed into the 
 loft over the shed, Carlo invariably took away the ladder; 
 he hid the watering-pots, the hay-forks, etc., behind the 
 laurels, and great was his joy if he succeeded in produc- 
 ing a stream of unparliamentary language from the old 
 man's toothless mouth. . . . Occasionally, too, there 
 
 33 3 
 
34 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 were sounds of combat . . . the two mothers ran to the 
 scene. . . . Uncle Carlo was thrashing Nephew Louis. 
 . . . And once, when a Russian Baroness was being 
 escorted round the garden, the young scamp frankly 
 asked her: "Madame, why do you put flour on your 
 face ?" After she had gone, his father boxed his ears 
 and shut him up in the cellar to punish him, and then, 
 out of breath, sitting on the chintz-covered sofa, he let 
 himself go. 
 
 "I'll tell you what it is," he grumbled to his wife, 
 " that boy simply laughs at us. His one idea is to get 
 on ahead ... he looks on us as slow-coaches, old- 
 fashioned lumber, quite out of date. . . . The conceit 
 of the shrimp ! With a son like that, we shan't starve, 
 at any rate, in our old age." 
 
 " Well, the world is moving on. You wouldn't have 
 him left behind, would you ? And each generation is 
 different from the last in many ways, don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 Potterat was silent. He was thinking that kidney 
 beans, green peas, etc., always produced others like 
 themselves. 
 
 " Well, if only it were a change for the better, I 
 shouldn't so much mind," he grudgingly admitted. 
 
 But to his mind, the century was all wrong: its archi- 
 tects, its contractors, loudly proclaimed the fact. All 
 round Eglantine Cottage, long, rigidly straight avenues 
 were being opened up, the old walls were coming down, 
 the old trees were being levelled to the ground; they were 
 talking of widening the quay by the Lake, and even of 
 converting the old cemetery into building ground. 
 
 New shops were opening everywhere. And on Sundays, 
 motor-cars raced along the roads, God knows whence or 
 whither, linked to each other by thick clouds of dust, 
 and emitting unearthly hoots and bellowings like those 
 of some tortured animal. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 35 
 
 "A lot of idiots !" muttered Potterat, " and those 
 avenues . . . and now these flats. . . ." 
 
 A high building, half hidden by the pine-trees, had 
 for some little time past obscured the view of the town 
 spires. From a tennis court surrounded by high trellis 
 work, balls were continually flying over and falling 
 amongst Potterat's cabbages and carrots. Then tall 
 youths in white flannels would appear and scale the 
 fence. From a corner Belisaire, too timid to tackle these 
 smart young foreigners, would mutter and grumble. 
 
 But at last Potterat lost his temper, irritated by the 
 careless unconcern and lack of politeness of these sports- 
 men, and one day, as a young Englishman with immense 
 feet returned from an unsuccessful hunt after a ball, 
 Potterat came out on him from a side path. 
 
 " Good-day, Monsieur ! . . . Now I want to explain 
 to you that these vegetables represent quite a lot of work, 
 and time, and patience, and money too. Now do you 
 think that trampling over them with a steam roller 
 like yourself is going to improve my chances of a 
 good harvest ? . . . It's people of your sort who make 
 life impossible. . . . And then, too, the rudeness. . . . 
 What would you say if I kept chucking carrots and turnips 
 over into your tennis court, and then coming and inter- 
 rupting your game to pick them up ? . . . No, let 
 everyone keep to his own ground. ... I don't want to 
 be disagreeable, you know, I'm only explaining my 
 point of view. ... On the other hand, I'm not un- 
 reasonable. . . . Let's meet each other in the matter. 
 . . . Tell your companions they can come here once a 
 year, in the early spring, for instance, and you can get 
 all your balls at once. . . . But to keep on climbing 
 over my fence at intervals all the time won't do, you 
 know. The rights of property are sacred here. ... So 
 I'll be much obliged if you will just kindly take your- 
 self off !" 
 
36 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 The young Englishman smiled at Potterat. Something 
 in the pleasant face and Pickwickian paunch of his 
 interlocutor evidently appealed to him. He took himself 
 off, as he had been requested to do. And thenceforth, 
 when a ball found its way into the vegetables, Potterat, 
 a true sportsman, threw it back to the tennis court. 
 Sometimes only, when he was in a protesting mood 
 against all this encroaching civilization, and had a spade 
 in his hand, he would dig a hole and bury the offending 
 object with energetic completeness, muttering to himself 
 as he did so : 
 
 " Half the time, when I send back their balls, they 
 don't even trouble themselves to say ' thank you.' I'm 
 not going to slave myself to death to oblige under- 
 bred people like that. . . . Good idea ! I'll bury 
 every third one I find. They'll help to manure the 
 ground." 
 
 Meanwhile the encroachments of the town on the 
 country tended to attach Potterat more closely than 
 ever to his little corner. He made himself a centre of 
 resistance, a citadel, as it were, against the enemy, a last 
 stronghold of the receding country. 
 
 "The small town, that's all right. But the little 
 town aping a city I can't stand at any price. ..." 
 
 So Potterat, to fortify his resolution, walked about his 
 domain with a proud nonchalance. He would talk to 
 his fowls sometimes : 
 
 " How do you like your cock ? . . . Is he nice to 
 you ? . . . Is he polite ? . . . I hope you appreciate 
 him. He is the most beautiful cock for twenty miles 
 round: a pure-bred Brahma. . . . Just look at those 
 beautiful feather trousers which reach almost down to 
 his heels. . . . Yes, old boy, you cost me ten shillings. 
 You look very dignified and severe, and I expect you 
 have to be so to keep order amongst your flock. . . . Your 
 very crow sounds peremptory: there's no hesitation about 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 37 
 
 it, no going back on the note, no breaking and ending up 
 on a high note like a hen's. No, it is clear and strong 
 ... no trifling with it. . . . Ah, well, there will be no 
 stew-pot for you. When you die, in a green old age, I 
 shall bury you at the foot of the laurel-trees. There are 
 some animals that we must treat like Christians. ..." 
 
 " Oughtn't you to buy him some more hens ?" asked 
 Belisaire. 
 
 " No, no; fifteen are quite enough for him. If there 
 are too many of them, some of them will try to shirk 
 laying. . . ." 
 
 Wiping his face with his sleeve, Belisaire acknowledged 
 the justice of this remark. Some indistinct words issued 
 from the tangles of his whitish-brown beard, which re- 
 minded one of a frosted bush and of thatch. 
 
 " Those tomatoes are doing well," he said. " They're 
 beginning to turn red already. Schmid's are still quite 
 green. . . . Good thing too !" The old man shared 
 his master's dislike of Schmid, the enemy of *all 
 imagination and fancy, the perfect type of the silent 
 miser. 
 
 Madame Potterat worked hard, kept her house spot- 
 less, did her cooking with brilliance and success, and 
 when her work was done, she made and trimmed hats 
 for herself, sitting in the deep window seat. New hats 
 were her one luxury. 
 
 " When I was in the trade," she would explain, " the 
 fashions changed in the spring, and again in the autumn. 
 But nowadays they change every three weeks almost. 
 One is ridiculously out-of-date in no time." 
 
 Her husband poised a hat on the tips of his fingers 
 and regarded it in silence for a moment : 
 
 " I don't know whether fashion ought to be reason- 
 able, or reason fashionable. But certainly it should be 
 one or the other, I should think. Heads are round, yet 
 they put triangular hats on them. And these sugar-loaf 
 
38 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 things now, they're all right for idiots, perhaps, but not 
 for a sensible woman like you. ..." 
 
 " Oh, get along, David ! You wouldn't like to see 
 your wife looking dowdy, and everyone laughing at 
 her, would you ? . . ." 
 
 Some friends, ' dressed all in their best,' came to ask 
 Madame Potterat if she was coming to a regatta that 
 was being held. Why not ? It was exquisite June 
 weather. Everybody wanted to be out of doors. In 
 their smart white frocks, the little Mottaz girls held them- 
 selves very straight. 
 
 " Are we going to the regatta ? How jolly I" cried Carlo. 
 
 Sitting on his bench in the shadow of the trellis-work, 
 Potterat was dozing. 
 
 " Aren't you coming too ? Do come along," called the 
 party to him. " We are all going to the fete." 
 
 " To the fete ? Oh, it's too hot. And besides, I'm 
 not dressed." 
 
 Between his half-closed eyelids he watched them going 
 off, Carlo in a sailor suit, with a man-o'-war cap on 
 which was the name ' Majestic ' in gold letters; the post- 
 man's daughters, got up like ballet girls; the older women, 
 all sails set, with Deflowered and beplumed hats. 
 
 " Off you go !" said Potterat to himself. " For the 
 young ones it's something new and exciting, but for you 
 older people it's simply silly playing the hoyden like that. 
 ... It's all very well for a girl to have a good time 
 and amuse herself from eighteen to twenty-five, but 
 after that she ought to settle down. ... At your age " 
 — he apostrophized his absent wife and her companions — 
 " narrow skirts, and frills, and furbelows, are no longer 
 becoming. You have to lace in a bit too much, and the 
 more you lace in, the more you bulge out somewhere 
 else. ..." And Potterat dozed off again, the murmur 
 of the fountain mingling with his dreams. Presently, 
 awakened by the noise of two ducks quarrelling, he 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 39 
 
 looked out over the country he loved so much: the 
 peaceful communion of the mountains, the Lake, the sky, 
 and of the trees laden with their golden fruit, the warm, 
 happy, summer silence. . . . Potterat hummed to him- 
 self a song learnt at school, in praise of his beloved 
 country. And presently he betook himself, as he did 
 every Sunday afternoon, to the old cemetery, the prin- 
 cipal path of which commanded a view of the fields and 
 meadows sloping down to the Lake edge. The key of 
 the enclosure had been given into his charge — a needless 
 precaution indeed, since no one had the slightest inclina- 
 tion to climb the wall, or break through the worm-eaten 
 fence. The casual crowd left this abode of ancient grief 
 to the blackbirds, the lizards, to Potterat, to the joy of 
 summer. A wilderness of flowers overspread the whole 
 place. Potterat wandered about paternally, protectingly, 
 with his hands clasped behind his back, amongst the 
 graves of fishermen, washer-women, and other humble 
 folk who lay side by side there, under the climbing roses 
 which had gone back to the wild parent stock, the per- 
 fume-laden summer air, the humming of bees and gnats. 
 . . . Breaking in on the peaceful silence, the sounds of 
 the distant fete came, up the hillside. 
 
 " The dead sleep, the living drink and dance," mused 
 Potterat aloud. ." What a strange thing life is !" 
 
 Presently he stopped before a little grave and tomb- 
 stone under a cypress tree; wistaria climbed over it, 
 and bees clustered round the gay blue blossoms. 
   Florence Smith, aged eighteen years,' he read. 
 
 " An English girl. . . . Extraordinary idea to come 
 so far from one's own country to die. ..." Potterat 
 mused awhile, in company with the crickets and grass- 
 hoppers, upon the sad romance revealed by the little 
 stone, until the music of a gay waltz, borne upward 
 on the breeze, brought him back to his habitual joyous 
 love of life. 
 
40 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Eighteen years old ! . . . It ought to be forbidden 
 to die at that age." . . . 
 
 Potterat continued his leisurely ramble homewards, 
 noticing, as he went along, the state of his neighbours' 
 gardens. As he was passing Schmid's garden, a slight 
 noise made him look over the hedge. Schmid was 
 gathering strawberries, and Louise was busy picking 
 peas. 
 
 " You'd better take care I" he called out to them 
 teasingly. " ' Work done on Sunday brings bad luck on 
 Monday !' you know." 
 
 Belisaire was playing his ocarina. The fowls sprawled 
 full-length in the hot sun; the Brahma cock alone stood 
 upright, with his head on one side, sending a defiant 
 crow up to the larks. 
 
 " Don't be so jealous !" said his master to him. '* I 
 don't like jealous people. There are some animals made 
 for singing, and some made to crow in a poultry-yard. 
 Everyone to his trade. ..." 
 
 Then he went to his favourite seat under the vine- 
 trellis. Sunbeams reflected from the basin of the fountain 
 chased each other over the front of the house, and up 
 to the tiled roof, from which the little round window 
 kept watch over the country-side. 
 
 •' Potterat, my friend," said he to himself, " you don't 
 know how lucky you are; you will never realize it. . . . 
 The swallows for tenants, the cabbages for neighbours, 
 the Lake in front of you ... no gossiping and cackling, 
 no quarrels. . . . Are they any happier in Paradise ? . . . 
 Very likely not as happy, for they can't smoke a pipe 
 there. ..." 
 
 Although Potterat did not rush to every fete, there 
 were some, nevertheless, that he seldom missed. As he 
 said to his crony Bluebeard: 
 
 " I don't care to gad about to everything that's going, 
 like some people, who rush off to some fete or other 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 41 
 
 every Sunday, tire themselves out, swallow a lot of dust, 
 and then wonder why they feel so washed-out and done- 
 up on the Monday morning. No, fetes are like thunder- 
 storms, a few real good ones are necessary, but not too 
 many. . . . And besides, I like to know what I'm 
 celebrating, and with whom. . . . When I go out for 
 the day, I like to go with decent sensible people, that 
 one knows all about from the day they were born, their 
 occupation, their ways and habits, their little faults even, 
 the circumstances of their lives, how many children they 
 have, and all that. . . . Now, what I like best of all is 
 the yearly excursion of the Choral Society and the Band. 
 These societies aim at recreation of the best kind. 
 . . . What can you have better than singing and music 
 to cheer you up, to banish care and worry, to lift one's 
 soul up to the heights, as a member of the State Council 
 said the other day in his speech, and stir the heart 
 and the conscience ? I am looking forward like a school- 
 boy to this excursion to Bouveret on the 10th July, and 
 especially this year, when the ladies have embroidered 
 a beautiful new flag for the Society. . . . They have 
 asked me to make a speech of thanks for it after the 
 presentation. ... I feel as nervous about it as I did 
 when, as Superintendent of the Police, I had to give the 
 military salute to the King of England at the railway 
 station. ... A speech ! Well, there are speeches and 
 speeches. . . . Anybody can say a few platitudes if he 
 is called upon, but to make a good speech, to get home 
 to people's feelings, to bring in neat little allusions, and 
 poetic fancies, and to finish up with a fine peroration: 
 that isn't so easy, you know. ..." 
 
 " When I get up to make a speech," said Bluebeard, 
 " I say, ' Here's to you,' and then I'm stumped. . . . 
 But with you it is different. You've got the ' gift of the 
 gab ': you can talk splendidly." 
 
 Potterat drew himself up, secretly gratified: 
 
42 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Oh well, I don't know about splendidly. . . but I 
 can talk. . . . That at any rate is something." 
 
 For the next week or so, Potterat, in the retirement of 
 the shed, to an audience of watering-pots, rakes, forks, 
 and a scythe like a big note of interrogation, rehearsed 
 flowery speeches, in which allusions to Winkelried, the 
 mountains, the flag, their brave soldiers who were ready 
 to guard the frontiers, jostled each other in tumultuous 
 enthusiasm. Then in the cold light of morning all his 
 glowing periods vanished like smoke, and he would say : 
 
 " Belisaire, you'll have to make this speech for me. . . ." 
 
 Belisaire would laugh. 
 
 " Oh, I'm famous at speeches — without words ! All 
 my words are inside me. . . ." 
 
 " Well, I don't know that those are not the best kind 
 of speeches after all." 
 
 In the evenings, too, flute, cornet, trombone, bassoon, 
 made the whole neighbourhood lively with quick steps, 
 waltzes, popular patriotic melodies, enveloping in waves 
 of martial sound the silent trees, until an hour when 
 only the silvery bell of an occasional frog would usually 
 be heard. 
 
 At last the great day arrived. The dawn was just 
 stealing in, over a smart frock spread out ready to put 
 on, on frilled petticoats freshly starched, on a rose- 
 trimmed hat, when Potterat awoke and stretched him- 
 self. 
 
 u Good Heavens ! . . . Get up, get up ! . . . It's 
 late ! . . . We shall miss the boat ! . . ." 
 
 The whole household was astir at once. They whistled 
 and sang as they dressed. Potterat, clean-shaven and 
 smart, was finishing the packing of the luncheon basket 
 when a shout from Carlo startled him : 
 
 " Uncle's rabbit. . . . The big red one. ... In the 
 cabbages. ..." 
 
 This rabbit of Schmid's, a portly creature, em- 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 43 
 
 boldened by repeated maternities, was an old offender, 
 and the worst of her depredations was that she ate 
 only the hearts of the cabbages. . . . Already Belisaire 
 was hard in pursuit, and Potterat followed on his 
 heels, guided in the chase by the little white nose of 
 the creature, constantly in a different place. In his 
 bounds and plungings after the rabbit Potterat crushed 
 more cabbages than the enemy had ever destroyed. . . . 
 A yell of triumph, and Belisaire emerged, holding the 
 rabbit by the ears, and a few minutes later, Potterat was 
 brandishing the animal in the face of his son-in-law, 
 whose crafty eyes sparkled. 
 
 " D n the beast ! Can't you put a muzzle on it ? 
 
 ... I don't grow cabbages to feed your menagerie of 
 rabbits. ... If you don't want to quarrel with me 
 you'll have to look after them a little better. I warn you, 
 the very next time I catch that creature in my vegetables, 
 I'll fetch her a blow on the back of the head that will 
 send her to kingdom come to eat carrots there, if she can 
 find any." 
 
 Schmid, without uttering a word, took delivery of his 
 full-paunched rabbit. 
 
 " Still in your slippers ! . . ." exclaimed Madame 
 Potterat on the return of the hunter. 
 
 V Well, I can't let these rabbits have it all their own 
 way in the garden." 
 
 Out of breath he bent down to lace up his boots. But 
 fat men have difficulties of which the thin know nothing. 
 . . . They can't see beyond the top buttons of their 
 waistcoats, for instance. . . . His fingers fumbled help- 
 lessly, the lace knotted itself up, he pulled here and there 
 . . . the lace broke with a little decisive click. 
 
 " Damn ! . . . Rotten stuff! It's easy to tell what 
 country that comes from. . . . Might as well try to 
 lace one's boots with a strand of bindweed." 
 
 At last, however, fully dressed from top to toe, Potterat 
 
44 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 opened the door to join the others, when a sudden idea 
 stopped him: 
 
 '{ My glass ! . . . Where is my field-glass ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, come along, do. . . . Bigarreau and his wife 
 started ten minutes ago. ..." 
 
 M I don't care a hang for Bigarreau or his wife. . . . 
 I want my field-glass. . . ." 
 
 " Do come." 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 " Come along. ..." 
 
 " No, I won't. I won't go at all if you keep on much 
 longer. . . . What's the good of having a field-glass 
 if I can't have it with me when I want it ? . . . I'm 
 not going without it . . . not if it takes me all day to 
 find it. . . ." 
 
 Carlo whispered a word to Belisaire, who slipped out, 
 climbed the ladder into the stable loft, and found the 
 glass close to the round window from which there was 
 such a glorious view. Mi-Fou took advantage of the 
 confusion to insert her head into a basket and to seize 
 and drag out a slice of ham, with which she hastily re- 
 treated under a cupboard. There was a fresh uproar. . . . 
 
 "Oh, hang it all ! . . . Here, Mi-Fou! r. . Good 
 Heavens, I expect he has eaten up all the sausages ! 
 . . . We shan't have anything to eat the whole blessed 
 day ! . . . The devil ! . . . Between cats and ; rabbits 
 I'm nearly crazy. . . . Nice sort of house this is. . . . 
 Here, let's get away . . . before something else happens. 
 Off we go !" 
 
 They had to run for the boat. Madame Potterat 
 uttered little plaintive cries as she ran, her smart hat 
 falling over one ear; Carlo groaned under the weight of 
 the basket of food; Potterat, puffing and panting, his 
 cornet held in the crook of his arm, the bag of bottles 
 on his back, uttered broken-winded sentences from time 
 to time, in a dismal voice: 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 45 
 
 " Oh, it's no use. . . .. We'll never do it. . . . There 
 goes my chance of making the speech. ..." 
 
 However, as they turned a corner, they saw, away 
 below, a procession filing along, the band at its head, 
 the flagstaff towering above the heads of the crowd. 
 
 " Ah, there they are ! Good luck ! . . . We shall 
 catch them up. ..." 
 
 With a final effort of tired muscles, the Potterats gained 
 on and joined the rest of the party. Triumphant, his face 
 streaming with perspiration, swelling out his chest with 
 a mighty inhalation, Potterat raised his cornet and joined 
 in with the band in the very middle of a bar. . . . ' That's 
 better. . . . When Potterat comes along, he wakes 
 them all up.' . . . Potterat guessed that something of 
 this sort was being said, by the smiles of the women, 
 and the festive looks on every side. He expanded. He 
 felt immensely pleased with himself. His joyous face 
 shone again in the sunlight, the points of his moustache 
 rose golden against the blue background. 
 
 At length the passengers had embarked; the usual 
 crowd of clerks, shopboys, shopgirls, Italians with 
 their accordions, bankers, tourists, shoemakers, and last, 
 but not least, the Society of the ' Brise du Lac,' much 
 enhanced by the size of their instruments. The 
 captain, bronzed and smiling, watched them from the 
 bridge. 
 
 " Put your hat on straight, for goodness' sake," said 
 Potterat to his wife. " Naturally, if you will wear a 
 plume of that size, it's bound to capsize the whole 
 cargo." 
 
 The gangway was just being hauled up when a yell of 
 1 Stop !' was heard, and Visinand, the clarionette player 
 of the band, was seen running madly along the quay, 
 his instrument case tightly clutched under a thin arm. 
 Cheered by the crowd, sworn at by the pilot, he leaped 
 over the widening space between the landing stage and 
 
46 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 the boat, revealing as he did so shins clad in rose- 
 coloured cotton socks. 
 
 For the moment Potterat, as well as his friends, felt 
 themselves overwhelmed by this crowd of pale-faced 
 clerks, pert girls with low-necked blouses, haughtily 
 silent English tourists, munching Germans. But very 
 soon he rose to the dignity of his green and white 
 cockade, and felt quite indifferent to these unsympa- 
 thetic, bored, distant, or vociferous people. ' This 
 cockade,' he mused, ' is as good as a uniform. It is a 
 sort of reference. It says to these dissipated youths, 
 these globe-trotters: "This ribbon with the Cantonal 
 colours, shows that we are a Society, that we are known, 
 that we have a stake in the country, we have families, 
 we pay our taxes. . . . We are now going to dine and 
 drink each other's healths together. . . . That is a 
 usual thing amongst neighbours and friends who have 
 lived in the same place all their lives and hope to die 
 there eventually, who have the same tastes and the same 
 interests, who are, in a word, Vaudois. ... If we are 
 countryfolk, and look it, we are proud of it ... it's a 
 jolly fine country !" ' 
 
 Quite set up again in his own esteem, Potterat allowed 
 his eyes to roam, with a proprietary look, over the 
 mountains which formed the background to this medley 
 of human beings. Then as Sigrist, the conductor of 
 the band, gave the signal, he raised the instrument to 
 his lips, taking a long breath. 
 
 "Ready? . . . ' L'ExileV . . . A little slow at first, 
 afterwards more agitated." 
 
 Visinand played with heart and soul. This piece might 
 have been specially composed for his clarionet, which 
 seemed to weep, to sigh, to sob, in turns. The trombone, 
 the bugles, the cornets, seemed only an accompaniment 
 to him. . . . The sweet melancholy of the air insinuated 
 itself into all hearts. On the bank the walls, the poplars, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 47 
 
 the houses, and higher up, the rounded slopes bristling 
 with vines, glided past without a sound, as if painted on 
 a canvas, stretched between earth and heaven, which 
 unrolled itself silently as they went. Presently they 
 drew towards the bank. ... "' Lutry ! . . ." 
 
 " Come along with us," shouted Potterat to the man 
 on the landing stage who caught the rope; soon they were 
 off again. 
 
 " Look here, let's play ' Le Gai Chasseur,' " suggested 
 Potterat to Sigrist. 
 
 That air was not suited to the clarionet, so Visinand 
 subsided into limp obscurity, like a songless linnet, 
 whilst Potterat and Bigarreau, with their great brass 
 instruments booming, reminded one of those big frogs 
 gorged with flies that one may see basking in the sun on 
 a water-lily leaf. 
 
 " Aren't they enjoying themselves, those two old 
 boys ?" . . . whispered one of Wertenschlag's shopgirls 
 to Bonnard's red-haired clerk. 
 
 The wives of Bigarreau, Potterat, Regamey, Pey- 
 trequin, etc., looked scornfully at these silly girls giggling 
 behind their hands. 
 
 " Look at that one," said Madame Bigarreau, " she 
 gets only fifty francs a month, and yet she puts on the 
 airs of a duchess." 
 
 " Lace outside, and rags underneath," added Madame 
 Peytrequin. 
 
 " Ah well, they're young," murmured Madame Pot- 
 terat indulgently. 
 
 The sea-gulls skimmed the surface of the waves, the 
 white houses glittered in the shimmering air. The very 
 boat funnel, letting off steam, seemed to be panting 
 with holiday joyousness. An Italian played some chords 
 on his accordion, whereupon one of the shopgirls, drawing 
 her transparent scarf from her shoulders, began to 
 pirouette with her young man. On the inspiration of 
 
48 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 the moment, Potterat hummed to himself a line or two 
 from one of his favourite songs, 
 
 " Beautiful Lake, so vast, so blue: 
 
 May we die, as we've lived, in sight of you. ..." 
 
 The rest took it up, and grave as judges, in order to get 
 out the deep notes properly, the men buried their chins 
 in their collars, and the women directed the high notes 
 towards heaven. A foreigner wearing a green hat with 
 a cock's feather opened his Baedeker with a bored air. 
 How bright and gay everything looked in the sunlight. 
 Presently they approached the bank again. Houses 
 and spires became clearly visible, a loop in a winding 
 road, and — the glory of the country — the vineyards, 
 intersected with their low walls, hung over the blue 
 mirror of the Lake. With proudly swelling heart, 
 Potterat sent his song up to the mountain-tops, as if 
 addressing himself to them. And something of their 
 grandeur entered into his heart. 
 
 " Montreux ! " . . . Here all their fellow-passengers 
 got off, the clerks and shop assistants, the befrilled 
 maidens, the Italians with their accordions, the silent 
 English folk, the German young men with their feathered 
 hats and their green suits. 
 
 Off again. 
 
 " Thank goodness ! . . . They're off to the Rochers 
 de Naye, or to the Chateau de Chillon, or to the Kursaal 
 to drink tea and eat little cakes and think themselves 
 very grand and fashionable. . . . Now we are by our- 
 selves, and can enjoy ourselves," . . . and Potterat 
 levelled his glass as he spoke. " My goodness, what a 
 crowd of people on the Dent du Midi ! . . . There's 
 one lady looking at herself in a little pocket-mirror . . . 
 and a man is eating some ham. ..." 
 
 Oh, let me see. Let me see," . . . cried Carlo. 
 " Oh, father, it's not true. There's nobody there. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 49 
 
 " You little goose. . . ." 
 
 While Regamey and Visinand were discussing the 
 heights of the various peaks, Potterat approached some 
 of the ladies, and began explaining to them how the 
 boat engines worked: 
 
 " It looks very complicated, all these wheels and 
 cranks and things, turning, and jostling each other, 
 going backwards and forwards, and all these shafts and 
 turbines. . . . But it's really very simple when you 
 understand it all. . . . They boil the water . . . that 
 produces steam, as you know. This steam forces itself 
 through the pipes, enters the machine by that corner 
 and works the whole thing. . . . Pushed by the steam, 
 it has to turn. If it didn't it would be much more 
 astonishing. . . . Steam is force, force is movement, 
 movement is . . . you understand. . . . All this power 
 is directed on the wheels which simply have to go. And 
 then the boat goes forward. ..." 
 One lady timidly asked a question: 
 " But why do these pistons work contrary to one 
 another ? . . ." \-> 
 
 " Well, you see, some of them turn one way, and some 
 of them the other way. ... In order to work properly, 
 you have to have them going opposite ways . . . opposi- 
 tion makes resistance, and resistance is the secret of 
 power. . . . Not to mention that . . . you quite under- 
 stand. ..." 
 
 At the Pension Brochet, the terrace overflowed with 
 diners. But the landlord had reserved for the Lausanne 
 Choral Society a table on the grass sumptuously 
 spread. The surroundings were delightful; a green lawn 
 sloping to the water's edge, where the waves rippled 
 and broke on a little strand, with a pleasant murmur 
 of water rippling over the white stones. Some trees 
 threw a grateful shade over them, whilst in the waving 
 branches a thousand flickering shafts of sunlight played. 
 
 4 
 
50 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Ah, this is something like," said Regamey, as he sat 
 down. 
 
 " Yes, indeed !" . . . replied his neighbour. " And 
 we're going to have two dinners. First, a hot dinner: 
 soup, fish, vegetables . . . then, when we've had enough 
 of the hot things, we'll open the baskets and have the 
 rest; then the cakes . . . and on the top of it all a 
 cigar, and a bottle in front of every man. . . ." 
 
 Gazing at the exquisite beauty of the Lake, everyone 
 was silent for a moment after they were seated. Drawing 
 a long breath, Potterat broke the silence: 
 
 " Beautiful ! . . . Glorious ! . . . And in addition, 
 we're all hungry, we're all thirsty, and we've got every- 
 thing we want. ..." 
 
 After the soup, in an appreciative silence, the golden 
 fish, fried to a turn, and sprinkled with salt, was placed 
 on the table. The moment was epic; everyone, though 
 in excellent spirits, was too occupied to talk. A few 
 short words, between two mouthfuls. 
 
 " These little fishes are excellent ... so nutty in 
 flavour." 
 
 " Nutty ! . . . Why do you want to bring in nuts ? 
 . . . Fish is good enough for me. ..." 
 
 Presently the baskets were opened simultaneously. 
 From hers Madame Potterat brought out a pie with a 
 delicious brown crust. 
 
 " What beautiful pastry you make, madame," said 
 someone. " I had an aunt once down at Forel who 
 used to make pastry like that for weddings and such- 
 like. ..." 
 
 The little Bigarreaus were suddenly slapped by their 
 mother; Madame Potterat discovered that Carlo had 
 crushed a strawberry on the dress of his next-door neigh- 
 bour . . . but the glasses went round again, and pardon 
 was general. With his head on his hand, Vidoudez 
 gazed sentimentally at Mademoiselle Logeon, the typist. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 51 
 
 " You're very quiet, Potterat," said one of his friends. 
 
 " Oh, presently, I'll talk. When I have to speak in 
 public, I first eat a good deal, I drink a glass or two to 
 loosen the springs as it were. . . . Then comes the 
 moment when the brain begins to work, shoot out sparks, 
 light up the ideas, and then is the moment to plant 
 one's fists on the table, get up on one's feet, look round 
 at the people, and talk. . . . That's the great secret of 
 making speeches." 
 
 Presently the trumpet sounded a fanfare. A group 
 of young girls, wearing green sashes across their white 
 frocks, surrounded the new flag, and unfurled it to the 
 breeze. The orator emptied his glass and refilled it. 
 Then he rose. 
 
 " Ladies and Gentlemen, Members of this Society, 
 dear fellow-citizens. I have been asked to give the toast 
 of our beloved country, and to ask you to join with me 
 in drinking to those clever and diligent fingers which 
 have embroidered for us this beautiful banner, the un- 
 rolling of which is the object of this fete. 
 
 " Our country, Switzerland. . . . Only the voice of a 
 poet could do it justice. With the finger of its mountains 
 it touches the clouds. Alone of all nations it possesses 
 snows which one may really describe as eternal. Its 
 spirit is heard in the peaceful tinklings of our sheepbells 
 in the mountains. ... In its national institutions it 
 has caught the essence of true democracy, as can easily 
 be shown. In Switzerland three languages and some 
 patois are spoken. Three races dwell in perfect harmony 
 within her borders, bound together by the ties of mutual 
 respect and mutual rights. Some of them have square 
 heads, and others, God bless them ! have round heads. 
 . . . Little quarrels and differences we have, certainly, 
 and sometimes feeling runs high, but the moment the 
 red flag with the white cross is hoisted, the ranks close 
 up, and the Swiss Confederation is the cement which 
 
52 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 unites all hearts in one. ... How beautiful its pastures, 
 how prosperous and happy its people. . . . And how 
 we regret having to die, because it means leaving Switzer- 
 land, and we don't know whether they have anything as 
 good up there. . . . However, ' There's no rose without 
 a thorn,' and I believe it to be my duty to point out one 
 of these at any rate. We who have been set apart by 
 Nature herself with tremendous mountain barriers, we 
 are invaded by the world of luxury. Our edelweiss is 
 sold at the corners of the streets. Our streets and public 
 places reek of musk and patchouli, and other artificial 
 scents. We have become a sort of turnstile, where 
 strangers are always passing through. Only this morning 
 on the boat on our way here you saw our little Vaudoise 
 girls trying to ape Parisiennes. And yet where could you 
 find anything better than our Vaudoise women, 
 tall, strong, rosy-cheeked, regular double dahlias of 
 women. ..." 
 
 Potterat glanced round at the ladies present with a 
 complimentary look, emptied his glass, which Bigarreau 
 filled again immediately, and went on, having gained the 
 hearts as well as the ears of the women : 
 
 " Now why should we imitate these foreigners ? You 
 ask these extraordinary specimens we get from Val- 
 paraiso and other countries round about the Mississippi 
 what they think of us ? Nothing ! They don't think of 
 us at all. Then since they are absolutely unconscious 
 of our existence, why should we take any notice of them ? 
 . . . Everyone has his own nationality, his own 
 physiognomy, his own way of talking, his own ideas 
 about food. The man or woman who tries to break 
 away from these simply makes himself ridiculous, absurd, 
 and his friends think him a fool. . . . That's all. . . . 
 Now what are we going to do about it ? . . . Well, I 
 say, let us keep our own ways, wear our own national 
 dress, preserve our own accent, our national dishes, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 53 
 
 drink our own wine, grow our own cabbages. . . . Let 
 us make our own excursions, climb our own mountains, 
 sing our own beautiful national songs, and enjoy our 
 country in our own way. We belong to our country; 
 we are part of it. Nature puts her own mark on us; on 
 our lakes and our mountains, whether they be called 
 Fichtrehorn or Diablerets, we acquire that something 
 which marks us throughout life as a native of that part. 
 You can prove it for yourselves. The Geneva people 
 are thinner than we are: that's their mark. The Berne 
 people are fairer than we are: that's their mark. The 
 people of Tessin are more bronzed: that's their mark. 
 . . . And although our country is small as regards size, 
 it is great in the friendship which binds us all to one 
 another. . . . And how is that friendship shown better 
 than in Societies such as the one now sitting round this 
 table in the warmest good-fellowship ? When we are 
 playing, we feel the bond of patriotism. When we are 
 performing an exquisite cantata, our hearts swell with 
 pride. ... I lift my glass then in honour of our Choral 
 Society, the Brise du Lac, in honour of the Canton de 
 Vaud, in honour of our old Switzerland. . . . Long 
 may it live, and we with it. . . ." 
 
 Here they gave the Cantonal salute three times over. 
 Regamey was quite overcome with emotion. Then 
 Potterat's broad face lit up like a window with the sun 
 on it, as the young girls advanced and handed the new 
 flag to Bigarreau. Held up high by his brawny arms 
 it unfolded itself to the gentle breeze, displayed all its 
 colours, and its inscription in gold letters. It seemed to 
 smile at the Lake. . . . Carried away in the excitement 
 of the moment, Potterat took up his speech again: 
 
 "It is to the ladies that I have now the pleasure of 
 addressing myself. In the name of the members of this 
 Society I thank them again and again for this magnificant 
 gift which their kind hearts have prompted them to make 
 
54 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 for us. It will be an encouragement to us in the strenuous 
 task we have set ourselves. . . . Think of the long 
 evenings, through which, in secrecy and mystery, diligent 
 and clever fingers have plied the needle, with the result 
 which you all now see before you. . . . Henceforth we 
 shall march behind this banner, ready to defend it to the 
 last drop of our blood. It will rejoice our eyes. It will 
 uphold our spirits. It will inspire us with energy and 
 enthusiasm. And whenever we play, whenever we sing, 
 this dear symbol will float before our memories. To the 
 fair sex which is the ornament of all our fetes, and the 
 hope of all our dreams, I drain this glass to the last drop 
 of its nectar of our countryside. ... To the charming 
 sex, Long life and happiness." 
 
 At the noise of the cheers that followed, the seagulls 
 hovering over the Lake flew away. Potterat wiped his 
 forehead, modestly disclaiming the compliments which 
 were showered on him. 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing," he said to Logeon. " I've always 
 been told that I had a turn for making speeches. ..." 
 
 " Bravo, David !" said Madame Potterat. 
 
 After dinner, everyone agreed that a little rest would 
 not be a bad idea. So they settled themselves in friendly 
 groups, on the slopes here, and there, with tree stumps, 
 or mossy stones, by way of a cushion, the whole scene 
 radiating that simple happiness with which woods and 
 fields and summer sunshine envelope us, but which is 
 never found in streets; the happy comradeship of neigh- 
 bours, a little jealous of one another at times, perhaps, 
 but always kindly; a good fellowship, warm-hearted, 
 tender, almost romantic, on the part of Potterat, whose 
 earnest sincerity made the feeling stronger in all of them. 
 They gazed dreamily on the magic beauty of the scene 
 before them: the imperceptible gliding of the swans on 
 the bosom of the Lake, the blue of the water, the 
 picturesque little bays along purple shores, the indefinable 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 55 
 
 graciousness and love that seemed to descend from 
 Heaven upon this happy land, cradled their hearts and 
 minds. 
 
 " On the day of creation," said Potterat, " we drew the 
 first prize. . . . And we know how to appreciate it. . . ." 
 
 Presently some of the younger members of the party 
 began dancing on the terrace of the inn, to the -music 
 of Visinand's clarionet. He sat under the shade of a 
 big chestnut -tree And soon, all up and down the little 
 valley, in the sh ade of the trees, couples were whirling 
 to the music. Young men and girls smiled into each 
 other's eyes. Madame Bigarreau, clinging to her hus- 
 band's arm, gazed steadily at the sky; some of the older 
 people, even, trod a dignified measure; while Potterat, 
 his face shining, bubbling over with happiness, dragged 
 his wife through a series of complicated movements. 
 He said gaily: 
 
 " Come along. . . . That's all right. . . . Fat people 
 can always waltz better than thin ones. ..." 
 
 Suddenly, a long peal of thunder, like the tearing of 
 calico, followed by a loud clap, fell through the hot 
 air. Visinand put up his clarionet, and the arms of the 
 dancers fell. The sky was suddenly overcast, and a 
 chilly wind sprang up from behind the forest. Hats dis- 
 appeared under the skirts which were kilted up high over 
 the petticoats. They gathered up the baskets and fled. . . . 
 
 The boat hurried over the oily waters. At Montreux, 
 the returning crowd swarmed over the gangway; the 
 Italians, the clerks, the shopgirls, the green - hatted 
 fraternity, the Englishmen . . , but how different from 
 the gay crowd of the morning ! Dresses limp and 
 clinging close to the hips, trousers sticking to the 
 shins. . . . The very golden-haired young lady's paint 
 was washed off, her hair was dishevelled by the wind, 
 her hat was crooked, and its aigrette stuck out over one 
 c ye in a bedraggled point. 
 
56 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Never mind ! . . ." said Potterat cheerfully to her. 
 " Better luck next time. ..." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. And as 
 her cavalier giggled, Potterat added: 
 
 " Bravo ! . . . It's something, anyhow, to be able 
 to amuse fools." 
 
 The storm still growled over the Lake. Sulphur- 
 coloured lightnings fell from a livid sky over the black 
 water. 
 
 " This is all right," asserted Regamey. " The best 
 excursions always finish up with a thunderstorm. ..." 
 
 " That's true ! . . ." replied Potterat, " especially for 
 lovers. A declaration of love is always more fervent if 
 it is made between the peals of thunder. . . . R-r-r-an ! 
 ' I adore you ! . . .' R-r-r-an ! . . . ' Good Heavens, 
 how dreadful ! And I love you too ! . . .' R-r-r-r-an ! 
 . . . But I believe it will be fine after all by the time we 
 get to Ouchy . . . there are the stars coming out over 
 there. We'll go off in procession, with the band playing 
 . . . that will make a nice wind-up to the day." 
 
 But alas, they were doomed to disappointment. The 
 clouds closed in again thickly, hiding the stars from sight, 
 and the rain came down in long, silver threads. On the 
 landing stage the people fled like dead leaves before the 
 wind, the lightning flashed on the bright instruments, the 
 flag was rolled up, and the crowd streamed off the boat 
 in silence. Taken by assault, the trams rung their bells 
 frantically; the confectioner at the corner hastily closed 
 his inundated shop, shutters banged, cats flew with 
 lowered tails across the street, like stones from a catapult. 
 A cornet brayed out some hoarse notes defiantly, and a 
 voice was heard to say beseechingly: 
 
 " Do be quiet, David, you'll attract the lightning." 
 And David replied : 
 
 " I'm only playing the ' Cantique Suisse.' There's 
 nothing like it for frightening away evil spirits." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 To gardeners who love their work, and care for their 
 plants with sympathy, the gratified earth responds 
 marvellously. At Eglantine Cottage, one had only to 
 stretch one's hands out and pick quinces, apples, peaches, 
 pears, tomatoes, . . . and the trellis bent under the 
 weight of its grapes. They moved the ladder from tree 
 to tree, spreading a sheet underneath, which was hol- 
 lowed into a tunnel under the weight of ripe fruit. 
 
 " Gently. . . . Gently ..-.'-' the master of the house 
 would call out. " You must treat fruit decently. . . . 
 To be worth eating, peaches should have their down on, 
 and plums their bloom. . . ." 
 
 In spite of his wife's entreaties, Potterat, perspiring 
 and grunting, climbed into the trees. He fought with 
 the wasps, cautiously, for fear of reprisals, for his ripe 
 pears, which filled the air with their sweetness. He 
 sat prudently in the fork of a tree, and from thence 
 he issued a flood of instructions and commands to Carlo, 
 seated astride one of the highest branches. He made 
 remarks too: 
 
 " Just listen to Schmid's apples falling slap on to 
 the ground. He's spoiling them. . . . And for a man 
 as eager to make money as he is it's rather astonish- 
 ing. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, do be quiet ..." said Madame Potterat, stand- 
 ing beside the baskets, in which she was laying the 
 beautiful fruit on layers of fresh leaves. 
 
 " Why ? . . . I'm in my own garden. . ." said Pot- 
 
 57 
 
58 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 terat indignantly. " Glorious view one gets from up 
 here," he went on, "I can see seven bays and two pro- 
 montories. ..." 
 
 The warm air was sweet; the fountain played in the 
 afternoon silence. When the fruit was all gathered, they 
 brought in the baskets and ranged the fruit on straw in 
 the cellar. The boy who delivered the evening papers 
 ran past, depositing the Feuille d'Avis, as he did so, 
 on the window-sill. 
 
 " Let's see what news there is . . ." said Potterat. 
 ..." Accidents. . . . Fires. . . . H'm, nothing more 
 than usual. And offers of marriage ... as many as 
 you like. ... 'A middle-aged lady/ ... 'A widow 
 with some savings.' ... ' A serious person, yearning for 
 true affection.' ... Ha ! that would suit you, Belisaire ! 
 Send along your photograph and a nice letter; that would 
 be sure to do the trick. . . . You yearn for true affec- 
 tion, don't you ? . . ." 
 
 Belisaire sniggered. " Oh, they made eyes at me as 
 long as my hair was black. Now it's white, they don't 
 notice me any longer. ..." 
 
 "Come now . . . you could play them some barcarolles 
 on your ocarina. . . . And you're no chicken, you 
 know. . . . You're getting on. . . ." 
 
 " No doubt. ... Oh, well, I'll think about it when I 
 get to the next world. ..." 
 
 Meantime, Madame Potterat was walking as far as the 
 gate with Mademoiselle Eva, a bonne who had come to 
 buy vegetables. 
 
 " I hear that you are engaged to young Burnand. 
 He's in a solicitor's office, isn't he ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, he's much better than that. . . . He's employed 
 in a bank. We're going to take a nice little flat in town 
 . . . one of those new ones. ...   Modern comfort, 
 fitted bathroom, drawing-room/ and all that. . . . And 
 just think, he's dead set on my learning the piano. . . ." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 59 
 
 " Well, why not ! Your fingers are supple enough. 
 . . . And it's always nice to be able to have a little 
 music. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, certainly it passes the time. ... I should play 
 waltzes. . . ." 
 
 Potterat came up to the table where Carlo was labori- 
 ously writing a composition for school, his tongue working 
 with his hand. 
 
 " Show me what you're doing. . . . There's a good 
 boy. Look how well he writes already. ... Ha ! I 
 shouldn't wonder if you got a commission when you go 
 up for your military training. . . . It's in the blood. 
 . . . My father's uncle once spoke to Napoleon. ..." 
 
 " In the army ..." interrupted Madame Potterat, 
 while she waved a last good-bye to Eva. " Ah well, 
 there would never be any real fighting anyhow. People 
 are too civilized now. ..." 
 
 " Oh, that's only outside varnish," said her husband. 
 " I know the human heart. Pride and jealousy are 
 getting up steam inside. . . . One day or another the 
 varnish will crack, and then you'll see of what wicked- 
 ness the world is capable still. ..." 
 
 Madame Potterat put her arm instinctively round her 
 boy. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like better to be an engineer ? ... or 
 perhaps a merchant, a wholesale merchant ? . . ." 
 
 But this Potterat vetoed at once. 
 
 " No, no. . . . There has never yet been a Potterat 
 in trade. To be a grocer wouldn't appeal to us at all, 
 would it ? . . . As for being a clergyman ! . . . It's a 
 splendid profession if one wants to be poor. ... A 
 lawyer ? . . . A tap for turning on a stream of false- 
 hood. ... An engineer ? . . . To make bridges and 
 tunnels in order that we may be overrun by all the 
 foreigners and half-breeds in the world. . . . No, thanks. 
 . . . Professor ? . . . Twenty years hence, boys will 
 
60 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 be impossible to manage. . . . No, the best thing is to 
 have a position of organized and established authority. 
 Where one has only to say to people ' Go !' and they go, 
 or suffer the consequences. . . . That's the right sort 
 of profession.'' 
 
 Carlo took up a position in front of his father. 
 
 " You know very well that I'm going to be an 
 aviator. ..." 
 
 " Just listen to that young imp !" exclaimed Potterat, 
 though he was secretly delighted with the boy's spirit. 
 ***** 
 
 For some time past a sly-looking man might have been 
 seen to stop on the road opposite Eglantine Cottage, 
 and take notes in a pocket-book. Also he appeared to 
 be measuring distances with long strides. Potterat 
 frowned as he watched him. 
 
 " There's Mauser ! . . . What is he up to now, poking 
 about like that ? . . ." 
 
 This man Mauser, without having any very clearly 
 defined occupation, was undoubtedly a clever man of 
 business. He knew just when to buy a piece of ground 
 cheaply, to group his purchases together, one bit round- 
 ing off another, then to sell the whole to some rich 
 tradesman longing for a villa, or to build thereon one 
 of those barracks of flats where the poor crowd and 
 swarm together. He had a certain smart knack of 
 catching the popular taste with novel ideas. Venice 
 and its palaces, for instance, furnished him with some. 
 The words ' loggia,' ' campanile,' ' pergola,' etc., fell 
 frequently from his thick lips. As he became more 
 prosperous, he let his whiskers grow, from the tips of his 
 ears over his fat red cheeks ; he began to wear light grey 
 frock coats, fancy waistcoats, etc., and, with the air of 
 a well-preserved man of the world, to frequent places 
 where he could rub up against people richer and still 
 more successful, even, than himself. He had an oily, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 61 
 
 insinuating way of talking to possible victims, of adapting 
 his conversations and opinions to those of his hearer, 
 knowing well that often the zigzag path gets to the 
 desired place sooner than the straight road. So, with 
 his hands always in his pockets, a big gold chain lying 
 across his paunch, his chin glistening, a good-humoured 
 twinkle lurking in his eyes, and a big cigar in his mouth, 
 which, by the way, made him speak somewhat indis- 
 tinctly — it is not always desirable to speak too distinctly 
 — he hovered round about various small proprietors, 
 narrowing his circle and striking his claws into their 
 property at the opportune moment. . . . Bigarreau, 
 Burnand, Potterat, Schmid, all knew him well by sight, 
 from having seen him a hundred times gazing at some 
 poster plan of a block of flats, or standing under a tree, 
 apparently admiring the scenery. 
 
 On Saturday evenings, too, he might often be met 
 with at the barber's in the Square, buried in an evening 
 paper, and apparently in no hurry, judging by his readi- 
 ness to give up his turn, and to engage in chance con- 
 versations. In reality, he had noted Bigarreau' s oaths, 
 Burnand's reticence, Schmid's grumpiness, Potterat's 
 romantic idealism. He knew all their characteristics. 
 And on the slightest provocation, he would invite people 
 to have a drink. And they would accept. 
 
 Now he had set his heart on getting this garden of 
 Eglantine Cottage, sloping gently down to the orchards 
 bordering on the Lake. An ideal position ! He had 
 great plans (he pronounced it ' blans ') ; Mottaz had sold 
 him his ground; he had an option on that of Perret. 
 But these would be of little use to him if he could not 
 secure Potterat's land, " to round off the view," as he 
 expressed it. 
 
 Leaning against a tree, to all appearance lost in reverie, 
 Mauser was studying Potterat, as the latter went about 
 his garden, talking to his cat, the fowls, or Belisaire. 
 
62 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 By the very way the big man walked about, planting 
 his heels firmly on the ground, Mauser knew that he 
 loved his land, and would not easily part with it. Cer- 
 tainly there was Carlo, at present a schoolboy in a sailor 
 suit, but what about the future ? 
 
 This vegetable patch, as it was, would not be much 
 of a provision for this cherished son of theirs, ... it 
 would not go far in establishing him in life. And then 
 there was Madame Potterat. ... " She'd be all right !" 
 thought Mauser. " One has only to notice her Sunday 
 hats, and the way she cranes her neck to watch a fashion- 
 ably dressed woman pass, to be pretty sure that she 
 wouldn't be likely to refuse a reasonably good offer. ..." 
 There was only Schmid and his ground. And there 
 wasn't much doubt but that he, with his narrow face, 
 and close-lipped mouth, always bowed over his work, 
 rising early, going to bed late, a sworn enemy to tobacco, 
 and cautious before a bottle, even when the drinks were 
 free, ... he would close with an offer like a shot, and 
 his wife would follow him meekly. The hardest people 
 to dislodge are those sentimental fools who are bound to 
 a place by ties of remembrance and affection. Pshah ! 
 silly dreamers ! . . . But you can't make that sort 
 listen to reason. 
 
 " He's up to no good, that Mauser !" Belisaire would 
 often mutter. " People who laugh with their eyes only 
 aire never to be trusted. ..." 
 
 One night, towards ten o'clock, Eglantine Cottage, as 
 usual at that hour, was wrapped in slumber. Peace lay 
 over the garden, over the wide-winged roof. . . . 
 Potterat was snoring loudly, lying on his back; in the 
 stable loft, Belisaire reposed with great dignity, his beard 
 flowing over the coverlet ; creeping with velvet feet along 
 the gutter, Mi-Fou's thin back filled for a moment the 
 round window, hiding the stars. ... No one heard the 
 stifled cries, the expiring groans which suddenly broke 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 63 
 
 the soft stijlness of the night. But in the morning the 
 bloody feathers which were found in the fowl-run, the 
 frightened survivors perched on the topmost branches 
 of a pear-tree, the ruffled feathers of the cock, all told 
 their own tale. 
 
 " It's some brute of a weasel ! . . ." lamented Potterat. 
 ■■' It has killed the big yellow one — the best layer ! . . . 
 If I catch the beast I'll drown it in boiling water ! . . . 
 Why the devil couldn't it have gone after Schmid's 
 fowls, instead of stealing decent people's ? . . . 
 Brute! . . ." 
 
 After this, Potterat put his Brahma cock, and his 
 best hens, into the cellar every evening, after a wild chase. 
 And then he went back to the run, and armed with an 
 old pistol, lay in wait, crouching in the shadow, for the 
 marauder. Twice he let fly at the moving shadow of a 
 branch, after which he swore largely for some minutes. 
 
 Belisaire, on the other hand, borrowed Bigarreau's 
 shot-gun, and betook himself to the fields. There he 
 poked about in the undergrowth, guided by his poacher's 
 instincts. 
 
 " You must watch near the place of the last attempt," 
 said Potterat. 
 
 " You must attack them in their holes," asserted 
 Belisaire. 
 
 One evening a shot was heard, and soon after, Belisaire 
 appeared in the moonlight, carrying the victim over his 
 shoulder. It was a fat young fox. Potterat hurled 
 imprecations at the body of the thief. 
 
 " Brute ! . . . Thief ! . . . Highway robber ! . . . 
 Curst for all eternity ! . . . Weasels or foxes, devil take 
 them all !" 
 
 For three days after that, the animal marinaded in a 
 bath of red wine in which floated some onions and cloves. 
 With silent satisfaction, Belisaire, the old gourmand, 
 presided over the cooking of his game, and made for it 
 
64 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 a savoury sauce flavoured with marjoram and bay 
 leaves . . . then in the evening, a few men appeared 
 and were welcomed by Madame Potterat. Sniffing the 
 savoury fragrance, they sat down to the table, just as 
 Potterat appeared with his arms full of bottles. Putting 
 them on the table he shook hands all round. Then 
 silence reigned. . . . When Belisaire came in, bearing 
 a huge dish on which reposed the fox, lying on a bed of 
 fried onions, carrots, turnips, and potatoes, and holding 
 in its mouth a roast fowl, there were exclamations of 
 delight. Amidst talk and laughter the meal went on. 
 They drank Belisaire's health, as he had been the provider 
 of the feast. 
 
 "Now you are the hero of the feast," said Potterat, 
 " you must give us a toast." 
 
 " Oh, I'll give you a toast, and a fine one too. ..." 
 Then stroking his beard meditatively, and with a far-off 
 gaze, the gipsy love of wandering in the old man asserted 
 itself. 
 
 " Here's to the life of the fox ! . . . There's nothing 
 finer in the whole of nature. . . . The fox lives well; 
 he has his fill of fresh air and of lif e ; he lives in the ground, 
 close to the roots of things; at night he roams far and 
 wide in search of his prey ; he never grows old and white- 
 haired; he dies while he is still full of life and vigour, 
 without being ill. . . . But there are not only foxes 
 with fur," Belisaire went on, lowering his voice, " there 
 are foxes in frock coats and top hats; . . . and these 
 are the most to be feared. There are not only geese 
 with feathers . . . there are geese, silly geese, with 
 beards and moustaches. ... I could mention some of 
 both kinds. That Mauser, for instance, who prowls 
 about on the quiet, poking his nose into other people's 
 affairs; who buys up old gardens and sells them again 
 at a big profit; who builds these high cages. . . . What 
 is he but a fox of the worst kind ? As for the geese . . . 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 65 
 
 well, there are some people sitting at this table who are 
 thinking, perhaps, that they are exchanging their poor 
 little places for a much better and grander run. * . . 
 Well, let them beware, I say ! For money people will 
 often do very foolish things. . . . Money kills all simple 
 things, memories of the past, love of one's old home, 
 happiness, and good humour. ... I would warn the 
 geese just to look out ! ..." 
 
 There was a silence, then, with a mighty thump of his 
 fist on the table, Potterat said: 
 
 " Bravo, Belisaire ! Hear, hear ! You've hit the nail 
 on the head ! . . . Yes, that fox is prowling round our 
 chicken runs. . . . This house now, I have lived here 
 for nine years, and I am as fond of it as if I had been 
 born here ten times over. . . . And my garden, my 
 vegetables, my fruit trees, the fountain, well, I am very 
 happy here, I don't want to change. ... I tell you 
 what, let us all agree — all of us who have ground about 
 here, myself, Burnand, Blanc, Menetrey, Giron, Bigarreau 
 — let us all agree to hold our land tight. . . . The first 
 who sells is a coward and traitor to the rest. . . . The 
 first one who betrays the cause of the country will be 
 put in the pillory of public contempt by common consent. 
 ... Is it agreed ? . . . Well, let's make a solemn 
 promise here and now, in front of these bottles . . . under 
 the eyes of our forefathers. ..." 
 
 They all agreed enthusiastically. With tears in their 
 eyes, the older men of the neighbourhood swore to stand 
 by their property. They compared notes as to the date 
 of the building of each house; they recalled those who 
 had lived in them, and one man quoted feelingly: 
 
 " There by the spire of the village we love, 
 There where our fathers are sleeping." 
 
 As they were leaving, the lamp that Madame Potterat 
 held above her head illuminating the garden path, 
 Bigarreau said to Potterat : 
 
 5 
 
66 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Watch that son-in-law of yours that he doesn't begin 
 to drive a bargain. . . . Are you and he on good 
 terms ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, we are on as good terms as one can be with such 
 a curmudgeon. He would sell his soul for money, I 
 believe. ... ' Apart from that/ as the man who had 
 fallen from the top of a ladder on to a stone said — apart 
 from that, he is all right." 
 
 As usual, Madame Potterat interrupted: 
 
 " David ! . . . Do be quiet ! . . ." 
 
 " No, I won't. . . . Why shouldn't I say what I 
 like ? I'm a free and independent citizen. ..." 
 
 There are some days when everything seems to go badly. 
 The soup is burnt, glass gets broken, bad temper prevails, 
 the grey sky and general dinginess of everything depress 
 one's spirits, and the waves lashing on the beach foretell 
 rain. On one of these days Potterat, looking up from 
 where he was working in a corner of the garden, saw his 
 little son running towards him, his face streaming with 
 blood. For a moment he was transfixed with horror, 
 but Carlo began: 
 
 " Just look what Louis has done ! . . . We were 
 playing marbles, and he lost . . . and then he hit me 
 in the face with a stick. ..." 
 
 At this moment, from behind the hedge was heard the 
 irritated voice of Louise : 
 
 " Carlo stole your marbles, did he ? . . . And then 
 kicked you twice ? . . . What a wicked boy ! . : ." 
 
 To crown all, Schmid's chickens and his rabbit, having 
 managed to get through the hedge, were gaily disporting 
 themselves in a bed of lettuces planted out that morning. 
 Exasperated to fury, Potterat charged down upon the foe. 
 The fowls fled madly with outstretched wings and hoarse 
 squawks of terror, but the rabbit, cornered at the foot 
 of a tree, was seized by the two ears, killed by one blow 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 67 
 
 on the back of its head, and flung on to a manure-heap, 
 where it lay with its paws in the air, a poor dead heap of 
 brown fur. 
 
 " Trying to murder my son, and destroying my vege- 
 tables ! . . . There's your rabbit, you old fox," shouted 
 Potterat furiously. "It won't have any more tooth- 
 ache. . . ." 
 
 Schmid, in a towering rage, thrust his head over the 
 hedge, and with his arms raised towards heaven, his 
 eyes glaring, his face crimson, his mouth convulsed with 
 rage, he spat out an insulting name at Potterat, and kept 
 on repeating it at intervals with the regularity of a 
 machine. 
 
 " It's yourself you're talking about ..." chaffed 
 Potterat. M Oh, you want to have it out, do you ? . . . 
 All right, then, let's have it out once for all. . . . What 
 sort of a neighbour do you think you are ? . . . Hey ? 
 ... A wooden face ! . . . a block of ice ! . . . the 
 sulkiness of a mule ! . . . And nasty tricks about every- 
 thing. . . . Indeed ! You want an explanation, do 
 you ? . . . Who played the fool about the fountain ? 
 Who shirked his share of keeping the fence in repair ? 
 . . . I've put up with a good deal from you, but I'm 
 just about fed up with you and your ways. ... Go to 
 the devil, you and your fowls and your dead rabbit ! . . . 
 It's where you belong. ..." 
 
 Potterat's wife held on to her husband from behind; 
 Schmid's wife held on to him. Between them all lay the 
 dead rabbit. 
 
 "... Tell me to be quiet ! . . ." shouted Potterat. 
 r< When gutters are full they run over. ... I have held 
 my tongue long enough ! . . . For years I've been 
 holding myself in. . . ." 
 
 Then, quite suddenly, the storm was over. Exhausted 
 by its own violence, the rage of each man came to an end. 
 Potterat still talked vaguely and loudly of putting the 
 
68 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 matter in the hands of a lawyer, of the interest he could 
 bring to bear in high quarters, and he threatened Schmid 
 with fines and disgrace. . . . The other, though cowed, 
 still spat out his insults, but at longer intervals. ... At 
 last both men were silent, and the wailing of the rising 
 wind, the moaning of the Lake, resumed their sway. 
 Rain began to fall. Both families retired indoors. 
 
 "If he had spoken another word I should have gone 
 for him ..." said Potterat to his wife. " He shut up 
 just in time." 
 
 Sitting on the sofa, in the gloomy room, Potterat 
 endured for a time his wife's reproaches, and the portraits 
 seemed to gaze regretfully at him from the wall. At 
 last he could stand their combined blame no longer, so 
 he betook himself to the shed where Belisaire was mending 
 the handle of a tool. 
 
 " Did you hear the row ?" 
 
 " Rather ! . . . You could have been heard across 
 the Lake." 
 
 " And which do you think is in the right of it ? . . . 
 The son-in-law or the father-in-law ? . . . My son half- 
 murdered; insults repeated again and again; not to men- 
 tion his thieving fowls and rabbits. ... I tell you he's 
 just about reached the limit. . . . And now he's going 
 to bring an action against me. ..." 
 
 Belisaire shook his head. 
 
 " No, no, he won't go to law. . . . Besides, if he did, 
 when one has been treated so abominably as you have, 
 and has passed it over so many times, you could hold 
 your head up before the magistrates. . . . There are 
 plenty of witnesses. ..." 
 
 Potterat held out his big hand. 
 
 u Belisaire, you may not have a penny to bless your- 
 self with, but your heart's in the right place. . . . Ah, 
 this is what happens when one's daughter marries beneath 
 herself ! . . . I ought to have made her marry a policeman, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR . 69 
 
 one of ourselves. . . . It's the first language you learn 
 that stamps you for life. You hear a child say   Mutter I' 
 or • Maman !' and there you have the character at once ! 
 . . . There's my son Ernest, the bank manager. Now 
 that he is married to a girl from the German side we see 
 practically nothing of him. We don't get on, she and I, 
 somehow. She can't take a joke at all, and the least 
 trifle upsets her. . . . Besides, it's always a pity, I 
 think, to bring cross-strains into a family. You never 
 can tell how much this crossing of races is going to affect 
 the population of a country as a whole. . . . When you 
 marry, Belisaire, take my advice and choose a girl of 
 your own country. I don't mean to say that there are 
 not very decent people belonging to other countries; 
 they're all very well in their way, but they haven't the 
 same way of looking at things. ..." 
 Belisaire agreed with him* 
 
 It was a decided shock to Potterat when one day some 
 workmen came to him for the key of the old cemetery. 
 Their ribald jokes annoyed him. 
 
 " You don't mean to say it's true that they're going to 
 build there ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, it's true enough. They're going to have the 
 new school there." 
 
 " And the trees ? . . ." 
 
 " We're to cut them down." 
 
 " Well, indeed ! That's a nice sort of thing to 
 do ! . . ." 
 
 " It's none of our business. We do what we're paid 
 to do. . . ." 
 
 So the noise of the axes, and the cracking of a tree 
 before it finally collapses, were to be heard daily at 
 Eglantine Cottage. Presently, the curtain of foliage 
 removed, a huddled crowd of roofs, the upper windows 
 of a hotel, a high blank wall, stood out nakedly before 
 the eyes of its inmates. 
 
70 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " What fools there are in this world I" thought Pot- 
 terat. ft Well, anyhow, they won't get me to budge." 
 
 During a mild November, he busied himself in trenching 
 a piece of ground that he intended to plant in the spring. 
 He dug in impartially snail-shells and colchicums; the 
 setting sun bathed the Lake in a red glow; some swans 
 were flying heavily close to the water. As he worked, 
 Potterat meditated. 
 
 " Well ! . . . they won't succeed in turning me out 
 of my little corner here — my little house, where one seems 
 to be in communion with the water, the sky, the earth. 
 In imagination one can sail on the Lake; sometimes one 
 could easily imagine oneself flying over it like the gulls. 
 . . . I've quarrelled with the son-in-law, certainly, but 
 that's rather a blessing than otherwise . . . apart from 
 that, we're perfectly happy here. ..." 
 
 On his way back to the house, Potterat was feeling in 
 particularly good spirits; the short grass strewn with 
 dead leaves rustled under his feet ; the little brook trickled 
 pleasantly along its gravelly bed. The house, lit up 
 by the last rays of the sun, shone out from a setting 
 of red and yellow autumn foliage. The moment he 
 opened the door, his wife said : 
 
 " Have you heard the news, David ? Schmid has sold 
 his house and garden." 
 
 The announcement struck Potterat like a blast of cold 
 air, as he took off his hat. 
 
 " Francoise ! . . . You're not joking, are you ? . . . 
 Do you mean to say that the curmudgeon has sold ? . . . 
 Schmid ? . . . Well ! . . . But perhaps it's all for the 
 best. . . . He was a disgrace to the neighbourhood. . . . 
 Well, I'm more determined than ever, now, that I won't 
 go out of here alive." 
 
 " Bravo !" applauded Belisaire. 
 
 " But how did you hear about this, seeing that we're 
 not on speaking terms with them ?" 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 71 
 
 " Louise told me. . . . Twenty-three francs the square 
 metre Mauser is giving them for it. . . . It's quite a 
 fortune. . . . There they are, almost gentlefolk, able 
 to live on their money. . . . But you know what Justin 
 is. . . . He never thinks he has enough. . . . Instead 
 of retiring and living comfortably, he has gone and 
 rented a farm at Vidy." 
 
 " Oh, he's a regular money-grubber, that fellow. . . . 
 In the next world he'll manage somehow to make money 
 . . . he'll be Satan's doorkeeper ! . . . But what's 
 Mauser going to do with the ground ?" 
 
 " Nobody knows." 
 
 "If he builds a villa it won't be quite so bad, but if 
 he's going to put up one of those rabbit-warrens of flats 
 of his, we'll have to moulder in the shade of it for the rest 
 of our days, I suppose. . . . We'll have mushrooms 
 growing under our beds. . . . Damnation ! . . . It's 
 killing that beastly rabbit of his that has brought this 
 upon us. . . . These glum, silent people can be spiteful, 
 can't they ? . . . And to think that he's a son-in-law 
 of mine ! . . . If I could have my life over again, I 
 would never have any children. Up to the time they 
 marry they are all very well; after that it's nothing but 
 trouble and vexation and quarrelling, and all the rest of it." 
 
 Now and then Potterat would go into the old cemetery 
 during the dinner-hour, to see how things were going 
 there. The workmen ate their dinner, sitting on a wall, 
 in the midst of tree-trunks, planks, bones, and grinning 
 skulls peering through the holes. 
 
 " You ought to be ashamed ! . . . People that you 
 have known, that you used to pass the time of day with, 
 even have drunk with ! . . . To root them up like that 
 from their last sleep ! . . ." 
 
 The workmen's reply was always the same: 
 
 " It's all in the day's work. We're paid to do it. . . . 
 And after all, better turn the dead out than the living. ..." 
 
72 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Unfortunately, the one doesn't prevent the other. . , . 
 Mauser looks after the living. ..." 
 
 " Mauser ? . . . That's the man who's going to build 
 a block of twenty-four flats just beside your place, 
 isn't it ? . . ." 
 
 " Only twenty-four ! . . . Why not thirty ? ... Oh, 
 I thought as much ! . . . Pity we can't go back to the 
 time when people ran naked in the woods. . . . Nowa- 
 days, with these speculations in building land and all 
 that, one has nothing but worry and trouble and ex- 
 asperation at every turn. . . . They persecute the 
 living, and they dig up the dead. Above ground or below 
 one has no peace. ..." 
 
 " Well, why not sell, like the rest ?" . . . 
 
 " Sell ? . . . You might as well ask a man to sell 
 his wife and family as to sell his ground. . . . For the 
 matter of that, a man very often has nothing but 
 disappointment with his family, whereas with his land 
 he has only to sow and reap his harvest. . . . And 
 what about the "trees he has planted ? . . . And the 
 flowers he has grown ? . . . And his favourite seat 
 under his trees ? . . . Sell ?...." 
 
 Potterat shook his head and went on sadly: 
 
 " I say ! You've dug up the grave of the poor little 
 English girl ! . . . Only eighteen, she was. . . . What 
 a shame ! . . . And now you're coming to Moj eon's 
 grave, Adrian's father, you know. He died at eighty- 
 four. One of the finest old fellows I ever knew. . . . 
 Oh, I knew them all. ... I never thought I should see 
 their bones again like this. . . . My God ! What hellish 
 doings ! . . ." 
 And Potterat walked home, the tears in his eyes. 
 
 At the beginning of February, some men invaded 
 Schmid's deserted garden, and began the work of devas- 
 tation. Trees were uprooted, the little apricot-tree sawn 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 73 
 
 through, the hedge broken down to make a passage way 
 for huge waggons of building material; deep ruts filled 
 with mud were to be seen everywhere, planks were thrown 
 down on the boxwood borders; a mean little shanty was 
 run up where bags of cement were stacked. ... In 
 the evenings the desecrated garden was over-run by boys 
 who came to cut switches, to steal the parsley, etc., just 
 beginning to grow again ; at night the place was depressing 
 beyond words; in the daytime the continual noise of 
 heavy carts, of the shouts of their drivers, of swearing, 
 of whip-cracking, as the obstinate horses planted their 
 four feet wide apart and refused to budge, of stones 
 rolling down like an avalanche when the carts were 
 tilted up. Already the pickaxes were busy on the twin 
 cottage; its roof- tiles were off, and the garret could be 
 seen through the bare rafters. Doors and windows had 
 been taken away. Bricks and stones fell to the ground 
 in clouds of dust and plaster, chimney-flues were outlined 
 in black on the dividing wall. . . . The house-breakers' 
 blows resounded intolerably through the Potterats' 
 house, and the cups danced on their shelves. 
 
 " There's Mauser and the architect," said Belisaire. 
 " They're looking at our garden. ... Don't they look 
 like bears in their big fur coats ? . . ." 
 
 " Of course. They try to look like the wild beasts 
 they are as much as they can. . . . And to think that 
 one is given a reward for killing foxes and otters, yet 
 for killing one of these brutes one would get thirty years' 
 penal servitude. . . . Good Lord ! the world is a funny 
 place ! . . ." 
 
 It was a very trying time. Madame Potterat, racked 
 with headache, gave up attempting to cope with the dust 
 which came in at every crevice. 
 
 " This noise will drive me crazy. . . . Even at night 
 I can still hear the hammering. . . . Look here, David, 
 if one has a good chance why not take advantage of it ? 
 
74 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 . . . Just think ! A five-story block of fiats scarcely 
 half a dozen yards away I . . . Think of the noise, the 
 gloominess, the damp., . . . We shall all get rheumatism ; 
 the boy will become anaemic for want of air and light; 
 and you won't have much pleasure in cultivating your 
 garden under the eyes of a hundred and fifty people. . . . 
 Oh no, it's absolutely impossible. . . . This place was 
 pretty, one of the prettiest places I've ever seen, and 
 we've been very happy here . . . but it's done for now. 
 . . . What is the good of being obstinate ? . . . Far 
 better to sell while we have the chance. ..." 
 
 Crossly, roughly, Potterat answered: 
 
 " All right ! . . . That's enough ! . . . You can sell 
 it the day after I'm buried !" 
 
 One morning, when Potterat had gone to have a friendly 
 chat and grumble with Bigarreau, Mauser came over and 
 leant familiarly on the hedge near which Madame Pot- 
 terat was hanging out some clothes. He made a remark 
 or two about the weather, then little by little he worked 
 round gradually to the subject he wanted to talk about. 
 
 "I'm really distressed at having to build so near your 
 garden. ... But business is business. . . . Why don't 
 you hurry up and sell your ground ? . . . Take advan- 
 tage of the opportunity. . . . That's the whole secret 
 of success in life, to see and seize opportunities. . . . 
 Yours is a very pretty little house, but it's very old. . . . 
 Besides, you have to think of your boy's future He's 
 such a fine, clever-looking boy. . . . But to educate 
 him as he ought to be educated costs a lot. You want 
 to have a nest-egg in the bank. . . . And now's your 
 chance of getting that. . . . Your son-in-law has 
 profited by the opportunity, as you see . . . twenty- 
 three francs a metre. . . . There you are ! Twenty- 
 three francs put on each square metre of your ground 
 here would take some time to pick up, hey ? . . . That's 
 a fery goot price, hein ? . . ." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 75 
 
 When Madame Potterat repeated this conversation to 
 her husband he shrugged his shoulders in silence. 
 
 " All right ! All right ! . . . It's no use talking 
 about it. . . .*' 
 
 A few days after, Bigarreau came into Potterat 's 
 garden with an air of excitement and worry. 
 
 " I say, Potterat, what would you do in my place ? 
 Mauser has been at my wife. He wants to buy that piece 
 of our ground down by the Lake, between you and the 
 Lake, you know. . . . My wife wants me to sell. . . . 
 And that bit of ground is all sand and gravel . . . nothing 
 will grow there. ..." 
 
 " Old man, do you remember what Belisaire said ? . . . 
 The fox is going his rounds. ... He evidently thinks 
 us ready to be exploited. . . . We old people who have 
 lived here so long, that have taken root here, are we to 
 let ourselves be turned out for money ? . . . Quietly 
 and by degrees bits of the country here and there are 
 being annexed. ... If it goes on much longer, this 
 invasion of the country and cultivated land by towns 
 and buildings, we shall soon be a nation only in the 
 history books. . . . By-and-by they'll have a wall of 
 houses round the Lake and these foreigners and their 
 scullions will look out of the windows at us behind the 
 wall. . . . Well, then they may ' ring down the curtain ' 
 on Switzerland. We shall retire into the background 
 of the country, we shall pine away in the shade, we shall 
 grow mushrooms in the hollows of our cheeks. . . . We 
 shall be so musty and worm-eaten that we shall fall to 
 pieces. . . . Oh, there, I won't talk any more about 
 it. . . . Besides, what can I say to you ? . . . If the 
 women want a thing, they'll have it. . . ." 
 
 Bigarreau went off rubbing his ear. 
 
 But the person most upset by all these events was 
 Belisaire. These blows of pick and hammer, the clouds 
 of white dust which lay thick on his vegetable beds, all 
 
76 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 these men who watched his going and coming, all these 
 jumbled roofs exposed to view by the cutting down of 
 the trees, were things which disgusted and depressed him 
 beyond measure. . . . And then, too, this plaster dust 
 made one thirsty. If a man has to swallow dust all day 
 long, to breathe it, you can't wonder that his throat gets 
 dry. . . . Anyhow, Belisaire took to drink again, to 
 coming in late at nights, singing some mournful dirge in 
 a voice very much out of tune, and stumbling up the 
 wooden staircase, grumbling as he went : 
 
 " Oh yes, I'm fed up with it all. . . . One of these 
 fine days I'll take to the road again with my pack on my 
 back. . . , Better to die in the woods than to live in 
 this plaster-dust. ... I'll be my own master. ... I 
 tell you I'm going to die decently, properly . . . free 
 and proud . . . proud and free. ... Hi ! you people 
 up there, let's have a bit of a song. ... ' Up, up, the 
 sun is high !' . . ." 
 
 A door opened and Potterat appeared, clad in a 
 voluminous nightshirt. 
 
 " Now then, Belisaire. Stop that nonsense about sun- 
 rise. ... It's half-past twelve at night. ... It's all 
 very well your getting a little bit screwed; in the cir- 
 cumstances one wouldn't say a word, if only a man 
 came home quietly. . . . There now ! You can sing 
 to-morrow ... go to bed now. ..." 
 
 " Who are you talking to ? . . . I'm a free man, ain't 
 I ? . . . No human being has the right to tell another 
 human being to go to bed. ..." 
 
 " That's all right ! . . . That's all right ! . . . Now, 
 go to bed. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind going to bed. . . . I'll go to bed 
 all right. . . . But don't you think you're going to put 
 old Belisaire in a cage. . . . He was born in a ditch, and 
 he'll die behind a hedge. . . . Good-night. . . ." 
 
 " Good-night, Belisaire." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 77 
 
 Potterat went back to bed more upset by this little 
 incident than he cared to admit. For quite a quarter 
 of an hour he remained awake, stretched on his back, his 
 hands clasped behind his head, feverish, worried, turning 
 over a hundred plans in his mind. 
 
 " Aren't you going to sleep, David ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I'm going to sleep." 
 ' You're letting all this worry you far too much. ..." 
 
 "I'd just like to have that Mauser here beside me 
 now ! . . . I'd smother him like a shot. ..." 
 
 " Oh, go to sleep." 
 
 " I won't if I don't want to." 
 
 " Don't be silly, dear. Go to sleep." 
 
 " Who are you talking to ? . . ." 
 
 In the morning he was irritable and suspicious. He 
 leaned out of a window to see what was being done in 
 the twin house — the wallpapers in strips, a hole in the 
 ceiling, the staircase gone all but three steps which 
 remained hanging in space, and the shutters lying in a 
 heap on the curb of the well, the window-panes broken 
 or cracked, the old oak door, the bolts of which had 
 guarded the house from thieves for centuries, perhaps, 
 thrown down anyhow on the ground. . . . About five 
 yards from the hedge overlooking Potterat's garden 
 throughout its whole length, some poles taller than the 
 mast of a ship marked the place of the future building. 
 
 One bleak windy evening in March, when a strong 
 north-easter was blowing, Belisaire came back from the 
 public-house in such a state that he did not attempt to 
 enter the house, but passed the night in the garden, 
 stretched on a bench behind the hazel-trees. Towards 
 daybreak he woke and climbed to his little room, but 
 did not come down to breakfast. . . . Towards nine 
 o'clock, Potterat began to be uneasy, and went up to his 
 room. 
 
 " What's the matter, Belisaire ?" 
 
78 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 "Nothing. . . ." 
 
 His beard pointing up to the ceiling, his face thin and 
 drawn, the old man was gazing fixedly at the lime-tree 
 branch which the wind sent swaying across the little 
 round window. 
 
 " Is it true that you slept outside last night ? . . . In 
 that north-easter ? It's enough to give you double pneu- 
 monia ! . . . That's a nice sort of thing to do ! . . . 
 Look here, Belisaire, you're letting all this upset you too 
 much. We'll have a place to ourselves again soon, you'll 
 see. Buck up, old man. ... In the meantime, with 
 that face of yours, I think I'd better go for a doctor. ..." 
 
 Belisaire still gazed fixedly at the swaying branches. 
 
 By the time the doctor, a tall fair man with a square 
 chin, arrived, Belisaire was delirious, raving and laughing 
 at the visions he saw. This lasted two days. Then 
 another couple of days of silence, broken only by the 
 quick breathing growing ever shorter, more whistling. 
 And presently there lay upon that bed only the poor thin 
 form, scarcely raising the clothes, only a sharp white 
 face with a straggling beard, with wide-open eyes, blue 
 as the distant sky, gazing still at the lime-tree branch. 
 Those eyes Potterat reverently and tenderly closed. 
 
 " Good-bye, Belisaire, old boy !" said he, with tears in 
 his voice. 
 
 And to his wife, who came in just then, with Carlo 
 clinging to her skirts, he added: 
 
 " Just to think that for sixty-eight years he tramped 
 the roads, and now he is at rest ! . . ." 
 
 Carlo, eager to know what a dead man looked like, more 
 curious than afraid as yet, stood on tiptoe to see better. 
 
 " Yes," his father said, " look well at that face. That's 
 the face of an honest man . . . perhaps you'll never see 
 another so honest in the whole of your career. . . . 
 Look at it well. . . . That's what Belisaire was, an 
 honest man, ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 79 
 
 Soon afterwards, Potterat was sitting, twisting his hat 
 round and round, in Pastor Bernier's study. 
 
 " And this good man, did he go to any church while 
 he was with you ? . . . Do you know what his religious 
 views were ? . . ." 
 
 " To tell you the truth, sir, I don't think he believed 
 in any one religion more than another. . . . He didn't 
 seem to belong to any creed, neither in opinions nor in 
 going to church. ... As far as I could gather, he had 
 been, as a young boy, with some people who professed 
 very strict principles, but who had no religion in their 
 hearts, and ill-treated him. That gave him a dislike to all 
 established forms of religion. . . . He loved the open 
 roads, the moon, the hedges, the woods, ... a regular 
 tramp he was. Now and then, perhaps, he would do a 
 little begging, or even pinch a fowl, or some fruit. . . . 
 But no real harm in him. . . . That's the sort of man 
 he was. . . . When I was in the Police, we used to run 
 him in regularly every autumn when the weather turned 
 cold, keep him in for the winter, and let him out again 
 in the spring. ... I'll go bail, sir, that you bury every 
 day religious people who wouldn't be a patch on him. 
 . . . He was a real good man in his way. ... As gentle 
 as a lamb. . . . Never a thought of vengeance on those 
 who had treated him so badly. . . . The worst fault he 
 had was a tendency to drink more than was good for him, 
 in the hours of slackness that we all go through, but even 
 when he was drunk, he was quiet and well-behaved, 
 never made a row, or threw things about. . . . And he 
 was not one of those who drink for days at a stretch. 
 Altogether, he was one of the very best. . . . Honest 
 and good at heart, but a perfect fool in business matters. 
 . . . There, that's the certificate I'd sign for him with 
 both hands. ..." 
 
 " And he lived with you ? . . ." 
 
 " Naturally ! . . . He was old, quite grey, rheu- 
 
8o POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 maticky, always running at the eyes. ... I have a 
 garden, with just enough work for two people. ... To 
 make a long story short, I adopted him one evening that 
 I found him in my garden." 
 
 " Was he married ?" 
 
 " Not to my knowledge, sir. ... He couldn't bear 
 women. ... He was all for the open air. . . . Oh, he 
 was quite a sort of hermit ! . . . not a ghost of a notion 
 about money-making; he didn't understand people, and 
 few people understood him; he only wanted sun and 
 fresh air. . . . And yet people would have come from 
 far and near to hear him play his ocarina, if only they 
 had known about it. He was a real musician, sir. . . . 
 As I often used to say, how many people there are who 
 lead a double life, have illegitimate children all over the 
 place, the kind of men who wear smart overcoats, who 
 have their safes full of money and shares, who upset 
 whole neighbourhoods, and embitter honest folk by 
 surrounding their bits of ground with high blocks of flats 
 like the Tower of Babel, and when they die, are given 
 grand funerals ; yet Belisaire will be miles ahead of them 
 in the kingdom of Heaven. ..." 
 
 " Belisaire, his name was, you say ? . . ." 
 
 " Yes, sir. His real name was Noverraz, I believe. 
 But the name he always went by was Belisaire. ... He 
 never liked to be called anything else. ... So you'll 
 know, sir, the sort of thing that will be suitable. for his 
 burial. . . . Not exactly a sermon, but just some 
 verses from the Bible, two or three words, friendly and 
 simple, a bit of a prayer. . . ." 
 
 " I know, I know ! . . . Well, I have enjoyed our 
 little talk very much, Monsieur Potterat. You are a 
 great student of human nature, I see." 
 
 " Well, sir, I ought to know something about it. . . . 
 I have spent thirty years of my life dealing with hopeless 
 cases. ... I know them through and through, the 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 81 
 
 worst and the best of them. ... I know their little 
 ways from beginning to end. ... I had to be pretty 
 wide awake and sharp to be up to all their dodges. . . . 
 And then one hears things . . . and one remembers . . . 
 and puts two and two together. ..." 
 
 As soon as he reached home, Potterat wrote to Delessert, 
 his old sergeant: 
 
 " Dear Friend, 
 
 " Belisaire is dead. He is to be buried on Thurs- 
 day at three o'clock. It occurred to me that as he has 
 been so many times in our hands, it might be a little 
 mark of attention if two or three of the police in uniform 
 came to the funeral. This would please him, and it will 
 please me. Try your best to arrange it. In haste. 
 
 *' Yours, etc., 
 
 " David Potterat/' 
 
 At the appointed day and hour, Potterat, Carlo, 
 Bigarreau, Regamey, Giron, and some other friends, and 
 four members of the police force in full parade uniform, 
 helmets, epaulettes, and white gloves, etc., accompanied 
 Belisaire's coffin, simply garlanded with primroses, to 
 the cemetery. At the graveside were waiting eight 
 members of the Band, frequent visitors to Eglantine 
 Cottage, standing in the shade of a cypress with their 
 instruments. And they had brought Potterat's cornet. 
 The pastor blessed the grave, into which a pale, wintry 
 sun shone; then they lowered into the bosom of his 
 Mother Earth this son of hers who had /for so many 
 years wandered under the spring showers, %ho had loved 
 the fields, slept under the starry sky, £nown hunger and 
 cold, but also the music of running water, and the delights 
 of summer evenings. . . . Then, at a sign from the 
 leader, all the instruments were raised, and the solemn 
 notes of the Funeral March rang out over the silent 
 graves, lingering on the last note as if loath to leave off. 
 
 6 
 
82 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 . . . The four police officers saluted. The ceremony was 
 over. . . . 
 
 " Well now, there he's fixed up ! . . ." said Potterat. 
 " He ought to be content. ... I've seen dozens of 
 grand funerals, with flags, and crowns, and wreaths, and 
 a crowd of mourners, most of them talking and laughing 
 as usual before they had got out of the cemetery. . . 
 but I tell you I've never seen one more beautiful than 
 this of Belisaire's. . . . Just a prayer . . . and the 
 trumpets. . . . But what made it so fine was that everyone 
 who was there brought sincerity with him. ..." 
 
 Potterat now worked alone in his garden. After an 
 hour or two of the ceaseless sound of hammering and 
 digging, he came, exasperated and grumbling, into the 
 house. 
 
 M Well, what do you expect ? . . . We can't do any- 
 thing ..." said his wife. " We knew it would be like 
 this. . . ." 
 
 " Well, ' what can't be cured, can be endured,' I 
 suppose. ..." 
 
 " If you like. . . . By-and-by there will be two 
 hundred people or so at the windows, watching our every 
 movement. ..." 
 
 " Well, let them stare. . . . We can just spit at 
 them. . . ." 
 
 Mi-Fou purred contentedly, to the accompaniment of 
 the singing kettle. From the distance came a regular 
 1 Boom ! . . . Boom ! . . . Boom ! . . .' 
 
 ' Wow ! . . . this row will drive me crazy ! . . ." 
 
 " Oh, don't talk like that, David. . . . It's very 
 annoying, certainly, but things might be worse. Let 
 us move. We shall find a place that you will like . . . 
 with a nice garden. ..." 
 
 " Move ? . . . Ah, now you're showing your hand. 
 . . . Never ! . . . Do you hear ? . . . Never ! . . ." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 83 
 
 and Potterat banged his great fist upon the table. Mi-Fou 
 woke up with a frightened mew. 
 
 " And he used to be so happy !" thought Madame 
 Potterat sadly. " Never a black look. . . . Always 
 heartening me up. What will be the end of all this ? . . . 
 Certainly we have had some very happy times here, and 
 in summer it was delightful watching the boats go 
 past, . . . and we have a lovely garden. . . . But in 
 winter, when the Lake is stormy, it is gloomy enough 
 for anything. ..." 
 
 Leaning her elbows on the table, Madame Potterat 
 saw in imagination the lively streets of the town, the 
 brightly lit shops, the fine new houses with their gay 
 balconies. ... An orchestra was playing lively airs 
 in the Square. . . . Then she spoke again : 
 
 " I don't think it's right to be so dreadfully obstinate. 
 . . . What sort of life will it be for us when these flats 
 are built ? . . . And we ought to think of Carlo too. 
 His education will cost a lot. . . . And if we don't take 
 this chance we shall very likely never have another. . . . 
 1 A chance lost never returns !' . . ." 
 
 " Carlo ! . . . Don't talk to me about ,that little 
 wretch. He gets on my nerves ! . . ." and Potterat 
 flung out to the garden in a rage. 
 
 There the disembowelled house, hideous as an open 
 wound, stared him in the face, with its tattered wallpapers. 
 Loud oaths and cracking of whips broke out close by 
 ... a huge dray, filled with stones, was stuck in a rut, 
 and the waggon creaked and groaned as the smoking 
 horses, trembling with fatigue, strained at their collars. 
 . . . Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and the plum- 
 tree lay on the ground, broken short off at the roots. ..." 
 
 " No ! . . . No ! . . . I can't stand this sort of 
 thing ! . . ." muttered Potterat to himself. "... Mauser 
 offers ten thousand francs for the house, and fifty thousand 
 for the garden; with my pension, we should be quite well 
 
84 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 off. . . . We could take a trip into Italy . . . and have 
 some good dinners. ..." 
 
 Suddenly, he pulled himself up sharply, indignant with 
 that lower unworthy self which plays tricks with the 
 best of us at times. 
 
 M Are you mad, Potterat ?" he asked himself. " Would 
 you sell yourself for money ? . . . How can you even 
 think of such a dirty trick, with your two feet standing 
 on your own ground ? . . ." and he went away, bitterly 
 disappointed with himself. 
 
 With April came cold rains, alternating with bright 
 sunshine, turning the waves of the Lake to dancing gold. 
 From the inside of his shed, through the square of the 
 open door, Potterat could see only the unspoilt half of 
 this wonderful site: trees, delightful little shady paths, 
 the placid Lake, and always the fairylike beauty of the 
 mountains, and the promontories. ... So much beauty 
 in a country tends perhaps to a certain indolence and 
 lethargy in life. One is so happy there. In old-world 
 villages this is clearly seen. At four o'clock in the 
 morning everybody's chimney is smoking: at ten o'clock 
 at night every household is asleep. . . . 
 
 " Oh, decidedly it's a mistake to get too fond of any- 
 thing in life. . . . Damn it all !" thought Potterat. 
 
 Presently, the shoots began to peep through the hard 
 crust of the earth, pierced it, and burst into a thousand 
 leaves. . . . Then came the raking of the fields and 
 lawns; tendrils and rotten stalks, fallen leaves, dead 
 branches, were all gathered into heaps. The sky in a 
 playful mood sent down a few last snowflakes. ... A 
 match strikes; the heap sends out smoke as some straw 
 catches here and there. Fanned by the wind, the flame 
 mounts higher, rears itself above the smoke, sends out 
 sparks and thick clouds of smoke. . . . Another armful, 
 Carlo ! . . . The twigs crackle like castanets; the whole 
 neighbourhood smells the spring weed-burning, all eyes 
 are red, all hearts are light, thinking of the coming 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 85 
 
 summer. Perched on the topmost branch of a hazel- 
 tree, a blackbird is wondering if he has forgotten how 
 to sing. . . . Not a bit of it ! . . . That went beauti- 
 fully ! . . . Exquisite summer days ! . . . But Pot* 
 terat grew more and more depressed, and finally, he 
 decided to talk things over with his friends at the wine- 
 shop at Etraz. One evening then, over their mugs of 
 golden liquor, he unburdened his heart. Regamey, 
 Sergeant Delessert, Vidoudez, looked at each other. 
 
 " Well, you have luck !" said Delessert. " We can 
 just manage to scrape along; we think ourselves lucky 
 if we can make both ends meet. . . . Half the time we 
 are five hundred francs or so short at the end of the 
 year. ..." 
 
 Vidoudez looked with disgust at his hands, stained, as 
 usual, with red ink. 
 
 " We have to count every halfpenny, mend every 
 hole, look sharp after our discounts. . . . What can we 
 say ? . . . Poor people like us cannot advise moneyed 
 people like you. ..." 
 
 Potterat felt inclined to laugh. They actually envied 
 him ! This filled him with pride. He began, however, 
 to say : 
 
 " Our grandfathers were simpler in their ways than we 
 are. .--..*' 
 
 " Oh yes, but the old folks are dead. . . . You 
 can't compare their time with the present. ... Do 
 you want to make your son a peasant or a city man ? 
 that's the whole question. ... If a peasant, then sell 
 and buy a farm somewhere about Penthalaz. ... If a 
 city man, then he must be trained to it quite young. . . . 
 But you can't do both at once. It's one or the other if 
 you want him to succeed." 
 
 Presently they turned out into the lively streets; 
 crowds were pouring out from the cinematograph. 
 
 " For a man with plenty of money, there is nothing 
 finer than town life, but for poor men the country is best." 
 
86 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Thoughtfully Potterat wended his way home. The 
 moon showered sparks of light upon the waves, and the 
 lights of the little villages dotted over the plain were like 
 so many winking eyes. 
 
 " There's no doubt about it. . . . I must either go 
 right into the country or give in. . . . One can't go 
 on being a peasant in the middle of the town. It's one 
 thing or the other. . . . The worst of it. is that in life 
 the head pulls you one way, and the heart another. . . . 
 Always a struggle between them. . . . Always suffer- 
 ing. . . . One cannot struggle alone against the whole 
 of civilization. ... If it were not for the boy. ..." 
 
 Potterat told his wife about the jealousy shown by his 
 friends. 
 
 " They were quite green with envy, Francoise." 
 
 " Well, they see it all the more clearly. ... Do you 
 want Carlo to be a milkman, or a woodcutter, or a farm- 
 hand ? It's simply selfishness on your part. ... If 
 you live in town you must do as townspeople do. . . . 
 To bring a boy up on a farm means that he becomes shy 
 and stupid, his boots are always muddy, he doesn't 
 know how to express himself, he has not the manners of 
 polite society. . . . And you must remember that you 
 yourself only took to the land after you had retired." 
 
 " Me ! . . . I was always a peasant at heart. The 
 Vaudois are all peasants by origin. All the big Govern- 
 ment officials, even those at the top, have that simple 
 countrified air, the tanned skin, the sturdy frame, the 
 big hands. . . . Besides, that's not the point. You are 
 all leagued against me. . . . Belisaire did the best thing 
 possible when he took himself off out of it all. ... I 
 ought to have been born twenty-five years sooner, and 
 to have died ten years ago. ..." 
 
 " What an old croaker you are, David." 
 
 " That's all I am fit for, I suppose." 
 
 Once more he began to sleep badly. The silvery 
 trickle of the fountain in its basin got on his nerves 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 87 
 
 intolerably, and as he turned and turned again on his 
 creaking bed he groaned aloud. 
 
 Then Burnand sold his land. The six tall poplars 
 which marked the boundary between them at the lower 
 end of his garden fell one after another with loud crashes. 
 Next door they were digging the foundations of the new 
 building, and laying down drain-pipes in cement. 
 
 " The whole place is ruined. ..." 
 
 " Of course it is. . . . If you don't sell now, it won't 
 be worth a hundred francs in ten years' time." 
 
 " What do I care ?" 
 
 Carlo interrupted: 
 
 " Father, let us go into' a place where there are other 
 boys. Here, I have no one to play with. . . . It's very 
 lonely. ..." 
 
 " So much the better, it will teach you self-reliance. ..." 
 
 " You are obstinate, David," said his wife. " What a 
 life of it we are going to have ! . . . You think only of 
 your own pleasure. ..." 
 
 '* Now look here !" and Potterat banged his fist on the 
 table, while his eyes blazed with anger. " Don't let me 
 hear another word about this. . . . We shall die in the 
 shadow of these buildings, every one of us. I'm master, 
 after all, so now let's have no more of it. . . ." 
 
 The meal was dismal after this, naturally. The oaths 
 of the carters who were eating their dinners sitting under 
 a tree close by took the place of their customary con- 
 versation. Madame Potterat wiped her eyes from time 
 to time. Potterat stole a glance at her. She was 
 crying. . . . Oh, these women ! . . . He got up and 
 went out. No one had really eaten anything. ... In 
 his anger he walked straight on, scarcely knowing where 
 he was going, looking fiercely at the big gay shop- windows, 
 at the smart motors, etc., reserving his sympathy for 
 the little shabby shops where some old man or woman 
 waited patiently for a stray customer. 
 
 " Oh, shut up your shop, go upstairs to your garret, 
 
88 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 and put an end to yourself/' Potterat imagined himself 
 saying to them. M People like you are wanted no longer. 
 . . . Nowadays, everything is glitter and tinsel, lace 
 petticoats, powdered faces, parading the streets, toadying, 
 and trying to climb, putting on airs. . . . Simple 
 honest folk are idiots nowadays. . . . Ah, it's no use 
 struggling — trying to swim against the tide. ... I 
 can't go on quarrelling from morning to night with my 
 wife, with the boy, with the devil. . . . They are all 
 for the town. Then let them have it, for all I care ! 
 . . . On the other hand, to take a new garden at 
 my age, to lay it out according to my taste, to plant 
 trees, and all that. . . . Why, it would take years. . . . 
 No, it's out of the question. . . . But to stay on 
 where we are is impossible. I see that. Before long it 
 will be no better than a cellar. . . . Hang it all, we'll 
 have to move, for the boy's sake ! . . . Well, the good 
 old times are over. . . . Belisaire dead, Mi-Fou on the 
 brink of the grave, a wife who is a good wife, certainly, 
 but who has all sorts of ideas in her head, a boy who 
 thinks of nothing but speed, ... all my friends round 
 about selling their ground to be built over. . . . Potterat, 
 you've got to take the plunge, and you may as well get 
 it over. Make up your mind to a third-floor flat. ..." 
 
 It would seem as if Fate ordained certain meetings. 
 As Potterat approached his home again, he almost ran 
 into Mauser, lurking, as usual, in a corner from which 
 he could see all that was going on. 
 
 " Good-day !" said Potterat gruffly. 
 
 Mauser at once grasped the fact that this usually 
 jovial man was suffering the pangs of wounded pride, 
 and that he must touch the open wound with a light hand, 
 but that the hour had come to strike. 
 
 " Good-day, Monsieur Potterat," he replied in his 
 wheedling voice, and then he added slyly: " Don't 
 be afraid. I'm not going to talk to you about business 
 to-day. You've decided not to sell your pretty little 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 89 
 
 place, and you're quite right. I'm not going to bother 
 you any more. . . . Every man knows his own business 
 best, doesn't he ? . . . People have their habits, their 
 memories; some people care for these things more almost 
 than for their children. . . . But, as I say, let every 
 man do as he thinks best, and then, if things go wrong, 
 well, . he has only himself to blame. . . . There is a 
 right time for everything, and all other times are 
 wrong. . . ." 
 
 Potterat was grateful to Mauser for his tact. Casually, 
 to all appearance, he began on the important subject. 
 
 " Well," he said carelessly, " and supposing I did 
 eventually want to sell the place — say in another three or 
 four years or so — how much would you offer me for it ?" 
 
 " Look here, I'm willing to meet everyone if I can. 
 I gave your son-in-law twenty-three francs a metre for 
 his ground: I'll give you twenty-four for yours. . . . 
 That is, naturally, if you like to sell at once. We may 
 all be dead three or four years hence. . . . And even if 
 we were alive, the place might very likely not be worth 
 anything to me by that time. I like to get my ground 
 and put up my flats all at the same time, on a big scale." 
 
 " Twenty-five francs, you say ?" 
 
 " Twenty-four." 
 
 " Twenty-four. And you gave twenty-three, you say, 
 to Schmid ?" 
 
 " That is so. I'm offering you twenty-four, Monsieur 
 Potterat, but I wouldn't give that to anyone else." 
 
 " And for the house ? . . ." 
 
 " I'll give you ten thousand. The house is worth 
 nothing in itself to me, you know, only the ground on 
 which it stands. That's for the title-deeds." 
 
 " And you would pay ready money ?" 
 
 " Ready money when you're ready," and Mauser 
 laughed at the little stock joke with which he favoured 
 all his clients. 
 
 " Damn it all ! . . . It is not for myself; it's for my 
 
go POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 wife, and the boy. ... All right. We'll call it a 
 bargain." 
 
 " W r ell then, to-morrow, at ten o'clock, at Lawyer 
 Berthod's. Will that suit you ?" 
 
 " Ten o'clock ? Yes, that will suit me very well. If 
 I'm going to make a fool of myself I may as well do it 
 at ten o'clock as at eleven. ..." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Goot ! . . . Goot ! . . ." 
 
 " Oh, I can make as many jokes of that kind as you 
 like. It's easy enough if you have a quick wit, and a 
 ready tongue. ... We can't all be business men." 
 
 With this little stab, Potterat went off home. In the 
 kitchen he found his wife grinding coffee with a dignified 
 air. He sank into a chair. Then, quite coolly, he said: 
 
 "I'm sick of seeing people snivelling all round me. 
 You can cheer up and order the band. I've sold the 
 place to Mauser for twenty-four. One more than 
 Schmid." 
 
 "What?" . . . (How her eyes danced!) "Do you 
 really mean it, David ? You've sold it ? . . ." 
 
 To hide his emotion, Potterat drew his little son over 
 to him. 
 
 " You see how much I must love you, my boy, to play 
 this dirty trick on my dear old garden for your sake." 
 
 Madame Potterat put in hastily: 
 
 " Of course it's for the boy's sake. . . . I'm just as 
 fond of this place as you are. ..." 
 
 " All right ! All right ! Shut up ! Don't let's talk 
 any more about it ! When people sell themselves, body 
 and soul, it's no use harking back. When things are 
 done, they're done, as far as I'm concerned ... I strike 
 them out of the orders of the day." 
 
 " And you'll see, David, we shall be able to find another 
 garden as nice as this one. ..." 
 
 " No. I don't want another garden. Real love comes 
 only once in a lifetime. . . ." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 " Oh, do what you like ! Only stay in this neighbour- 
 hood; that's all I ask. As long as you get something 
 round about here, I don't care where we go, . . . second- 
 floor, third-floor, ground-floor, or under the tiles, . . . 
 it's all the same to me. A flat is a flat." 
 
 1 You know very well that it's not of myself I'm think- 
 ing. . . . But Carlo will be at college next year. His 
 companions will be boys whose people are of some stand- 
 ing. ... I should like him to be able to invite them to 
 his home, and to receive them properly. . . . First 
 impressions are everything, you know, in life. . . . 
 Oh, we must have a decent flat with a hall, a good dining- 
 room, a pretty drawing-room. ..." 
 
 " Have it as you like. Men are more intelligent, but 
 women are sharper." 
 
 "... And you will be out a good deal . . . with 
 your fishing, your societies, and all that. . . . You'll 
 soon get used to things." 
 
 " I'll have to. . . . One can get used to a prison, 
 even. . . . What I shall miss most are my fowls, . . . 
 and my beautiful white rose-tree, which bloomed from 
 May to October, . . . and the old plum-tree, with three 
 kinds of plums grafted on it, so that we had yellow plums 
 in July, red plums in August, and purple plums in 
 September. To think of all that being destroyed ! . . . 
 Oh, that Mauser ! . . . He ought to have his neck 
 wrung ! . . ." 
 
 " Why couldn't you rent a piece of ground ? . . ." 
 
 " No. . . . If I'm to be a gentleman, I'll be a gentle- 
 
 91 
 
92 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 man. Since we are going to join the ranks of the aris- 
 tocracy, let us act accordingly. . . . No, no ! . . . I 
 love this garden too well to be able to begin all over again 
 with another. . . . Besides, what good would a garden 
 such as you suggest be to me ? To have any good of a 
 garden you want to be able to open your door, and be 
 right in it. . . . To have to go out to it, to unlock 
 the gate of it, and lock it up again on coming away, to 
 have to put broken bottles on all the walls to keep out 
 thieves. . . . No, no ! . . . If a man can't have his 
 supper in shirt-sleeves, and smoke his pipe directly 
 after, sitting on a bench under a tree, without leaving 
 his own place, it's not the same thing at all. . . . Then 
 too, I'm getting stouter. . . . Stooping brings all the 
 blood to my head. I've had to sit down, more than once, 
 on the verge of apoplexy. ... If I took another 
 garden, I should want Belisaire again, and he's dead and 
 gone. . . . There ! Rent your flat as soon as you like. 
 . . . I'll come along. ..." 
 
 " And how long are you going to sulk like this ?" 
 
 "I, sulking ? . . . Oh, don't you worry. I'm not 
 such a fool as not to be able to adapt myself to cir- 
 cumstances." 
 
 Incapable of any sort of work in the garden he was so 
 soon to lose, Potterat sat down not far from the chicken- 
 run. The ducks were splashing gaily in their pond; the 
 hens, cackling loudly, left the nests where they had just 
 laid large round eggs ; the turkey-cock did his goose-step 
 up and down, shaking out his red wattles. What birds ! 
 What flowers ! What Spring gladness ! . . ." 
 
 " Poor David !" said Madame Potterat to herself. 
 "He feels it so terribly." 
 
 One evening she came back radiant. 
 " I've found the very thing for us." 
 Potterat was presently conducted to an avenue which 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 93 
 
 had not long been made. The trees, planted recently, 
 were fading behind their little palisades, which still 
 smelt of varnish. They stopped before a new block of 
 flats, five stories high, and entered a spacious hall, the 
 stained-glass windows of which lit up a frieze, on which 
 were repeated, with monotonous regularity, three trees, 
 a pond, and two greenish- white swans. In a prominent 
 place, twelve letter-boxes, numbered from left to right, 
 awaited the missives destined for twelve families. 
 
 " Which is our number ?" asked Potterat. 
 
 " Six." 
 
 " All right ! Here goes for Number Six !" 
 
 The concierge ran on ahead to open the door, and they 
 entered the flat, the windows of which opened on one side 
 into a central court; on the other, on a field which was 
 for sale. 
 
 "You see there is quite a good view. . . . Oh, it's 
 a charming flat. . . . The wallpapers are all different, 
 every ceiling has an ornament like this in the middle, 
 of ears of corn and grapes. ... It is the work of an 
 Italian artist. . . . And these beautiful parquet floors, 
 and the balcony has electric light. . . . All sorts of 
 up-to-date comfort, eh ? . . ." 
 
 "And where are we to put the hay?" interrupted 
 Potterat slily. 
 
 " Monsieur is from the country ? . . ." inquired the 
 concierge. 
 
 " Oh, I lived in the country at one time. Now I'm 
 a man about town." 
 
 Madame Potterat broke forth into more explanations: 
 
 ? These flats, all on the same level, are so very con- 
 venient. . . . You see what a nice bright little kitchen 
 it is. . . . And there is a buttery-hatch too. . . . 
 That is the bath-room. ..." 
 
 "I'll have to get thinner before I can get into that 
 bath and out again. ..." 
 
94 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " . . . And this is to be our bedroom, and this Carlo's, 
 and that will be a spare room. . . . Here is the drawing- 
 room, isn't it lovely ? That handsome glazed wall-paper, 
 that corner bay, the oak doors, and this nice long wall 
 for our looking-glass and pictures. . . . You must 
 have that corner to sit and read the paper in. . . ." 
 
 " Capital ! Good idea ! . . . But I mustn't forget 
 always to run and put on my best suit, and my white 
 kid gloves before I come into this drawing-room. ... I 
 shall be like a Polar bear in a boudoir. . . . But 
 let's be in the fashion. . . . Let's have receptions, and 
 balls, and garden-parties, like the rest of the fashionable 
 world. ..." 
 
 Bigarreau having bought all Potterat's fowls, Pot- 
 terat took them to him, two at a time, in a covered 
 basket, to the accompaniment of squeakings, and squawk- 
 ings, and duckings, until, one evening, there was silence 
 in the poultry yard. This solitude and silence so 
 affected Potterat that he felt obliged to pull himself up 
 sternly. 
 
 "This is how one makes, little by little, a cemetery of 
 one's heart. People and animals that one has known, 
 die . . . others change . . . one changes oneself. . . . 
 A thing that one thought settled for life comes to an 
 end. ... It is memory that upsets one so. Regret 
 for the things that crumble away, for that which is 
 silent, for those who are dead, that's what takes the 
 heart out of a man. . . . Now then, pull yourself 
 together, man ! The dead are dead . . . the living are 
 alive. ... Be a philosopher. Don't allow yourself to 
 sink into neurasthenia. That doesn't suit fat people. 
 By Jove, no ! . . . Far better to laugh and be jolly 
 than to go about with a long face. . . . You've been 
 Potterat for sixty years . » . don't change now. ..." 
 
 After this, when his wife dwelt on the past, he cut 
 her short. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 95 
 
 " That'll do, that'll do ! It's silly to look back. . . . 
 We've buried the past . . . and put a tombstone on it. 
 Let's get away from it now. We've still got the vine- 
 yards, the sunshine, the Lake, slippers, and a few other 
 little comforts. . . . Let's be thankful for those." 
 
 "Ah, that's my merry David and his fun come back 
 again !" 
 
 " He had never gone away, my dear. ... It was 
 smouldering there all the time under the ashes." 
 
 The removal began. The smaller things were taken first, 
 and for a time they were neither at home in one place nor 
 the other. The portrait of Potterat's first wife, leaning 
 up against a tree, seemed to be calling the Lake to witness 
 to her neglect, for was not the portrait of ' the other ' 
 already in place ? . . . The heavier furniture followed, 
 chairs, tables, sofas, cupboards, piled up before the shed; 
 the grandfather's clock-case, lying on the grass, looked 
 like a coffin. The beds were taken down, and strange 
 feet trampled the flowers in the borders; backs bent 
 under heavy burdens. 
 
 At length, everything being gone, Potterat made a 
 last round of the empty rooms where his footsteps echoed. 
 . . . Closed windows, branches peeping in through the 
 uncurtained panes . . . presently, when the shutters 
 were closed, it would be quite dark. ... All the pleasant 
 hours of homely tenderness and intimacy rose before his 
 mind, and little scenes glided like shadows along the 
 empty walls. . . . Here stood Carlo's cradle, there the 
 coffin of poor Belisaire . . . the bed stood here, a sofa 
 there. . . . And here they used to eat, and sleep, and 
 wake to the twittering of the swallows. . . . They used 
 to wrangle and be reconciled again, as in all homes. . . . 
 He used to go down those cellar steps to fetch his bottle 
 of wine. . . . He used to play his cornet here. . . . 
 " Go away, traitor !" the walls seemed to cry out at him. 
 1 You have sold us. , f , Go ! Leave us to the dark, 
 
96 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 alone with the mice, the spiders, and the one ray of light 
 that creeps in through the hole in the shutter. ... Go ! . . ." 
 
 Moved to the bottom of his heart, Potterat took off 
 his hat and said aloud as if in answer: ".One cannot 
 fight against Fate. It was Schmid who first turned 
 the neighbourhood upside down ! It is Mauser who is 
 in league with the devil ! . . . They are going to pull 
 you down, dear old house ! All honour to you ! Good- 
 bye ! . . . It is better to perish than to see what you 
 would have seen. . . . There comes a moment in life 
 when the best thing that old people — or old things — can 
 do is to take themselves off quickly. . . . Good-bye, dear 
 old casket of happy days, good-bye V 
 
 It was time, then, to take farewell of the garden, the 
 fountain, with its gay little song, the trees for which 
 the axe was waiting. ... On the Lake, the shadow of 
 a sailing-boat, close in to the bank, glided by; the water 
 sparkled in the hollows of the bays; . . . rising and 
 falling in a gentle swell, the waves seemed to sigh; one 
 could almost feel the heart of things beating. Suddenly 
 a shout woke him from his reverie. Bigarreau was 
 passing, his spade on his shoulder. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! There's the gentleman of means ! . . . Have 
 you still got a word for your old friends ? ..." 
 
 For a moment Potterat was divided between his 
 desire to impress the man with the spade, and his emotion, 
 but his honest heart had the mastery. He made a wide 
 sweep with his arms. 
 
 " The old garden. . . . I'm saying good-bye to it. . . . 
 It's a bit hard to leave it all to go and twiddle my thumbs 
 in a flat. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, my word ! . . . Wouldn't I leave mine, if I 
 only had the chance ! . . . We poor beggars have to 
 go on digging, and planting, and gathering, and selling. 
 . . . While you'll only have to sit down and eat your 
 meals when they come along. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 97 
 
 " Quite true. . . . But that's the very worst thing 
 that can happen to a man. ..." 
 
 Bigarreau went off, not understanding Potterat 's 
 feelings in the least, and Potterat betook himself home 
 to the Avenue des Roses, full to overflowing, at this 
 hour,, of noisy children, skipping, rolling in the dust, 
 squalling at the top of their voices. 
 
 Ah, that first night in that mauve room, with its high 
 panelled walls that seemed to demand mirrors ! ... in 
 the solid walnut-wood bed, stranded in a corner, like some 
 little fishing-boat driven in by stress of weather to a 
 fashionable landing-stage. In the dawn, instead of the 
 familiar sound of the gentle lapping of the waves, blending 
 sweetly with the silence, the shrill whistle of the milkman 
 going his rounds, the call of some hooter, the clack of 
 shutters thrown back against the wall. . . . No more 
 did the sky and the clouds stretching away into the 
 blue distance, like a call to joy, meet one's waking eyes, 
 but other windows, other balconies, a woman in her 
 petticoat, her hair on her shoulders. . . . 
 
 " Did you think you were somebody else this morning 
 when you woke ?" said Potterat to his little son. " I 
 slept fairly well, but when I woke I had to think hard for 
 a minute or two before I remembered where I was. . . . 
 What a change ! . . ." 
 
 From the little white kitchen came the sound of 
 singing. 
 
 "I do love arranging furniture and things," said 
 Madame Potterat, in a half apologetic way, " and every- 
 thing here is new . . . and pretty. ... I think we 
 shall be very happy here. ... In about a fortnight, 
 when I have got the place straight, you'll see how nice 
 it will be." 
 
 So Potterat busied himself driving in nails, setting 
 up the beds, putting the cupboards and other heavy 
 furniture in place, hanging pictures, whilst Mi-Fou, who 
 
 7 
 
98 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 had been shut up in an empty room to accustom him 
 to his new home, filled the air with prolonged mewings. 
 
 " That cat is getting on my nerves," said the master of 
 the house suddenly. " But I can understand how he feels. 
 If I could mew, I should probably be doing the same. ..." 
 
 " Instead of talking nonsense, suppose you come into 
 town with me ? I've still some little things to get for 
 the drawing : room, a small table for photographs, a stand 
 for plants, an overmantel, a picture or two . . . something 
 bright and interesting, a figure-scene, perhaps. ..." 
 
 " But what for ? . . . Bigarreau and Cousin Mary 
 will never dare to put a foot inside that drawing- 
 room. . . . The sofas are so grand now that nobody 
 will dare to sit on them. ..." 
 
 " Oh, we shall have them in the dining-room. . . . 
 But there will be new acquaintances;. ..." 
 
 " Who ? . . . Diplomats ? . . . Ambassadors ? . . . 
 Consuls ? . . ." 
 
 She did not insist on the point, but replied: 
 
 " Look, I have fixed up a nice little corner for you 
 specially that will remind you, of old times. ... I have 
 put the old sofa in it, and the portraits opposite as they 
 used to be. ..." 
 
 Potterat laughed to hide his emotion; then seizing the 
 cat, he put him up on the sofa, saying: 
 
 ' There ! . . . this is your home now. ..." 
 
 But the cat sniffed suspiciously at the wall behind 
 him, still damp. 
 
 " There, you see, you can't take in animals with talk. 
 . . . We have broken up our old home, and that is all 
 there is about it." 
 
 Just then, Carlo's voice was heard, shouting from an 
 open window to some of his school friends: 
 
 " We are living here now. It's jolly, you know ! It's 
 a new house ! . . ." 
 
 Every hour, almost, brought home to Potterat the 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 99 
 
 artificiality of his new life. His working clothes, for 
 instance, were relegated to a sort of housemaid's cupboard 
 under the stairs. Involuntarily, in spite of the broken-up 
 meadow, in spite of the torn-down hedges, the ' gentle- 
 man,' as he called himself in bitter mockery, went back 
 again and again to the old garden. From thence he 
 brought various plants and flowers, taking care to leave 
 round the roots a goodly quantity of their own native 
 earth, and planted them unobtrusively in the few yards 
 of ground that went with the flat in a corner of the 
 courtyard, in the vain hope that he might, perhaps, 
 acclimatize at the foot of those walls a little bit of the 
 old garden which had been his life. Vain hope indeed ! 
 The sun itself soon showed him how impossible it would 
 be to grow anything there : as quickly as possible it sped 
 across that little corner of the sky, only to be blocked out 
 by a tall chimney. 
 
 " If I were living on the fifth floor," said Potterat to 
 himself, " I don't believe I should feel so oppressed. 
 But to live night and day under four other families, it 
 makes one feel as if one were in prison. . . . Oh, get 
 to work ! Get to work ! If you look at the black side 
 of things, it's all up with you, . . . absolutely ! Think 
 of something real . . . practical ! . . . Go and fix up 
 the cellar !" 
 
 But what pleasure can there be in arranging bottles 
 of wine in a cellar which smells of cement, the ceiling of 
 which is adorned with twisted, snake-like coils, the pipes 
 of the central heating ? Ah ! how different from the cellar 
 of Eglantine Cottage, so deep and cool, where the cheerful, 
 wholesome smell of cheese, and vegetables, and apples 
 lying on the straw, greeted one's nose as one entered. 
 How can one help feeling miserable when one thinks of 
 the difference ? . . . A big earthenware pot of honey 
 gathered one August day last year provoked fresh recol- 
 lections. Raising the lid, Potterat sniffed the perfume. . . . 
 
ioo POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Ah, I'm afraid it's going off ! . . . This honey that 
 I have seen growing in the flowers. . . . Transplanted, 
 it evaporates. It must stay in the place where it was 
 born to be at its best. There, it really seemed the essence 
 of the flowers . . . here, it seems only a preserve in a 
 pot." 
 
 Mounting again to the flat, after talking severely to 
 Carlo, whom he found sliding down the rail of the 
 staircase, Potterat asked his wife : 
 
 " Well, have you finished the drawing-room yet ?" 
 
 " There are still the long curtains to hang." 
 
 " The long curtains ? . . . Have you two kinds then ? 
 . . . There seems to be a perfect mania for complica- 
 tion. . . ." 
 
 Guessing that her husband was still fretting, Madame 
 Potterat joined him at four o'clock where he was working 
 in the tiny garden, closed in by a laurel hedge. On the 
 little iron table in the summerhouse she put a teapot, 
 cups and saucers, and some little cakes. 
 
 " Bravo ! . . . You are going to plant as much as 
 possible from the old place. . . . When you have planted 
 out a border, and placed our bench under that old pear- 
 tree, we shall begin to feel quite at home. . ..." 
 
 " Quite so ! . . . I have counted, and there are 
 only a hundred and sixty windows which look out 
 on this courtyard. However, here on the right, in this 
 corner, there is a comparatively sheltered spot." 
 
 He led his wife along the wall of the house, under the 
 cemented roof formed by the balconies. 
 
 " There ! . . . It's only the old man who lives in 
 the garret opposite who can overlook us here . . . and 
 fortunately, he hasn't a bad face." 
 
 " Oh, this is nice ! . . . You'll see; everything will 
 be in order soon. ..." 
 
 " That's true. . . . Even in hell, everything can be 
 in order." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR vjt 
 
 One evening, as Potterat was coming back from 
 Eglantine Cottage with a basket full of jonquils, he saw 
 a striped ball of fur gliding along close to the wall . . . 
 it was Mi-Fou. 
 
 " Hallo ! . . . Where are you off to ?" 
 
 But the cat did not hear him; with frantic leaps and 
 bounds he was off to his old home. 
 
 " Well done ! There's a fine character for you ! . . . 
 He's got the old Swiss spirit ! . . . Ah, Mi-Fou, but 
 when you see what they are doing at the old place, you 
 will come back quickly enough IV 
 
 But Potterat was mistaken. Mi-Fou never came back, 
 and they never saw him again, although they searched 
 far and wide. His master said mournfully when he 
 realized that further search was hopeless: 
 
 "I've never seen a cat I liked so well. . . . He really 
 was as sensible, almost, as a human being. He under- 
 stood every word you said. . . . Poor fellow, rather 
 than live in this barrack, he has thrown himself under 
 a tram, I'm sure. . . . Peace to his ashes !" 
 
 " David, come and look ! . . . but don't come in yet, 
 because of the parquet ! . . ." 
 
 Potterat came and stood on the threshold. Freshly 
 covered with red stuff, a sofa stood between the two large 
 windows, which were draped with light lace curtains. On 
 the opposite wall hung three engravings, a sunset scene, 
 a flock of sheep, and a storm on the Lake ; and over these, 
 a big picture representing a hind with curved neck 
 drinking from a spring. On the big table in the centre 
 of the room lay some albums of views, spaced out sym- 
 metrically, a plant in a pot, brought from Eglantine 
 Cottage. On the floor was a new carpet of brilliant hues, 
 mostly red and blue. . . . And in the middle of all this 
 stood Madame Potterat, her hands clasped in front of 
 her, smiling with content and pride, longing for some 
 words of praise. 
 
102 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Well, what do you think of it ?" she said. 
 
 " Where's the footman ? . . . We really ought to 
 have one to show people in here. ... I say, must I 
 take off my shoes always, before I walk on this carpet ? 
 . . . My poor Francoise ! . . . I like my ease too much 
 ever to want to come into this room, where I should be 
 always saying ' Beg pardon !' ' Excuse me P and that sort 
 of thing. . . . The only thing that I really like about 
 it are those growing plants, and the palms. For the 
 rest, it's all very nice, but it's much too grand for me. ..." 
 
 " Well, after all. ... It is for Carlo. . . ." 
 
 In the look that accompanied these words, Potterat 
 read such a depth of motherly love and pride that he 
 shrugged his shoulders and was silent. 
 
 " Ho ! We're to be sacrificed to that imp, are we ?" 
 he muttered. ... " Well, you'll see . . . the more we 
 do for him, the more he'll despise us when we are old and 
 helpless. ..." 
 
 But in spite of these words, the thought that this blue 
 and red drawing-room would one of these days help his 
 son to climb to the top of the social ladder, filled him 
 with an inordinate pride that he could not altogether 
 conceal. 
 
 " I expect Carlo will do us credit one of these days. 
 We shall be proud of him yet. ..." 
 
 It was Sunday afternoon. . . . The clouds, "which had 
 been lowering all day, now gathered themselves up and 
 burst in a torrent of rain which filled and overflowed the 
 gutters. The outlook from the flat, on a courtyard 
 surrounded by high walls, on which the rain made grey 
 streaks, was dismal in the extreme. The iron roof of 
 the little summerhouse in the courtyard shone like a 
 helmet. ... A cook in one of the other flats was 
 humming a love-song over her work. . . . Sitting on 
 the red sofa in the grand drawing-room, Potterat felt 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 103 
 
 himself lonely, useless, thrown aside as it were by life. 
 . . .   Out of the fulness of the heart, the mouth 
 speaketh,' it is said; so Potterat spoke. ... He spoke 
 lengthily and freely, as much to himself as to his wife; 
 bitter and sarcastic, he gave vent to all his pent-up feelings. 
 " Shut up in this box of a place," he said, " I feel just 
 as if I were a prisoner tied and bound. A rabbit may get 
 along in a cage perhaps, and even then he has room to 
 move about, and he gets plenty of green stuff . . . but 
 a cage is not the thing for a man, at any rate for a man 
 worth the name. It is only these effeminate creatures 
 here who could stand it. As for me, this sort of thing 
 exasperates me. Any fellow boxed up in a tin of 
 families like this, ends by getting a little of the flavour 
 of all of them. ... At Eglantine Cottage, I was David 
 Potterat . . . but here ! . . . It isn't every beast that 
 can live in a menagerie; there are some who simply die 
 of it, suddenly, some night or other. . . . Very well 
 then ! . . . And besides, I'm quite convinced that at 
 night people's minds and spirits leave them, go out and 
 about, and when people. are crowded together like this, 
 a man may very likely wake up next morning with his 
 neighbour's fads and ideas instead of his own . . . nothing 
 could be worse for a man of character, who isn't just like 
 everybody else. . . . This house is like a Noah's ark; I 
 have noticed all the different floors, I have even gone up 
 to the attics, and what a Babel ! . . . what a flying back- 
 wards and forwards ! . . . I have met on the stairs 
 some pretty women, dressed up to the eyes, powdered, 
 clipped in with their tight skirts, so that they could 
 scarcely move their legs, and their minds as narrow as 
 their skirts, . . . going out with some of t nese r ^ cn 
 young Brazilians . . . and in their flat e verything 
 pell-mell. All the luxury was on their backs. And you 
 have only to look to guess the kind of people they are . . . 
 one can't help putting two and two together. ..." 
 
104 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " But how do you get to know all this ?" 
 
 " When the doors on to the staircase are open, one 
 sees a good deal. . . . The Tusehers, for instance, and 
 the Blancs, and the Gorgerats, are all decent respectable 
 people; they have children, and canaries, and things are 
 kept clean and neat. . . . Then there are those two old 
 maids, the Paturauds, with their sharp noses, their fat 
 lapdogs, their thin shrill voices, their servants who never 
 stay more than about a week . . . that's a regular 
 wasp's nest, it's easy to see. . . . Then Kocheck's flat 
 is very exotic. ... At the music- master's flat, again, 
 they are still in the middle of their honeymoon; that 
 won't last any too long . . . poor things ! At the flat 
 opposite theirs, on the other hand, there will soon be 
 a divorce, if I'm not very much mistaken; he never goes 
 out but the door is slammed on his heels, and he goes 
 off with his eyes half shut, frowning hard, and pulling at 
 his cigar. Which of them is to blame ? . . . Both, 
 probably. . . . And then Zimmerli, the old man on the 
 top floor, who plays the zither. . . . And ourselves . . . 
 jumbled up with maids, rakes, old Hungarians, ' bad 
 lots,' musicians, German-Swiss, the good and simple, 
 and the hard and grasping. . . . All that must have an 
 influence, in the long-run. When a man has his own 
 house to himself, he's his own master, but here there is 
 a perpetual whirl and rush, and one has perforce to 
 whirl with the rest. ..." 
 
 Potterat stopped to light his pipe. Then he went on 
 again: 
 
 * Yes, you have to go with the crowd, if you 
 have the use of your senses. . . . The senses are like 
 open doors by which we communicate with the world. 
 For instance, the ear ... it hears every noise . . . 
 there is no way of shutting out some of them and not 
 others. The children yelling on the balconies, the mothers 
 gossiping, the servants singing in their kitchens. . . . 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 105 
 
 But the worst of all is on hot nights . . . the sort of 
 nights when in the country insects and emotions come 
 to the surface . . . but here, everything goes at once, 
 gramophones, violins, pianos, the zither on the fifth 
 floor. . . . Midnight strikes, and then the habitues of 
 the restaurant begin to get lively. All that laughing ! 
 . . . After one o'clock, when they do at last begin to 
 think of settling down for the night, you can hear one 
 sneezing, another one yawning, the striking of matches, 
 the pulling of plugs, not to mention the babies that 
 wake up and howl at intervals. . . . Then take the eyes. 
 You open your window in the morning, and you see 
 nothing but balconies, balconies, balconies, windows, 
 windows, windows. . . . The nose brings you into con- 
 tact with the smells and the cooking of other people's 
 houses. . . . The sense of touch forces you into con- 
 tact with others in the paint of the corridors, and the 
 balustrades of the staircase, which everyone mauls. . . . 
 Through the sense of smell the taste is affected . . . when 
 you smell onions on the first floor, and hash on the fourth, 
 you feel as if you were eating other people's dinners. . . . 
 What do I want to prove ? . . . Well, just this, that by 
 living in a heap, as it were, one's five senses conspire to 
 rob one of every scrap of individual character. . . . One 
 is like a leaf in a salad bowl: it tastes of the whole 
 contents of the salad. ..." 
 
 " But look here, David. . . ." 
 
 " Wait a moment, I haven't finished yet. . . . The 
 result is that I don't know myself. . . . When we were 
 at Eglantine Cottage I had my feet on the ground and 
 my head in the sun. . . . And such trees ! . . , and 
 chickens ! . . . and tomatoes ! . . . and my tools. . . . 
 How lovely it was after rain, to see the sun shining 
 in great slanting rays, for all the world like the ladder 
 propped up against the big cherry-tree, only that the foot 
 of the ladder was in the Lake, and its top resting on the 
 
106 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 clouds. . . . And then, too, all those trains passing, . . . 
 flying all over Switzerland, into France, into Germany, 
 into Italy . . . and to watch the puffs of smoke over 
 Meillerie, or Saint Prex, as one turned over the earth. . . . 
 How we used to wonder about the travellers. . . . Ah, 
 we lived then, we enjoyed life, ... we sang, ... we 
 were. amongst things, our own things, and not amongst 
 people. . . . But here one is bored to death. . . ." 
 
 Madame Potterat had listened in silence, with tightly 
 closed lips, to her husband's outburst, greatly distressed. 
 At last she spoke: 
 
 " I was afraid that you were still feeling the change 
 very much. . . . But I've gone through all that sort of 
 thing too, David dear. . . . When we first went to 
 Eglantine Cottage, I simply can't tell you how I hated 
 it ! . . . If it had not been that I was with you I could 
 never have stood it. . . . But when people are together, 
 a family, they can bear things. One waits. . . . Habits 
 are formed. They bind you. And one fine day it 
 seems all right. ..." 
 
 M Well, well, it's all right now. Don't worry any more 
 about me. ... I must have a growl now and then . . . 
 and this weather is enough to depress anyone. ... I 
 feel better already." 
 
 Here they were interrupted by one of the Paturauds, 
 who came to ask a little favour. With a great deal 
 of unnecessary circumlocution she asked if they would 
 exchange their day for the use of the general laundry 
 attached to the flats. And she talked, and talked; 
 then as Carlo came in, she said: 
 
 " Is this your boy ? . . . The only one, I hope ! . . ." 
 
 " I have two other sons, by my first wife," . . . said 
 Potterat, with extreme politeness. " It is very necessary 
 to keep up the population of Switzerland, you see, in 
 these days when we are so invaded. And the Vaudois 
 people particularly should not be discouraged from doing 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 107 
 
 their duty in this way . . . they are too few as it is. 
 . . . With these crowds of foreigners always passing 
 through . . . nobody knows where they come from, or 
 where they all go to, . . . it is very necessary to 
 counteract all this by increasing our own good stock 
 as much as we can. . . . Unfortunately, it isn't every- 
 one who can. ..." 
 
 When she got back to her own flat, Mademoiselle 
 Paturaud said to her sister: " They are very obliging, 
 those Potterats — but the husband is a little coarse. ..." 
 
 At the same moment, Potterat was expressing his 
 opinion of her. 
 
 ' That's an ex-schoolmistress. ... You can see it 
 at once by her nose and her glasses." 
 
 The evenings were long and warm now, and the rosy 
 sunset reflections lingered long over the Lake. Every 
 window was open, and the street noises came up freely, 
 gay laughter, the hoot of motor-horns, the steady tramp- 
 ing of passers-by, all bound for the promenade by the 
 Lake. 
 
 " Shall we go out for a little walk, David ?" 
 
 '■ Good heavens, no ! What should we go out for ? 
 To see the people ? . . . But in this flat we see other 
 people all day long and every day . . . can't get away 
 from them. . . . Besides, it's nearly nine o'clock. . . . 
 Where's Carlo ? . . ." 
 
 " Nine o'clock ! . . . He ought to be in by now. 
 I feel quite anxious." 
 
 After considerable searching, Potterat found his young 
 hopeful playing with some little ragamuffins on a piece 
 of waste ground near by. 
 
 " Come home at once, you naughty boy ! . . ." 
 
 Arrived at the flat, he questioned him sternly. 
 
 "Now tell me where you've been and what you've 
 been doing this evening." 
 
108 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 The boy, half crying, explained : 
 
 " I was playing almost the whole time with the con- 
 cierge's little boy, who is ill." 
 
 " That's a lie ! . . . They put him to bed at six 
 o'clock. . . . I'll teach you to tell lies, you young 
 imp. . . . You worry your mother to death. . . . 
 You give me the bother of hunting for you all over the 
 place for nearly an hour. . . . Now I'm going to give 
 you a real whipping, as they used to whip in the old 
 days. . . . No, not in your clothes ... on your bare 
 skin. . . ." 
 
 Howls. Then a silence, broken only by the boy's 
 whimperings. 
 
 " To-morrow, I shall find out the truth from the 
 concierge. ... Quick, now, into bed ! . . ." 
 
 Once more, the husband and wife looked at each other. 
 
 " I wonder if you were right to whip him, David ? . . . 
 He is very young, and he's very sensitive. . . ." 
 
 " At his age, it's no use appealing to either his heart 
 or his reason; it must be to another part of him. . . . 
 Whip seldom, I agree with you there, but whip when he 
 really deserves it. That's the best way." 
 
 " Oh, but you whip him too hard." 
 
 " When I whip him, I do whip him. It's no use 
 pretending to." 
 
 The next morning, Potterat went down to the base- 
 ment, to see the concierge. The door opened to disclose 
 a room dimly lit by the light which fell through a grating 
 in the pavement. Sitting in a low chair, huddled up 
 like an old man, was a child with a face of wax, amusing 
 himself by trying to look at the light through a rosy piece 
 of onion skin. With his red cheeks, his big hearty voice, 
 Potterat might well have been an inhabitant of another 
 world. Almost at once the child began to cheer up. 
 
 "He is very small for his age, poor little man," said 
 his mother. " And he has had almost every illness that 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 109 
 
 there is, I think. ... He wants more air and sun. . . . 
 And you see the kind of flat we have. . . . There is the 
 courtyard, certainly, but the sun beats down on the 
 gravel so. . . ." 
 
 " Does my boy come and play with him sometimes ?" 
 
 " Oh no, sir. One couldn't expect it. Active, strong 
 children like him don't understand these others. ..." 
 
 " I tell you what, Madame, bring your little boy up 
 to the little garden on the right of the courtyard, the 
 one where the old pear-tree is, whenever you like. . . . 
 There are a few bushes there, and some flowers, and a 
 little shade, and it's better than nothing. ... I like 
 this little boy of yours, we're going to be great friends, 
 he and I, but we must get a little colour into his 
 cheeks. ..." 
 
 As he sat at dinner, Potterat told them about his visit. 
 
 " What a shame, in these big new buildings, to make 
 the porters' flats right down almost underground. . . . 
 Yes, Carlo, I've seen the little Robert, whom you never 
 went to see, because he goes on crutches. . . . Pale 
 isn't the word for it ! . . . White as a sheet, and thin as 
 a lath ! And he stammers too. ... Of course he can't 
 go to school. . . . There he is, living in a sort of twilight 
 all the morning, and in the dark from about four o'clock 
 in the afternoon, playing with a broken doll, while you 
 are fat and rosy-cheeked, you can run about, and frolic 
 with other boys in the street. . . . Well, I'm going 
 to bring the poor little fellow up every day, and settle 
 him amongst the flowers under the pear-tree." 
 
 Madame Potterat was almost weeping with pity. 
 
 " Poor little fellow ! And I will bring him down some 
 bread and a cup of milk at four." 
 
 Rather ashamed of himself, Carlo bent his face down 
 over his plate. 
 
 The little garden, scarcely bigger than a room, was 
 a Paradise to little Robert. He would stay there for 
 
no POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 hours together, sitting beside the flowers, his eyes closed 
 in rapture, his hare-lipped mouth open as if to drink in 
 as much sun as possible. Carlo brought his aeroplanes, 
 his trains, etc., to show him, delighted to dazzle this feeble 
 little creature so ready to wonder and admire. And 
 Potterat watered his shrubs and flowers, and pruned the 
 six tomato plants which formed a border to the flower-bed. 
 ' You watch and see what beautiful red cheeks they'll 
 have, these tomatoes, by the time August comes. You 
 must hurry up and get your cheeks just as red by then." 
 
 Now and then when they were alone, he asked the 
 little boy : 
 
 " And do you like Monsieur Potterat ?" 
 
 " Oh yes !" the boy would reply, and if he felt sure 
 that no one was in sight, the big man would lean down 
 and kiss the little face. 
 
 Another friend of Potterat's was Zimmerli on the 
 top floor, an old bank clerk. He amused himself in the 
 evenings by singing and accompanying himself on the 
 zither. His voice was somewhat cracked, but still had 
 a good deal of charm. Sometimes his white head 
 showed itself at the window between two boxes of 
 geraniums. Then from below Potterat would call up 
 to him: 
 
 ' That's a pretty air. . . . That last thing you 
 played. . . . Wasn't it ' The Cabin Boy's Farewell ' ?" 
 
 "That's it. . . ." 
 
 " I thought so . . . I'm a bit of a musician myself . . . 
 I play the cornet. ..." 
 
 " Ah, you play the cornet ? . . ." 
 
 " Yes. ... I must begin and practise again one of 
 these days. ... I was sent this morning the cornet 
 part of a Barcarolle . . . there are some splendid runs 
 in it. . . ." 
 
 One evening when his wife was out, Potterat took up 
 his cornet practice again. He was in the middle of one 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR in 
 
 of the famous runs, marking the time with his heel, when 
 ' thump, thump, thump ' was heard from below, at 
 measured intervals . . . evidently the Demoiselles 
 Paturaud knocking authoritatively on their ceiling. 
 Potterat stopped short. Then he shouted : 
 
 " I pay my rent . . . I'm in my own house. . . . 
 Do I pound sugar on the floor every time you strum on 
 your piano ? . . . What in thunder ! . . . Everyone 
 has a right to his instrument. ..." 
 
 The knocking ceased. As a sign of victory, Potterat 
 played the ' March to Copenhagen ' with great verve. 
 
 Potterat by this time was well known in the flats; he 
 had a pleasant word and a smile for everyone he met on 
 the stairs and landings: he stroked the cats, especially 
 Madame Hautefeuille's, and asked to be put down for 
 one of her kittens. 
 
 M But, Monsieur," Madame remonstrated, "he is a 
 tom-cat !" 
 
 " Really ! . . . Oh, that's a pity ! . . . He would 
 have had some beautiful kittens if he had been a lady. 
 . . . Well, it can't be helped. ..." 
 
 But his lighthearted gaiety failed him at times, and 
 regrets, choosing the right moment, returned to the 
 attack in force. At such times Potterat would take a 
 glass down to the cellar, and drink to make himself 
 forget. He drank with a fierce taciturnity, his hat 
 tipped over one ear, a bitter smile curling his lips, and 
 he grumbled to himself as he drank : 
 
 " Good Heavens ! What a life ! . . ." 
 • You're getting fat, Potterat," Bigarreau told him 
 one day. 
 
 " Ay, a man will begin to put on flesh if he's bored to 
 death half the time, and has nothing to do the other 
 half. . . . For a man to have to retire when he's still 
 perfectly fit and well is the worst possible thing for him. 
 ... A man can't read the paper all day . . . nor analyse 
 
ii2 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 the world and its folly all the time ... he'd end by 
 being as mad as the rest. . . . What can a man do ? 
 . . . I get up, I go out, I come in, I go to bed, ... I 
 get up again, go out again, come in again, and go to 
 bed again. . . . That's all I've got to do. It's an 
 impossible life. ..." 
 
 " But you have your little bit of garden here. ..." 
 
 " Yes, it's a fine garden, isn't it ? . . . If all the looks 
 that it gets in the course of the day took root, there 
 would be a perfect forest of eyes in a night. ... It's a 
 wretched place ! . . ." 
 
 " And what about Madame Potterat ? . . . Does she 
 like this sort of thing ? . . ." 
 
 " Rather ! Women are more adaptable, less given 
 to reflection. We like to think over things a bit; they 
 are content to skate over the surface of them." 
 
 Things were in this state when one day Sergeant 
 Delessert knocked at Potterat's door. Potterat's voice 
 was heard thundering within. 
 
 " What's going on here ? . . ." demanded the police 
 sergeant as soon as the door was opened. "Do you 
 want me to take somebody to the station for you ?" 
 
 " Oh, it's this imp of a boy of mine. I'm just shutting 
 him up in the boot-hole for a bit. . . . He thinks he 
 can do whatever he likes, he runs off goodness knows 
 where, without leave, and comes home at all hours. . . . 
 He goes about with a gang of disreputable young ruffians 
 who are fast making him as bad as themselves. . . . 
 And he has the impudence to cheek me. . . . That I 
 can't stand. . . . Oh no, this barrack of a place isn't 
 good for anybody, boys, or men, or anyone. . . . And 
 it was for him principally, for the sake of his future 
 career, that we came to live here. . . . But these boys, 
 they have neither decency nor common sense, neither 
 respect for their elders, nor fear of the authorities; they 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 113 
 
 don't care for anything or anyone. ... It's positively 
 heart-breaking. . . . And I'm becoming a regular old 
 grumbler with it all, as sulky as a bear with a sore head, 
 suspicious, irritable, bored and boring. ..." jgj 
 
 " Oh, you're no worse than the rest of us. . . . We've 
 all got our worries ... in the police as elsewhere. . . . 
 In fact, I've come to ask your advice about a matter 
 that is worrying us just now. . . . The fact is, that 
 for the last three weeks or so, someone has been rob- 
 bing the alms-boxes at the Cathedral. We have set 
 traps, we have posted extra police there, we have 
 mounted guard almost day and night, talked it over 
 at the police-station, and tried everything we could 
 think of; in spite of it all, our man emptied the boxes 
 again only last Sunday, immediately after the service ! 
 ... You know how it is ... a great many 
 foreigners go to see the Cathedral; they see ' For the 
 Poor ' written up, and they generally drop in a coin, 
 by way of a sop to their consciences, I dare say. . . . 
 And in this way these boxes are pretty sure to have some 
 money in them always. . . . Well, as long as this robbery 
 goes on, it's a humiliation for us, you know. . . . This 
 morning two or three of the older men were talking toge- 
 ther, and Somebody said: 
 
 : I wish Potterat was here still. I never knew anyone 
 like him for getting to the bottom of things. . . . He 
 knows every trick and dodge of these gentry, and a few 
 more . . .' so there it is . . . they want to know if you'll 
 think it out and suggest something. ..." 
 
 Potterat's eyes fairly shone with delight. Out of the 
 window flew his cares and his depression. 
 
 " Ha ! Do they really mean it ? You're not pulling 
 my leg, are you ? -, . .*' 
 
 " No, no, I assure you. . . . It's all right. ..." 
 
 Potterat gave one of his huge laughs, like those of the 
 old days — a frank, hearty, infectious laugh. 
 
 8 
 
ii 4 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Sit down, Delessert, and have a glass. . . . When 
 they call over the roll of responsible citizens in any time 
 of danger or difficulty I'm ready. . . . When society 
 is in danger, I show up. . . . And it's quite true, I 
 used to do some good work in the police. ... I had 
 the knack of it, you know. . . . You want to be able 
 to spot things with half an eye, as it were, and you must 
 have a quick judgment, and be able to sift out the lies 
 from the truth, . . . and perseverance, . . . you must 
 be like a sleuth hound on their tracks. But these young 
 men they're taking into the police force nowadays . . . 
 young dandies, twirling their moustaches. . . . All they 
 care about is flirting with the servant girls, and they 
 think themselves invincible because they take courses 
 in boxing and jiu-jitsu. . . . What good are they in 
 a case of this sort ? . . . No, when real difficulties crop 
 up, it's to us older men, with our old-fashioned methods, 
 that they look, hey ! . . . Isn't that so ? . . . Here's 
 to you, Delessert. ..." 
 
 " Here's to you, Inspector." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Filtering through a green curtain, the light of the 
 setting sun fell on a group sitting in conclave in the 
 police-station, discussing the Cathedral mystery. Ser- 
 geant Delessert, and Constables Pache, Bourreloup, and 
 Crausaz, sat with folded arms listening, while Potterat 
 expounded his plan to them. 
 
 " I tell you, for four whole days I have haunted that 
 Cathedral at all hours of the day; I've nosed round about 
 everywhere, loitered near the collection boxes, kept an 
 eye on them from the organ-loft . . . and everything 
 was all right. One morning I really thought I had 
 found the thief in an old Englishwoman who was drawing 
 away in a notebook, and all the while backing up to the 
 box near the north door . . . she was so thin that I 
 could almost see through her . . . but after tracking 
 her down carefully, I had to admit that I was on the 
 wrong scent . . . she didn't take the least notice of the 
 box. . . . Well then, only yesterday evening, I put a 
 whole collection of false coins that I happened to have 
 by me, into one of the boxes, and this morning they 
 were all gone ! . . . the box had been cleaned out as 
 bare as the palm of my hand. ... So now I've come 
 to this conclusion — that the thief, whoever he is, hides 
 himself in the Cathedral somewhere just about closing 
 time, and does his work in the dark. But this evening 
 I'm going to spend the night with him, and there'll be 
 two of us to share the money. ..." 
 
 " Look out for ghosts ..." said Bourreloup. 
 
 115 
 
n6 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Potterat was indignant at this remark. 
 
 "■ Ghosts !" he said, " there aren't any such things, 
 except in the minds of silly old women. . . . People 
 live and die, and are put away . . . and that's the end 
 of them. . . . Who's going to prowl round here again, 
 when they can no longer eat or drink ? . . . I remember 
 once at Vidy, there was a foreigner who complained that 
 his house was haunted. Well, I slept there five nights, 
 and I never slept better in my life. ... At the begin- 
 ning of the night, certainly, there was a good deal of 
 noise, mice scratching, rats chasing each other behind 
 the walls, the old wood creaking, plaster falling from a 
 ceiling, an insect dying, all absolutely natural, com- 
 monplace noises. . . . Oh no, it's a man's own unbalanced 
 mind that plays him these tricks ! . . . The night is just 
 the same as the daytime, except that one can't see so 
 well. And I'm not a boy, you know, nor a Savoyard 
 nurse. ..." 
 
 Bourreloup, however, was not to be shaken in his 
 belief in ghosts. 
 
 " All right ! Have it your own way. ... All the 
 same I don't much care for these ancient buildings that 
 nobody knows even who built. ... You'll take a 
 weapon of some sort, won't you ?" 
 
 " Oh, I've got my revolver always, in case of serious 
 resistance or unexpected attack. . . . Two shots in 
 the air, by way of warning, and four in earnest. . . . 
 Besides, I've got felt shoes to walk about in the building 
 without waking the echoes, and my electric lamp, and 
 some bread, sausage, and a bottle of wine ... it's a 
 long watch, you know, and one needs a bite or two about 
 two o'clock in the morning." 
 
 The others were silent, filled with admiration for his 
 coolness. 
 
 " Well, we wish you good luck." 
 
 " There's no such thing as luck in these affairs. . . . 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 117 
 
 Everything is thought out and arranged beforehand; 
 I've chosen the corner where I shall keep watch, com- 
 manding the boxes. ... At the first sound, a rush of 
 about thirty yards or so, and I'm on the top of the thief 
 ... I arrest him, and bring him along here to you, and 
 there you are. . . . We old hands don't chatter as 
 much as the young ones, but we have our method. . . . 
 I'll get there about half an hour before closing time, 
 I'll walk about with the crowd, and when I come to my 
 corner I quietly disappear without anyone seeing me. . . . 
 The public go out, and the place is locked up for the 
 night . . . and there we are, we two. . . . Good-bye. . . ." 
 # * * * * 
 
 From the lower town rose the sound of crowds, of 
 hurrying to and fro, of life, but above, where the 
 Cathedral raised its towers to the sky, all was still. 
 An odd sort of chill seemed to be in the air, and a 
 weird, unearthly smell came to Potterat's nostrils, as he 
 lay crouched behind a group of pillars. Defiantly he 
 breathed the air saturated with dead prayers. Glancing 
 aside, he could see on the windows the light of a distant 
 street lamp, and the stars dancing as in deep water. 
 A chequered reflection played on the worn flagstones of 
 the floor, and streaked the walls with ladders of flicker- 
 ing gleams. ... At regular intervals, booming from its 
 high prison of stone, the great bell sounded menacingly. 
 . . . Midnight struck . . . the street lamp was extin- 
 guished. The steps of the man who walks about at 
 night with a pole on his shoulder resounded on the 
 pavement, then receded in the distance. . . . Suddenly 
 the darkness seemed to grow thicker, more intense . . . 
 and there were mysterious whisperings, glidings, crackings, 
 rustlings of wings. . . . 
 
 " Well ! There's no doubt that one's comfortable 
 bed at home would be better than this," said Potterat 
 to himself? as he sat up on the hard chair he had put in 
 
n8 POTTERAT AND TkE WAR 
 
 his corner beforehand. '* What is that ? . . ." A huge 
 hairy spider ran across his hand. Potterat shook it off 
 with disgust. 
 
 "Yah! . . ." he whispered to himself. "Why in 
 the name of creation did the good God want to make 
 such horrid beasts ? . . . Never mind !" he encouraged 
 himself, " it isn't a few bats, or a couple of rats scuffling 
 together, that are going to break my nerve. I'm here 
 in a good cause. I have law and justice on my side; 
 I'm sent here officially, and neither the devil nor any of 
 his works is going to get the better of me. . . . The first 
 thing that moves, I'll arrest it, and run it in. . . ." 
 
 One o'clock struck, then two. Before striking, the 
 hammer whirred, a murmur ran under the vaults, and 
 the blow on the bell which followed struck against the 
 columns, and resounded through the building like the 
 groaning of a soul in pain. 
 
 " Good Heavens, what a row ! . . . And my feet 
 are beginning to freeze. ... I think it's about time to 
 have some food. ..." 
 
 Potterat drew from his capacious pockets a bottle and 
 a packet, which he unrolled carefully and noiselessly. 
 Methodically, he took a bite of sausage, then a bite of 
 bread. 
 
 " Ha, that's better ! Well, it's the first time I've 
 eaten a meal under these conditions. . . . There's 
 nothing like eating to put one in good heart. ... As long 
 as one can eat, everything is all right. ..." 
 
 When Potterat uncorked the bottle, in spite of all his 
 precautions there was a loud ' tiouc.' . . . Immediately 
 the vaults re-echoed repeatedly ' Tiouc ! . . . Tiouc ! 
 . . . Tiouc ! . . .' 
 
 ' There's no place like a Cathedral for giving you 
 away !" said Potterat to himself. " Here's to you ! . . ." 
 
 Thirsty lips encircled the neck of the bottle; slowly, 
 surely, it was emptied, and Potterat said again to himself : 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 119 
 
 " Ah, to put life into a man, there's nothing like eating 
 and drinking; as long as a man can do that he's all right. 
 . . . Now then, my friend, what's the use of sticking 
 behind this pillar all night ? . . . You have felt shoes, 
 now's the time to make use of them. Take a turn round 
 the church, and climb into the pulpit. From there 
 you'll be able to see all round. . . . You can sit in the 
 armchair, and you have the whole congregation under 
 your eye. . . . Here goes ! . . ." 
 
 But when Potterat was at length installed in the high 
 pulpit, perched up, as it were, between heaven and earth, 
 he began to feel himself very small indeed, in spite of 
 his great bulk. The windows opposite him shone in 
 the darkness with a ghostly blue light. Some inex- 
 plicable sounds sent cold shivers over him. . . . Fear ? 
 . . . No, not that, but uneasiness, an uncomfortable 
 sinking of the heart, that was all. . . . He tried to rally 
 himself out of it, but his sarcasms fell flat. . . . Hark ! 
 What was that ? . . . Someone whispering ? . . . There 
 is no doubt, big and strong though one may be, the 
 voice of the centuries imprisoned, as it were, under 
 these resounding vaults has some effect on one's 
 nerves . . . that voice which is heard in the rustling 
 of the branches against the windows, the moaning of 
 the wind, the very silence, that terrifying silence of all 
 those who used to frequent these aisles, and are now 
 dead. Most of all is this silence terrifying to a man like 
 Potterat, jovial, gay, a bit of a gourmand, and a lover 
 of the sunshine and gaiety of life. For perhaps the first 
 time in his life, Potterat laid his finger on the tragedy 
 of things. This God, of Whom one talks so freely, to 
 Whom one devotes an hour or so a month, in Whose 
 honour one sings a hymn or two, and murmurs a prayer 
 into one's hat, He was there, actually standing there, 
 terrible, knowing each and every blackguardism of those 
 who lay under these stones in impalpable dust ; here, and 
 
120 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 yet everywhere, leaning over those who slept, reading then- 
 secret thoughts, noting everything in His book, putting 
 a cross here and there, perhaps, against a date, meaning : 
 1 Thou wilt die on such a day, at such an hour.' . . . 
 
 "I'm no worse than others," reasoned Potterat with 
 himself. "If I'm not one of the best of men, I'm 
 a long way from being one of the worst. . . . There 
 are extenuating circumstances. ... I have quarrelled 
 with my son-in-law, certainly, but whose fault is 
 that? . . ." 
 
 A grey light, ineffably sad, tempered the thick dark- 
 ness in the Cathedral. Four o'clock. . . . Potterat's 
 thoughts took another turn. 
 
 " I wonder if it's so very difficult to preach after all ! 
 . . . One gets up, and stretches out one's arms, and says: 
 • My brethren ! I want you to fix your thoughts for a 
 little while on the words which ' . . . and so on, and so 
 on. There you are ! . > . With a little practice, I 
 believe I could preach as good a sermon as anyone. . . . 
 A little appeal for repentance to finish up with, a 
 prayer, the benediction. . . . Oh, I should have been 
 as good a parson as any of them. ..." 
 
 Little by little da}' dawned. Very soon the backs of 
 the seats could be seen, then the stalls, then the Com- 
 munion Table. In front of Potterat lay the big pulpit 
 Bible, on a green cloth. He opened it haphazard, and 
 read : ' For behold, we shall not all die, but we shall all 
 be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at 
 the last trump. . , .' Closing the book again solemnly, 
 Potterat slowly and ceremoniously came down the pulpit 
 stairs. A door creaked. 
 
 " Well ?" said the concierge. 
 
 " My word, your Cathedral is a place of horrors ! One 
 
 gets frightened almost of one's own shadow. ... As 
 
 for rinding a thief in this labyrinth, it's perfectly hopeless. 
 
 . . Did I hear anything ? . , . Oh yes, I heard plenty, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 121 
 
 but I saw nothing, although I kept my eyes open, I can 
 tell you. ..." 
 
 They went together to the largest box where some small 
 change had been placed as a trap. There was nothing 
 there. 
 
 " Damnation ! . . . And yet I've had my eyes glued 
 on that spot. . . . But who could see in that pitch 
 blackness ? . . . There is darkness and darkness. Here, 
 you might imagine yourself hundreds of feet under water. 
 I couldn't see my hand in front of me. . . . Oh well, 
 I'm coming back again to-night. Only I'll adopt another 
 plan, and to-morrow morning you'll see the thief as large 
 as life. . . . But don't say a word to anyone. . . . 
 Now I'm going home to breakfast." 
 
 " Well ? . . ." said also the police sergeant when 
 Potterat entered the police-station. That he had drawn 
 a blank was very evident by his drooping moustache, 
 and the dejected stoop of his shoulders. 
 
 ' You see it's not so easy after all," said Bourreloup. 
 
 " What's that ? . . . Well, one can't arrest bats. . . . 
 Besides, the first night one can only reconnoitre, make 
 a few notes, and settle on a plan. . . . Lay the train, 
 so to speak. Then the next night we blow them up." 
 
 ' You're going there again ? . . ." said Delessert. 
 
 " I think so. . . . The police need plenty of patience. 
 . . . The man who is put off at the first check isn't 
 much of a detective. I shall spend my nights in the 
 Cathedral to the end of my days if necessary, but I shall 
 get the better of the rascal. . . . On the other hand, it's 
 no use trying to hide the fact that it isn't going to be an 
 easy job. ... To stay all night alone in that old pile 
 in the dark ; to wander about a place built in the thirteenth 
 century, by people of doubtful morals, a place with all 
 kinds of corners, and nooks, and crypts, and tombstones, 
 and old statues . . . well, there are not many men who 
 would do it, I can tell you. . . , If you stay in one 
 
122 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 place, you can see nothing, if you walk about, you seem 
 to set the whole place in a commotion. . . . No, which- 
 ever way you look at it, it isn't an easy job. . . ." 
 
 " Some people say that at night, when the wind is up, 
 the organ plays of itself, in muffled tones, of course. . . . 
 Is that true, do you think ? . . ." 
 
 "Certainly! There are puffings, and blowings, and 
 creakings, and wheezy notes, over and over again. ..." 
 
 M It's the instrumentation working," said Delessert 
 scientifically. " With all those pipes, the least breath 
 of air makes a sound." 
 
 Potterat was not to be outdone. 
 
 " Naturally. ... It's not the devil playing himself 
 a hymn. Every noise has a sensible explanation. ... 
 A man who has spent thirty years in the police has a 
 pretty good idea of what a variety of noises there are at 
 night. . . . Silly people talk about fairies, and spirits, 
 and ghosts, but the man who has his wits about him 
 looks for the cause, and is able to distinguish and 
 diagnose the noise at once." 
 
 ' That's all very well ..." said Pache, in a meaning 
 voice. 
 
 ' What's all very well ? . . . The days of fairy 
 stories are past. We're too emancipated for that 
 nowadays. Well, I'm off to breakfast." 
 
 " Well ? . . ." said Madame Potterat, in her turn, 
 looking rather pale. 
 
 " Well, nothing . . . except that I'm simply 
 ravenous." 
 
 " Have you caught him ? . . ." 
 
 " Caught who ? . . . Did you really think I was going 
 to get him at the first attempt ? . . . Oh no, he's* too 
 sharp for that. It's cunning against strategy. . . . Give 
 me time. . . . All the same, I don't think you'll find 
 three men in Central Europe who'll be ready to pass the 
 night, absolutely alone, in a Cathedral. It needs plenty 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 123 
 
 of pluck, and good steady nerves. Why, a man might be 
 set upon and cut to pieces by some madman, and no one 
 outside would know anything about it until seven o'clock 
 in the morning." 
 
 n Oh, David dear ! . . . What I suffered last night ! 
 . . . And the Lake was so stormy and loud. ... I had 
 all sorts of horrible thoughts. . . . And knowing that 
 you were in cold, and danger ... do you think I could 
 get a wink of sleep ? Not likely ! . . . If you love me, 
 David, you must not think of going again. ... I have 
 such presentiments. . . . Just now, too, I felt all queer. 
 ... As soon as Carlo had gone off to school, I had a 
 regular fit of hysterics. ... I couldn't help it, David." 
 
 " My dear, women are always like that. They never 
 look at things as men do. But I'm too hungry now to 
 discuss the point." 
 
 And he sat down to the table and attacked with vigour 
 the coffee and cream, the bread and fresh butter, the 
 strawberry jam. Presently, his hunger allayed, Potterat 
 relented at the sight of his wife's anxious face. 
 
 " All right, dear, all right ! . . . I'm here safe and 
 sound. What more do you want ? . . . 'La Suisse est 
 belle.' . . . And we've plenty of good food to eat. 
 So what are you crying about ?" 
 
 Madame Potterat dried her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, don't talk, David, you don't understand a bit. 
 Men argue, . . . but women feel. ..." 
 
 " And don't I feel too ? . . . I feel that this jam is 
 delicious, that this bread is new. ..." 
 
 As he spoke, he watched her from the corners of his 
 eyes, vaguely touched by her evident anxiety on his 
 behalf. Someone knocked at the door. It was Zimmerli. 
 
 " Has he come back yet ?" 
 
 " Yes, he's at breakfast now." 
 
 "Well? ..." 
 
 " Oh, come in for a minute, He'll tell you all about it." 
 
124 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Well ? . . ," repeated Zimmerli, the moment he saw 
 Potterat. 
 
 " Everybody I've seen this morning says ' Well ? . . . 
 Well? . . .' Well, what about it ? . . . You didn't 
 expect, did you, that anything was going to happen in 
 one night, when it's a question of dealing with expert 
 thieves ? . . . It will take time, courage, shrewdness." 
 
 " What was it like in the Cathedral at night ?" 
 
 " Well, you'd think all the time that someone was 
 rolling things about on the flagstones. And the groans, 
 and creaks, and strainings. ... I can't get it out of 
 my mind that in spite of all the prayers and good words 
 that are said there, there's no place where there are more 
 devils than in these churches. ... It makes one think, 
 you know. ..." 
 
 " And you really intend to go again ?" 
 
 "I'm going again, certainly ! . . . You can think of 
 me to-night about midnight, . . . you in your bed, 
 warm and snug and comfortable, and everything quiet 
 and peaceful all round, and me up there, in the middle 
 of all sort of horrors. ..." 
 
 " Oh, David, are you really going again ?" 
 
 Potterat, with a steely glance first at his wife, then at 
 Zimmerli, replied firmly: 
 
 " I'm going again. . . . Duty must be done. . . .." 
 
 Outside the night was stormy and dark. Quivering 
 flashes of lightning played amongst the piled masses of 
 cloud, making them take all sorts of shapes, here sharks 
 with open jaws, there armed ships of war. . . . Sud- 
 denly the moon shone out. Through a blue stained-glass 
 window it shed an unreal light. Some mysterious hand 
 up above the earth seemed to open suddenly the sluice- 
 gates of Joy, then to close them again. . . . Again all 
 was black. ... A quivering flash twisted across the 
 sky . . . lit up a window in which a fiery dragon pursues 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 125 
 
 a cavalier galloping under twinkling stars . . . then 
 again darkness. . . . Crouching behind his pillar, Pot- 
 terat thought: 
 
 " How in the wide world is it possible to hide here ? 
 . . . With the lightning jumping out and about like this, 
 when you least expect it, marking out your face, and 
 taking the imprint of your, skull. A pretty sort of hiding 
 place it is, when you throw shadows fifty yards long, right 
 up into the vaults almost. ... You might as well expect 
 a Prussian to have a round head, as to think of surprising 
 a thief here. . . . No, there's nothing for it but to change 
 one's plan. . . . Since Heaven chooses to play you 
 tricks like these, and since the thunder too ranges itself 
 on the side of the enemy, and makes it impossible to catch 
 him, what you've got to do is to walk up and down this 
 Cathedral boldly and openly, up one side and down 
 the other, taking a turn round the pillars, going down 
 into the crypt, and up into the galleries, and looking into 
 every niche. If the thief doesn't already suspect that 
 there is someone here, he is a greater fool than I give him 
 credit for. . . . The upshot of it all will be that, feeling 
 himself discovered, he will pack up his traps and take 
 himself off. . . . To arrest someone would be the best 
 thing, certainly, but to put them to flight is also good 
 . . . and, as far as the public is concerned, we can easily 
 find some explanation that will save our credit. . . . 
 Right ! . . . Up ! . . . March ! . . . No more hiding, 
 ... let him see that there is someone on guard, and that 
 his game is up. ' ' 
 
 So Potterat began his beat, his hands behind his back, 
 whistling a lively air, which the vaults took up and 
 repeated approvingly. ... A door, hidden in a deep 
 embrasure, disclosed a staircase descending into black 
 depths. . . . Turning on his electric lamp, Potterat 
 resolutely went down this, until a gate suddenly barred 
 his passage, through the bars of which he could discern 
 
126 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 dimly a sort of cellar, at a still lower depth, and some 
 strange forms outlined by the flickering light. 
 
 " Good Lord ! . . . The cemetery of the old monks. 
 ... It is ! . . . I can see skulls, and grinning rows of 
 teeth, and deep eye-sockets, skeletons lying on the stones, 
 their hands crossed on their breasts. ... How many 
 centuries have they been lying there ? . . . Never in 
 the world will the good God be able to find them again, 
 thrust away in this corner. . , . Anyhow, they're sleep- 
 ing peacefully enough, and when one gets to that stage, 
 one doesn't care very much what happens, I should 
 think. . . . Each in his place, each in his row, no 
 more evil words from those silent lips. They covet 
 neither gold nor silver any more. . . . They sleep, and 
 sleep, and sleep. And they wait. . . . New Year and 
 vintage time come round again and again, and still they 
 lie there, calm and peaceful. . . . And we others who 
 are alive are hungry, and thirsty, and greedy, and quarrel- 
 some. . . . And to think that it will all end in this ! . . ." 
 
 There was a long silence. Leaning his elbows on the 
 top of the gate, Potterat moved his lamp about . . . the 
 shadows seemed to move . . . some spiders, suddenly 
 awakened, ran nimbly, on their long thin legs, along their 
 threads, fixed across the vault. . . . Heavens ! that 
 skeleton with the yellow skull, like some monstrous 
 empty shell, had it moved ? . . . had it spoken ? . . . 
 
 " Here ! Let's get out of this !" said Potterat to him- 
 self. He beat a hasty retreat, half turning as he went, 
 to make sure that none of the dead men were following 
 him, to place their long bony fingers on his shoulder. 
 . . . He walked past the tombs where the Bishops lay 
 full length, impassive, cold, their marble faces turned up 
 to the ceiling, showing their chipped noses. . . . Would 
 they also rise, and walk at the head of the procession of 
 skeletons, . . . accompanying the intruder, step by step, 
 gliding along the walls, noiselessly as shadows ? . . . 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 127 
 
 " Hein ? . . ." said Potterat again, this time out 
 loud. And immediately the whole Cathedral re-echoed 
 from every side, 'Hein! . . . Hein! . . .' Distant 
 rumblings of thunder now began to shake the windows, 
 dying away in subterraneous growlings, which never 
 ceased and seemed to rise again from the lowest 
 depths. Potterat turned on his beat once more, holding 
 his lamp out at arm's length. Who was that creeping 
 behind him on tiptoe ? . . . Mysterious movements 
 seemed to be going on under the arcades, over the 
 pointed arches, . . . and yet how deadly still it was ! . . . 
 Then a sudden puff of wind, a long-drawn wail, a rattling 
 of the windows, and a whisper seemed to descend from 
 the vaults and pass along the aisles, a cold, grave-like 
 breath also. . . . Then, as if the metal did not wish to 
 be idle, when wood and glass were so busy, the organ 
 pipes began to add their voice, a wail, soft and long- 
 drawn-out, scarcely more than a sigh, ending suddenly 
 in a raucous noise like a death-rattle. The hurly-burly 
 of life prevents one from noticing these lesser noises at 
 ordinary times, but when the world is asleep, they wake 
 up. . . . The storm came up nearer; lightning played 
 no longer in fitful gleams, but wrote with fingers of white 
 fire things like convulsed vipers on the walls. Sheets 
 of sulphur-coloured flame fell on the flagstones, rolled 
 round the columns, or leaped up to the high galleries, 
 where the gilded organ pipes flashed sudden fire. 
 
 Bent almost in two, his hands clenched, Potterat, his 
 heart beating painfully, was gliding gently along the 
 choir-stalls, when two eyes suddenly appeared through the 
 darkness, a chair was moved, the scratching of nails on 
 the back of a bench was heard. By the pale greenish 
 light of the next flash, Potterat saw a shadow which 
 moved, a man standing up and apparently making faces. 
 ... His blood seemed to rush through his veins for a 
 moment. Glued to the spot, his heart beating a tattoo, 
 
128 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 his throat dry, too taken aback for the moment even 
 to pull out his revolver from its inner pocket, he shouted 
 in a stentorian voice : 
 
 " Halt, or I fire ! . . . Halt ! . . . I arrest you ! 
 . . . Fire ! . . ." 
 
 The thunder seemed to obey the order ; the building 
 rocked to its base. Terrified, the black cat, who had 
 been in the habit of climbing up by the roof of a shed, 
 and creeping in through a little pane left open in a window 
 to the shelter of this place where it never rained, fled 
 away under the seats. As for the statue of the Bishop, 
 seen standing there as usual in the recurring flashes of 
 lightning, he went on blessing, to all appearance, the 
 sculptured personages of the choir-stalls, very stiff- 
 looking knights, holy nuns with meekly folded hands, 
 seraphim with folded wings, devils with horns, with 
 forks, with tongues of fire. Some of them had thick 
 lips overhanging their beards, those of others were 
 rounded in prayer. 
 
 " Charge ! . . ." commanded the warlike Potterat. 
 " Madman, ghost, thief, or devil, take him prisoner. ..." 
 
 " It's all very well to say ' Charge !' " said Potterat, 
 the man of peace, to himself, " but a fatal blow 
 may easily be given . . . and when a man is down, 
 he's done for . . . he's talked of for two or three days, 
 and then. . . . And you're a married man, with a 
 family. . . . And your poor wife has had presentiments 
 about you. . . . Don't tempt Fate. ..." 
 
 Then out loud he said, in a stern voice, tempered, 
 however, with a certain good-nature: 
 
 " Come along now ! No more nonsense ! . . . We're 
 here in force. . . . You are surrounded ! . . . I arrest 
 you! . . ." 
 
 The steady light of the electric lamp was turned on 
 the enemy, and Potterat saw then clearly the statue of 
 the Bishop, and the assembly of saints and devils. Look- 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 129 
 
 ing at the tails, the horns and the wings, he felt ill at 
 ease. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! . . . I wonder who in the world 
 made those things ! . . . He must have had plenty of 
 time to waste. ..." 
 
 Then suddenly, furious with himself for his emotion, 
 and regardless for the moment of prudence, he began to 
 abuse the grinning faces. 
 
 " H'm ! you there with the hook-nose, I wouldn't go 
 bail for you for five cents ! . . . Putting out your tongue 
 like that ! . . . What sort of manners do you think 
 you've got ? . . . Trying to frighten decent people going 
 about their business. . . ." 
 
 Then almost immediately, abashed by all the eyes 
 that stared at him so severely, Potterat recovered his 
 self-possession and his politeness. 
 
 " Oh, beg pardon ! . . . Excuse me ! . . . I made 
 a mistake. ... I didn't mean anything just now. . . • 
 The fact is, I'm so upset with all these, outlandish 
 noises, those dead people, and the lightning, and the 
 organ playing, and these ghosts, and devils, and angels, 
 and I don't know what all . . . that I'm not quite 
 myself, and that's a fact. ..." Then to himself he 
 added: " How I'm going to catch anybody under these 
 conditions I don't know. ... I wash my hands of the 
 whole thing. ..." 
 
 His heart still thumping, Potterat flung himself on a 
 bench, where he sat motionless for a time, a prey to his 
 reflections. 
 
 "If Heaven is anything like this, it strikes me 
 it's the sort of place a man would rather want to keep 
 away from. ... I'm certain no one will ever see me 
 again in this phantom ship. ... It's a funny thing, 
 now, I'm not a bit afraid, and yet I've got cramps in my 
 stomach. ... 1 don't believe in ghosts, and yet I 
 have the strangest sensation, as if there were things 
 
 9 
 
130 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 floating about that one can't see ... as if something 
 tickled me on the back of the neck, laid a hand between 
 my shoulder-blades, poked me in the ribs. . . . No, it's 
 better not to risk annoying . . . annoying . . . well, 
 anyhow, it's better to be on the safe side. . . . And 
 what an old fool a man is who is too young for his years ! 
 ... To think that at this moment the whole of Europe 
 is asleep in its bed, . . . the whole of Christianity flat 
 on its back, on feathers, or on a plank, or under a 
 hedge, or in a cradle, or in a coffin ... all sleeping. 
 . . . And the world, the universe, the stars, the Milky 
 Way, God Himself, the shooting stars ? . . . Oh, even 
 if a man has a clear head, and good circulation, and a 
 first-rate digestion, he can't begin to understand things." 
 
 Shadows danced like smoke wreaths, the storm died 
 away into the distance, gathering up the lightnings, now 
 only a faint flicker of yellow light. Sitting still, with 
 his arms folded, Potterat began to go over his past life. 
 He saw his first wife, Jenny; he saw his son and daughter, 
 Ernest and Louise, now more or less estranged from 
 him, as children again; he remembered his mother, above 
 all, with a surprising intensity, a thin, active, severe 
 peasant woman ... his father also. he recalled; and 
 then Carlo and his wife, bringing the coffee-pot . . . 
 and then . . . Overcome by an irresistible desire for 
 sleep, Potterat 's head nodded, his body relaxed. . . . 
 How delicious ! . . . ; 
 
 "Eh! . . . What? . . . Who's there? . . . What's 
 the matter ? . . . Where the devil am I ? . . ." 
 
 Potterat woke up, astonished to find the ceiling so 
 high. Ten times the echoes repeated " Where the devil ? 
 . . ." the bishops and saints all round listening. 
 
 M Good gracious, I mustn't speak. They repeat every 
 word I say." 
 
 Just here a tickling assailed his nostrils, and he gave 
 a loud sneeze like the report of a gun. The sneeze went 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 131 
 
 echoing round the place indefinitely. It seemed as if the 
 whole Cathedral had a cold. . . . Like the sullen hum- 
 ming of a beehive after sunset, the noise persisted 
 under the vaulted roof. To reassure himself, the author 
 of all this hubbub held his watch to his ear; the familiar 
 tick-tick assured him that life was still going on. 
 
 Presently the thick veil of darkness was torn. A clear 
 ray of light came through the windows and drove away 
 the shadows into the side-aisles, and behind the pillars. 
 As on the evening before, the seats reappeared, decor- 
 ously grouped round the pulpit. Suddenly, a ray of 
 sunlight struck full on the great East window. The 
 austere wall took fire, as it were. It was like a 
 springtime bursting into blossom, a glittering of fairy 
 diamonds. Truly it seemed almost worth while to have 
 gone through those terrors of the night to share in this 
 splendour. Good fairies seemed to shelter under those 
 flowers with glowing petals, and dragons fled before the 
 aureoles. 
 
 Potterat rose from his bench. 
 
 " What on earth would people do without the sun ? 
 . . . Nothing soothes one's mind, and cheers one up like 
 sunshine. ... As for that thief, he has found his 
 master. ... I don't think he'll come back again in a 
 hurry ! . . ." 
 
 Potterat's words were truer than he thought. About 
 one o'clock in the morning, when the storm was at its 
 height, a suspicious-looking individual, a specialist in 
 false keys, had emerged from the shadows ; had noiselessly 
 opened the little north door; had seen, down there in 
 front of the Bishop's statue, a man gesticulating wildly, 
 and calling on the Bishop to surrender at once on pain 
 of instant death. He had retreated, gliding away as 
 noiselessly as he had come, without too much regret. 
 ' The game wasn't worth the candle,' he thought. ' There 
 are only a few false coins now in these boxes . . . . ' 
 
132 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Open-mouthed the policemen listened. 
 
 " I can't describe to you what it was like. . . . You'd 
 never believe me. . . . You were very nearly rinding 
 a dead body in that Cathedral this morning." 
 
 " Whose ?" 
 
 " Mine, by Jove ! . . ." 
 
 " Did he go for you ?" 
 
 " It happened under the organ loft. ... It was dark 
 enough to have been the night before creation. . . . Then 
 a flash of lightning ! . . . I saw him suddenly right in front 
 of me, a huge creature, enormous ! . . . Naturally, I 
 took my courage in both hands, I called on him to sur- 
 render, and I made a jump at him to arrest him. . . . 
 Black darkness again, murky as the conscience of a 
 horse-dealer. . . . Then I barked my shin on a bench, 
 and before I could reach him, my man skips behind a 
 pillar, and runs for his life, flying through the Cathedral 
 like a cat. But naturally he was better acquainted 
 with the place than I was, seeing he had been there so 
 much oftener. ... I picked myself up, and was after 
 him like a shot, and the next minute I was up against 
 the pulpit. . . . Smash ! . . ." 
 
 " But where was your electric lamp ? . . ." put in a 
 young policeman. 
 
 Potterat shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Oh, you're young yet, my man. When you come 
 to my age, you'll know that it isn't possible for a man 
 to mount guard, to summon a man to surrender, to 
 charge him, to fall over a bench, to continue the chase, 
 and to light a lamp, even an electric lamp, all in a minute. 
 ... I couldn't hold the lamp in my hand all night. . . . 
 When one's all alone and in the dark like that, a man 
 wants to have the full use of his hands in case he needs 
 them, and you see, just in the time it would take to get 
 the lamp out of my pocket, turn it right side out, and 
 press the button, the thief would have had time to get 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 133 
 
 away. . . . Then there's another thing to think of: he 
 is armed, perhaps ; very well, you flash your lamp, and 
 expose yourself and your own position, and he lays you 
 out stiff on a bishop's tomb before you can wink. ..." 
 
 " That's true," said Delessert. " These ruffians haven't 
 much respect for human life. You did the right thing. 
 But hadn't you got a revolver ?" 
 
 Potterat stared at him. 
 
 " H'm ! . . . How can you, Delessert, ask such a 
 question ? . . . I should like to know what you'd 
 have done if you had been there ! . . . Do you really 
 think that a man belonging to the National Church 
 would have the heart to fire off revolvers in the Cathedral 
 at two o'clock in the morning, in the place where he 
 was sworn in before the Grand Council ? . . . That's 
 the kind of thing a free-thinker might do, perhaps. ..." 
 
 Conscience-stricken, Delessert reddened, and Potterat 
 concluded : 
 
 " Never mind, I have done my duty like a decent man. 
 And after all, if I had actually taken the thief, he would 
 have had to be fed and lodged at the expense of the State, 
 that is to say, at our expense, eh ? . . . On the other 
 hand, I have put him to flight. By the rate at which he 
 ran, he ought to be over the border by now. . . . And 
 the result is that the boxes are safe for the future, and 
 it has cost us nothing." 
 
 This conclusion of the matter was approved by 
 everyone, and they discussed the events of the night 
 afresh. 
 
 Potterat had to tell the story all over again at home, 
 his wife clasping her hands and imploring him : 
 
 " David ! . . . Promise me that you won't do any- 
 thing of this sort again ? . . . You're far too daring ! 
 . . . One against three ! . . ." 
 
 Out in his little garden, the mignonette was coming 
 up rapidly, the roses were holding out their blossoms to 
 
134 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 the sun ; the scented verbena, brought from Eglantine 
 Cottage, was putting forth fresh shoots. In the middle 
 of this modest space Potterat, whistling and singing, 
 was planting out some geraniums. It was good to enjoy 
 this feeling of happiness when for two endless nights 
 one had been, as it were, face to face with infinity, in 
 company with the silent dead, brushing against the 
 unseen. 
 
 ' Well, it's done you good in one way," he said to 
 himself, " those two nights in the Cathedral. You under- 
 stand better now how to take things in this world. You 
 must pull yourself up, and drive out the sulks, and get 
 back your old good temper. When one has been down 
 into Hades, it's well to be in the sunshine again, even 
 in a barrack. ..." 
 
 That same evening, moved by some inner prompting 
 of spirit, Potterat took the opportunity of his wife's 
 absence to write a short note to the Schmids. 
 
 " . . . We can't spend the rest of our lives," he wrote, 
 " sulking with each other for a slip of the tongue. We're 
 none of us perfect, and everyone's apt to be out of sorts 
 and irritable at times, and to say something that he's 
 sorry for afterwards. If you like to take this as a hint, 
 you may. . . . We shall expect you one of these even- 
 ings to have coffee with us. Love to you all. Your 
 father, father-in-law, and grandfather, 
 
 " David Potterat." 
 
 He went out and posted this letter himself, and when 
 he came back and threw himself full length on the sofa 
 in the drawing-room, he heaved a great sigh of satis- 
 faction. 
 
 " Well, to-night, anyhow, I'll sleep in my bed. My 
 word ! I'm not yet ready for eternal life ! . . . I'm 
 too fond of the pots and pans, and of my mattress !" 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 One day Potterat said to his wife : 
 
 " After all, we may as well laugh while we can, it's 
 better than frowning any day. . . . And to condemn 
 all these modern inventions leads to nothing but barren 
 protests. . . . Suppose we go to the Cinematograph one 
 of these days ? Would you care to ? . . . If we like it, 
 we'll go again; if not, well, at any rate, we'll know what 
 we are talking about." 
 
 Needless to say, Madame Potterat was delighted. 
 
 " Oh yes, let's go, certainly." 
 
 So that very evening the husband and wife might 
 have been seen sitting in good places at the Eden-Apollo 
 Theatre. In the seats round about them a world in 
 miniature was represented; South American half-breeds, 
 Englishmen, working men, servants, peasants, gaily 
 dressed and highly perfumed ladies, respectable citizens 
 in white waistcoats. Having shone for some minutes 
 on this heterogeneous assembly, the great lamps sus- 
 pended from the ceiling were lowered, leaving only 
 a dim, red light. . . . Bob, a comical dwarf, leaped 
 suddenly into the drawing-room on the stage; he hid 
 himself under a sofa, and pinched the calves of the 
 ladies sitting on it; when discovered, he is rolled 
 up in a rug, and thrown into the street from the 
 window of the fourth-floor room where the party is 
 assembled. He falls on the head of a policeman, who 
 passes opportunely at the moment, disappears down a 
 convenient drain-pipe, reappears again through a ven- 
 tilator, and vanishes in smoke at the very moment when 
 
 i35 
 
136 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 the excited crowd chasing him is about to seize him. . . . 
 Then followed the story of a beautiful abandoned wife, 
 who makes a tour of the world in her dressing-gown, in 
 search of her faithless spouse, a scoundrel with a sinister 
 forehead. . . . Then some music. . . . Then a hunting 
 scene : the usual pack of hounds with a hundred waving 
 tails : the usual forest path, zig-zagging amongst the 
 birch -trees, the forest clearing, the brilliant moonlight, 
 the rendezvous of the lovers, their kisses, prolonged 
 whilst a gun is noiselessly pushed out from between the 
 gently parted branches of a neighbouring tree. . . . 
 Bang ! . . . Bang ! . . . And two corpses lie side by 
 side upon the turf. A terrified hind runs across the 
 clearing. The piano plays sad, soft music. . . . 
 
 This time it is an instructive film: ' In the Souvenchy 
 Quarries ' ; . . . perspiring workmen, little trolleys, a 
 blasting operation, a casualty, and the blessing of the 
 dying man by a priest who happens by a lucky chance 
 to be near the spot. . . . Slow music on the piano. . . . 
 Then came ' Lady Sawlborne, or the Criminal for Love. ' 
 , . . Lord Raclaff has been assassinated. Fainting and 
 hysterics of his wife and children, to whom the murder 
 is brusquely announced. The detective with half-closed 
 eyes searches for a clue. . . . And he arrests, not the 
 negress, denounced in an anonymous letter, but the ele- 
 gant and refined Lady Sawlborne, the most beautiful 
 woman in the County of Kent. ... In the last act a 
 clean-shaven, ascetic-looking clergyman gives the Com- 
 munion to her who is about to pay her debt to society. . . ; 
 Chopin's ' Funeral March ' also expires on the piano. 
 
 Greatly affected, the crowd dispersed homewards 
 through the narrow streets, talking over the scenes, each of 
 the young couples endeavouring to reproduce the gestures 
 and romantic attitudes of the lovers under the light of 
 the moon. 
 " We ought to have come here long ago," said Potterat 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 137 
 
 to his wife. " Part of it was quite educational, and the 
 whole oi it was interesting. It is a revelation of the age, 
 that it is ! . . . Now I begin to understand better the 
 folly of the world. . . . These people who jump from 
 the chimneys on to the pavement, these emperors who 
 marry servant-maids, that dismal depressing music the 
 piano plays, those burglars, and people who are killed, 
 and who recover miraculously, all for a mere nothing, 
 those men and beautiful women who embrace each other 
 in public as often as they like, ... all these things re- 
 peated every evening, to the accompaniment of music, 
 must excite young people, must mould their minds, turn 
 upside down everything they have been taught at home 
 or at school, and set them dreaming. . . . Yes. Look at 
 our barrack, for instance, all its different floors, all the 
 different types of people who go up and down those 
 stairs, who squawk, and strum on the piano, who receive 
 and entertain very shady company, those young women 
 without a sou, who paint and powder themselves, and 
 read trashy novels all day; who nibble a leaf or two of 
 salad for dinner, instead of eating a good square meal; 
 and ourselves, too, with our grand drawing-room, our 
 boy and his aeroplanes, we're all, you know, just like 
 the scenes in a cinematograph. . . . We go in and out, 
 we dance, we stamp on the floors, we quarrel, and make 
 it up again, just like the birds in the trees. . . . Yes, 
 I'm glad to have seen all that. ... I understand things 
 better now. . . . Before, we simply lived . . . now* 
 we're all puppets acting in a cinematograph show. ..." 
 In this way, Potterat discovered the world of to-day. 
 From this time onwards, he was to be seen at football 
 matches, at hydroplane and aeroplane displays, at motor 
 races round the Lake, at trial runs of motor-boats on 
 the Lake, bounding over the water like fleas. He went 
 to all these shows somewhat for Carlo's pleasure, but more 
 to satisfy his own ever-growing taste for novelty, for the 
 
138 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 surprising, for speed, and always at the bottom of his mind 
 lay the unexpressed thought that some day or other there 
 would be an accident, which would justify him in saying " I 
 told you so !" And he would add, with an indulgent laugh : 
 
 " Man has long since spoilt the earth. He is now 
 trying to spoil the water and the air. He pesters the 
 animals, and the fishes, and the birds. . . . The time is 
 coming when one will be able to go out of one's house 
 at a quarter past eight in the morning, and come back 
 at twenty past twelve, having flown right round the 
 world. . . . Our girls and boys will take their Sunday 
 afternoon stroll in Central Africa. . . . Some people 
 think that the world is going to end either by being 
 frozen or by being burnt up, *but my own opinion is 
 that at a certain moment we'll all whirl off into space. 
 . . . My word ! . . . At the pace we're getting to 
 nowadays, with all this rush, this speed, this emotional 
 excitation by cinematographs and what not, this con- 
 tinual strumming of pianos, the day will come when we 
 shall turn and rend each other, when we shall all, men, 
 women, and children, go mad suddenly, and return to the 
 period of hyenas, monkeys, wild cats. ... It will be the 
 judgment on extravagance." 
 
 To these doleful prophecies, Zimmerli, the old lute- 
 player, would reply placidly : 
 
 " Oh, don't excite yourself so much about these people. 
 . . . They don't worry themselves about us. ; We are 
 old. It's their turn now." 
 
 Not far from the little garden, on a piece of waste 
 ground which could be seen through the laurel branches, 
 some urchins were playing football, every now and then 
 clustering in groups like wasps on ripe fruit. Watching 
 them, Potterat was inspired afresh. 
 
 " There's a good illustration of modern life for you ! . . . 
 When I was a boy, we played hide-and-seek for an hour or 
 two on Sunday afternoons; the rest of the week, it was 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 139 
 
 school and work. As soon as school was over, we went off 
 with a shovel and barrow along the roads, following the 
 horses. . . . When I tell this to Carlo, he can scarcely 
 believe it. . . . He belongs to a football club, to an 
 Athletic Sports Society, and he's a Boy Scout, and I 
 don't know what all. ..." 
 
 Zimmerli replied very sensibly: 
 
 " Well, you can't send boys to gather manure on the 
 roads now, following up motor-cars. . . . And you can't 
 keep children quiet at that age; they must have exer- 
 cise. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, certainly. ... I agree with you. ... All I mean 
 is that we, when we were boys, thought of how we could 
 help our parents, but nowadays the young ones seem only 
 to think how much they can get out of us. . . . Except 
 Robert here," and Potterat patted the little lame boy on 
 the cheek. "He is thoughtful; he enjoys the flowers. 
 You'll see that in ten years from now, he'll be better off 
 than all the rest. . . . They're spending all the time 
 ... he saves what he gets." 
 
 J3y way of a house-warming, Madame Potterat decided 
 to give a tea-party, and in doing so, to establish herself 
 on a higher rung of the social ladder. So one beautiful 
 afternoon in June, Madame Blanc, wife of the head of a 
 department at the ' Paradis des Dames ' ; Madame 
 Thevenaz, wife of a clerk in the Railway Secretary's 
 office; and Madame Regamey, a contractor's widow, 
 entered the sacred precincts. While they drank tea, 
 and ate little cakes, these good ladies discussed the 
 eternal servant question, and each related her diffi- 
 culties. A little ashamed, Madame Potterat explained 
 that she only had a woman to come in every morning 
 for the rough work. The others congratulated her on 
 being able to do without ' those wretched servant girls, 
 who spend their time looking out of window, and flirting 
 
140 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 with the butcher's boy.' Then they demolished the 
 characters of the two sisters Bien venue, . . . ' highly dis- 
 reputable persons !' . . . who had made a moonlight 
 flitting the previous night without paying their rent. . . . 
 
 " I saw their flat this morning, for the owner, you know, 
 is a friend of ours," said Madame Thevenaz, " and you 
 never saw such a pigsty ! ... It was simply disgusting. . . . 
 Vegetables decaying in the sink, wisps of hair all over the 
 floors in the bedrooms, and scent-sachets, and dirty 
 powder-puffs. . . . Oh, positively, a pigsty. ..." 
 
 "I'm told that Verret, the tobacconist, has something 
 to do with this hasty departure. ... It was rather awk- 
 ward for him to carry on two establishments so near to- 
 gether. ... His wife told him what she thought of him this 
 morning. . . . They had a terrible scene, I believe. ..." 
 
 " Dear me, how dreadfully sad," said Madame Potterat. 
 
 " Oh, Madame ! . . . It doesn't do to have too many 
 illusions. . . . Happy homes are none too common. Look 
 at the Berrioz, for instance, divorcing each other. . . . 
 And they say that all is not as it should be with the 
 Ravards. . . . She, with her tastes, you know, ought never 
 to have married a poor clerk. ..." 
 
 " Have they any children ?" 
 
 " No, fortunately. . . . Really, at the rate one has to 
 live nowadays, it's no joke thinking about settling one's 
 daughters by-and-by. I'm beginning to worry about it 
 already. . . . With sons, it's much easier. . . /' 
 
 Some of these mothers looked at each other in dis- 
 may, and quickly changed the conversation. 
 
 " Have you been to the ' Grand bazaar Mondial ' yet ? 
 . . . It's really lovely. . . . You can buy everything there 
 almost. . . . And there is a band. . . . You can have tea, 
 and listen to the music. . . . And you always meet people 
 you know. . . . It's quite charming. ... I always go 
 there two or three times a week." 
 
 Carried away by the descriptions given by these ladies, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 141 
 
 Madame Potterat followed the stream of pleasure-seekers, 
 and went to see for herself. And her account of what 
 she saw sounded so attractive that Potterat, in his new 
 mood of worldliness, offered to accompany her next time. 
 
 They all went. The moment they entered the swing 
 doors, Carlo stopped short before two Japanese, who, 
 with lightning rapidity, and with the most fascinatingly 
 deft and sure touches of their tiny brushes, were painting 
 storks and chrysanthemums on little paper fans. 
 
 " Isn't it wonderful ?" said Madame Potterat. 
 
 " Oh ! . . . they have learnt how to do it !" said Carlo, 
 whom nothing surprised. 
 
 " The Japanese are like that ..." said Potterat. " We 
 in Europe have the original ideas, and they turn our ideas 
 to practical account." 
 
 To the dreamy strains of dance-music from a band 
 hidden behind some Japanese screens, they drank tea, and 
 ate cakes. Half hypnotized by the smiles of a neigh- 
 bouring fair one, scarcely scandalized, even, by the very 
 low-necked gowns of some of the fair frequenters of the 
 place, and more than a little proud of being able to hob- 
 nob with the fashionable world, Potterat held in the air, 
 suspended on the point of his fork, a piece of cake that 
 would have made anyone but him shudder. And he 
 whispered to his wife : 
 
 " Just look at Carlo ! . . . how much at ease he is in the 
 middle of all this. . . . By-and-by, when he takes his place 
 in the world, he will be able to bow and scrape with the 
 best of them, like that little shopman there, who bows 
 to his customers at the rate of one a second. . . . That 
 must need some suppleness of the backbone. . . . But if 
 one goes in for that sort of thing, it's as well to do it 
 properly. . . .'* 
 
 On their way home, they went somewhat out of their 
 way to climb the little hill of Montriond, whence they could 
 see the new quarter of the town, several hotels, twenty- 
 
142 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 three pensions, the Vaudois plain, the Jura, the Alps, 
 and, uniting them all, the blue crescent of Leman. 
 
 " Do you see our barrack, Carlo ? . . ." 
 
 ■-' How funny ! You can see right into the houses. . . . 
 I see a cook grinding coffee . . . and another washing a 
 saucepan. . . . And how flat the road and the carriages 
 on it look ! . . . the people are just like ants swarming 
 about ! . . ." 
 
 Potterat seized the opportunity to impress upon his 
 son some sense of the relativity of human things. 
 
 " Ha ! Like ants, that's a very good description. . . . 
 And those people that you see there walking about, that 
 girl in red, that man in a tall hat, that one riding, and 
 all the rest, every one of them thinks himself or herself 
 the most important person in the world. . . . And yet, if 
 the whole lot of them were to die suddenly, this evening 
 at five o'clock, the sun would set just the same as ever in 
 the same place. ..." 
 
 / There's the gong of the Institute," interrupted 
 Madame Potterat. 
 
 " No, excuse me. That's the gong at Troblet's. . . . 
 There are fifty-eight pupils there. . . . There, you see ! . . . 
 The recreation is just finished. Look at those Egyptians 
 coming out from the bushes. . . . There is the head- 
 master himself in the doorway . .*. . he's watching to 
 see that they all come in. . . . See the boys running, 
 big and little . . . there, they're all in ! . . . I wonder if 
 they're going to have any more classes ? . . . Yes, there 
 you can see through that open window a row of heads and 
 the master giving the lesson. . . . The headmaster goes off 
 now that they are all indoors. ..." 
 
 14 How the town is growing ! . . ." said Madame Potterat 
 again. ■■• Don't you remember, David, when we were 
 young, the little paths along the lakeside ? How pretty 
 it was there ! . . . Now it is very grand and handsome, 
 with those fine hotels, and villas, and new houses ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 143 
 
 "... Which keep the sun from the rest of the world," 
 finished Potterat. " . . . And these houses, how they 
 spring up one after the other, turning their backs on 
 their poorer neighbours, peering from their corner. . . . 
 It looks as if some tipsy giant staggering along had spilt 
 them out of his pack here and there, as the old legend 
 declares, ... or as if some big whales had run aground 
 here and there on the bank. . . . There's no proportion 
 about them. . . . And never a church tower amongst them, 
 if you notice . . . though there are plenty of turrets on the 
 hotels, monumental railway-stations, and sky-scrapers, as 
 they call them in America. . . . But one never sees a 
 real home being built now, a cottage like Eglantine 
 Cottage, for instance, or a nice modest little house that 
 one could identify oneself with. ..." 
 
 V Poor David ! Why will you waste time in regretting 
 things! . . ." 
 
 "I'm not regretting things. ... I'm only stating 
 facts. ..." 
 
 By giving utterance to these protests from time to 
 time Potterat tried to maintain a kind of consistency, 
 to assure himself that he was not giving way to the seduc- 
 tions of the modern movement ; while all the time, in his 
 enforced idleness, the taste for amusement was growing 
 on him more and more, so that a day without a match, 
 or a race, or some excitement, was beginning to seem to 
 him long, and boring, and dull. 
 
 They reached their flat, and here, as always, at the 
 moment of entering, Madame Potterat said: 
 
 " Wipe your feet, David. ..." 
 
 " What a silly fuss to make about a few planks just 
 because they happen to have a little beeswax on them !" 
 
 For a moment or two, the couple gazed at each other 
 in astonishment, but by the time they sat down to 
 supper, the little storm in a teacup had blown over. . . . 
 Had they not both the same blue eyes . . . the same 
 
i 4 4 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 distaste for quarrels ? . . . Presently Potterat noticed that 
 his wife had done her hair in a new way, piled high 
 on the top of her head, and leaving the nape of her 
 neck free. 
 
 " The devil ! . . . Where on earth have you picked up 
 that new fashion ?" 
 
 " Oh, everybody's doing it like this now. Do you 
 like it ?" 
 
 " H'm ! . . . Well, it's not bad. ... It certainly makes 
 you look younger. . . . Yesterday, you looked like my 
 wife. This evening you look more like my daughter. I 
 shall have to blacken up my moustache, and dip my 
 head in the tar-bucket. . . . Carlo, you'll have nice new 
 smart parents soon, spruced up, and dressed in the latest 
 fashion. . . . You will scarcely be able to recognize us. 
 . . . We'll have to smarten up, otherwise when you are 
 grown-up, and a managing director of a bank, perhaps, 
 and a freemason, if we were old and shabby and out-of- 
 date, we'd have to be put in a corner somewhere out of 
 sight, wouldn't we ? . . ." 
 
 ■' Oh, no ! . . . I should buy you a villa. ... I 
 should give you a motor-car. . . ." 
 
 " Ah, how nice ! . . . We should be perfectly happy 
 then — with smoked-glass goggles, leather gloves, fur- 
 lined coats, perhaps. . . . ' I say, look at the Potterats !' 
 people would say. ' Aren't they swells ?''... No, no, my 
 dears ! Let's remain the simple people we have always 
 been; let us stick to the old ways, and not ape these 
 new fashions. . . ." 
 
 " All the same, father, the other day when we were 
 watching Chevillard looping the loop, you said, ' This is 
 very wonderful, after all !' . . ." 
 
 " So I did ! . . . One mustn't reject everything just 
 because it's new. . . . When you see a man tumble 
 head over heels in the air away above the Cathedral 
 spire, you can't help shouting ' Bravo !'.... But to argue 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 145 
 
 from that that people's brains work better upside down, 
 is another thing altogether. ..." 
 
 n In ten years from now, I bet you I shall be ' looping 
 the loop.' " 
 
 " What's that you say ? . . ." Potterat gazed at this 
 duckling he had hatched. . . . " You stick to the ground, 
 my boy, it's safer, and one knows where one is. . . ." 
 
 In spite of the distractions of their new life, on the 
 first Sunday in every month the Potterat family, as 
 usual, dressed in their best black clothes, came out of 
 No. 5, Avenue des Roses, and betook themselves to 
 church. 
 
 " Nobody else here goes to church," grumbled Carlo. 
 
 " We go at any rate," said his mother. " Remember, 
 my boy, that God sees and knows everything." 
 
 ** But the earth is round. How can He see the other 
 side if He's looking at this side ?" 
 
 This primitive reasoning floored Potterat. 
 
 " Round ? . . . Are you quite sure of that ? . . . In 
 any case, that has nothing to do with our going to church." 
 
 Nevertheless, Potterat was rather inclined to agree in 
 his heart with Carlo. It needs a good deal of virtue 
 to make a man sit for a solid hour on a hard bench, 
 without moving a muscle, or yawning. 
 
 " But never mind," he thought. " One doesn't go to 
 hear sermons for pleasure. . . . And if one can't always 
 keep one's attention fixed on the sermon, at any rate the 
 preacher's voice is soothing." 
 
 At last came the benediction, and once outside again, 
 they enjoyed the sunshine, the gay dresses, the pleasant 
 tinkling of the tram bells. It was no use trying to 
 remember the text of the sermon. Only a pleasant sense 
 of duty done remained in the hearts of these simple 
 people. Soon after, seated round the Sunday dinner-table, 
 sanctified by the ceremony of the morning, Potterat said: 
 
 10 
 
146 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " In this barrack here, I really think they work 
 harder on Sunday mornings than they do all the rest of 
 the week put together. . . . One is ironing her lace and 
 frills, another is putting a new bone in her corset, a third 
 is hammering in nails. . . . This afternoon they'll all be 
 running off to some fete, this evening to the cinema. 
 . . . And then they'll come back about midnight, com- 
 pletely knocked up, and without a sou. ..." 
 
 " These people never think," said Madame Potterat 
 gently, as she ladled out the golden soup into the shining 
 plates. 
 
 " All the same," went on Potterat, " there's no doubt 
 that religion, once you begin to get old and grey, gives 
 you a grip on something, you know. . . . You'll find that 
 out, my boy, when you come to seventy. ... At that 
 age, the only ' looping the loop ' a man has a chance of 
 doing is into the next world. ..." 
 
 Sometimes, on Sundays, when he found the squalling 
 of the children on the various balconies rather too much 
 for him, and began to get homesick again, Potterat would 
 go up to town, and lift the blind that hung in front of the 
 doorway to keep out the flies from the old cafe in the Rue 
 d'Etraz. In the streets, bright splashes of sunlight, 
 the silvery gleam of a flight of pigeons, the dark blue of 
 the shadows: in the little inn, pewter measures wherein 
 glittered cool wine, broad backs bent over the tables, 
 slow, leisurely talking. . . . 
 
 When Potterat appeared amongst his friends on this 
 first Sunday in July, 19 14, the circle of frequenters 
 opened to receive him. They were talking about their 
 length of service, their approaching retirement, their 
 pensions. 
 
 " By the way, what age are you, Potterat ? . . . You 
 look just the same always. ..." 
 
 " Always ! . . ." replied Potterat, with his usual cor- 
 diality. " The framework is sound; I can see to drink 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 147 
 
 without glasses . . . and I always keep in as good a temper 
 as possible, except on days when everything goes 
 wrong. ..." 
 
 " It agrees with you, evidently. Your moustache is 
 more pepper than salt still. ..." 
 
 " My moustache ? . . . Oh, it's still not a bad one. . . . 
 The young ladies, and even some of the old ones, make 
 eyes at it still sometimes. . . . With the sun shining on 
 it, it would pass for a bit of a straw-rick. ..." 
 
 Such were the harmless jokes and kindly chaff that 
 they exchanged, their elbows on the table, looking out 
 of the corners of their eyes to see how their shafts told. 
 Presently a deeper note was struck, and the assembly 
 began to discuss European politics. Things were not 
 going at all well, it appeared. The heir to a throne had 
 been assassinated. The people were speaking out very 
 freely, raking up old grievances, whilst the diplomatists 
 were doing their best to pour oil on the flames. Sovereigns 
 were already mobilizing God, which is always a bad sign. 
 
 " Each of them thinks he has only to send up marching 
 orders to Heaven, and the game is his. ..." 
 
 " Take my word for it, God is Swiss. ... In other 
 words, He is neutral. ..." 
 
 Corbaz, an old man with a hooked nose and thick eye- 
 lashes, a man of few words, nudged Potterat in the ribs : 
 
 ''Do you know what I think ? I believe that there 
 will be a big explosion just when one least expects it. . . . 
 From Russia to England, my word, every one of them 
 will be at one another's throats. It's been simmering, 
 you know. . . . For the last fifty years or so they have 
 been snarling, piling up little injuries, the sharp ones 
 amongst them have been pulling all the strings, flattering 
 'some, insulting others, offering clocks or boxes on the ear, 
 as the case might be. . . . Oh yes, there was bound to be 
 a smash-up one of these days. ..." 
 
 Potterat said with immense dignity: 
 
148 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Well, for us there is only one thing to do; we shall 
 man our frontiers. ... I'll undertake myself to cover 
 a yard and a half. ..." 
 
 Then there was an explosion of pure patriotism. These 
 good honest men defied emperors, jeered at would-be 
 world-conquerors, invoked their ancestors. They sang 
 their most patriotic songs, < La Libre Sarine,' ' Au Bord 
 du Ruin,' ' Dieu nous benira,' etc., after which they called 
 for another two litres. . . . Then they traced out plans 
 on the table with their thumb-nails: rivers, mountains, 
 tunnels; they sent out troops along the various roads; 
 they won decisive victories; and altogether had an in- 
 spiring time. Pahud gave them his opinion: " As for 
 me, I'm great on flanking movements . . . but you must 
 give me time, because of my shortness of breath. ... If I 
 had time, I'd fall on them from behind. ..." 
 
 Milliquet put more faith in marksmanship. 
 
 " We Swiss can shoot, you know. . . . Ten cartridges, 
 eleven men, every time. . . . No, I'm not boasting ! I'm 
 talking quite calmly and coolly, and I say we can't be 
 beaten. ..." 
 
 Potterat, too, had his preferences. 
 
 " W r ith a ' corporation ' like mine," said he, "I 
 shouldn't be exactly the best man for prolonged attacks. 
 . . . But if it's a question of firing from the knee, in a 
 sheltered position, I'm equal to any man in Europe. 
 ... Or in hand-to-hand fighting I'm all there: you take 
 your rifle by the barrel, and pitch into them for all you're 
 worth . . . you bite and kick and growl, like fighting dogs 
 . . . and when it's all over, you collect the dead in a 
 heap, climb upon them, and mount guard. . . . That's 
 the way. . . . With us, you see, we only fight for liberty, 
 for justice . . . we're on the side of all little oppressed 
 nations. . . . We have a glorious past behind us. . . . 
 We are the freest people in the world. We are the 
 parents of all republics. We founded republicanism 
 . . . and there you are ! . . ." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 149 
 
 The noise increased. They sang and talked all at once, 
 But Verniaud, the pessimist of the little party, had not 
 yet had his say. Taking advantage of a pause in the 
 uproar, he began : 
 
 " My poor friends ! . . . This is all very fine ! . . . Now 
 just suppose for a minute that war is declared to-day, 
 and that they send their cavalry against us, fifty thousand 
 men, with guns, and Maxims, and infantry coming up 
 behind. . . . Where do you think they'd have got to by 
 nine o'clock in the evening, before we had had time to 
 mobilize, or to fire a single shot ? . . . Speed is everything 
 nowadays. ... I shouldn't be at all surprised if they 
 were gathering our grapes this autumn. ..." 
 
 " What do you mean by ' they ' ?" 
 
 " I mean the Oh, you know very well !" 
 
 " But we are neutral. They can't do anything to us. . . ." 
 
 " If ever anyone is trying to murder you, just you try 
 to tell the man with the knife that you are neutral. ..." 
 
 " What about Morat ? . . . and Morgarten ? . . . and 
 Sempach ? . . ." said Corbaz. 
 
 " Oh, that's an old story. . . . Battles in those days 
 were a question of muscle . . . and then, too, one had time 
 to turn round, as it were, to choose one's position. . . . 
 But to-day, we have to reckon with railways, aeroplanes, 
 motor-cars, wireless telegraphy. . . . And think of all 
 those tunnels ! . . ." 
 
 This impressed Corbaz. 
 
 [' Yes, that's true. ... I said so long ago. If we're 
 lost, it'll be through those tunnels." 
 
 M And through the hotels too. ..." 
 
 " People don't vote any more now. . . . The young men 
 don't care. ..." 
 
 " Ah ! . . . We're governed by a lot of lawyers nowa- 
 days. ..." 
 
 " Yes, the country is going to the dogs ..." said a voice, 
 as they rose from the table. They parted rather silently, 
 shaking their heads, and Potterat said to Delessert : 
 
150 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " That wet blanket, Verniaud, spoils everything, with 
 his pessimistic talk . . . sending us away gloomy and 
 depressed when we were all aglow ! . . . I must do some- 
 thing to take the taste of it out of my mouth. ... I know 
 what ! . , . There is some sort of a fete at Ouchy to-night, 
 music and fireworks. I'll go home and have some sup- 
 per, and take my wife and the boy out. . . . These are 
 times when a man feels he must do something to keep up 
 his spirits. ..." 
 
 From eight o'clock onward the tread of many feet 
 resounded on the pavements, still hot from the July sun. 
 
 " Good-bye ! I hope you'll have a nice time !" called 
 out the little cripple from his basement window, as the 
 Potterats filed out after supper. 
 
 " Good-night, dear, good-night," replied Madame 
 Potterat. " What a dreadful existence for that, poor 
 child ! Never to go out ! Never to see anything ! . . ." 
 she added with a sigh. 
 
 " That depends," said her husband. "If war does 
 break out, it's the cripples will be the lucky ones. . . . 
 Not to mention that in the long-run a boy who is always 
 indoors learns more. . . . Remember that, Carlo. ..." 
 
 The water of the Lake gleamed softly, reflecting the 
 first stars, for night falls slowly on an exquisite July 
 evening. They paid their franc, and passed through the 
 barrier. Here all was gaiety and merry talk and laughter, 
 pretty frocks, the crunching of the gravel under the 
 passing feet, and the breaking of the waves on the rocks ; 
 away off across the Lake the villages, like bunches of little 
 white onions, nestled amidst their green fields and their 
 vineyards, above which the swallows circled in wide 
 sweeps. 
 
 " What crowds of people !" repeated Madame Potterat. 
 " And how lovely ! . . . perfectly exquisite ! ... it all 
 looks. A tremendous success. I'm so glad we came." 
 
 The plump matron carried herself well and gracefully. 
 The roses on her hat trembled on their stalks. On other 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 151 
 
 women, as gay and smiling as herself, she cast glances 
 of calm equality, or serene superiority. 
 
 " Father," said Carlo, " let's hire a little boat ?" 
 
 "No, certainly not. I don't want to be drowned at 
 night " 
 
 So they sat on the low wall, the warm stone of 
 which overhung the tepid water. Generally, one moon 
 sufficed, but to-night a hundred electric moons shed on 
 the grass lawns, on the bushes, on the gay beflowered 
 hats, that silvery light which seemed to bear with it the 
 muffled strains of a waltz played by invisible musicians. 
 
 Potterat felt a touch of sadness as he gazed, half 
 enviously, on the laughing boys and girls round him. 
 
 "It's a pity that life should be so like a hill, with 
 people mounting on one side, going down on the other." 
 
 The whistle of an ascending rocket cut short his 
 reflections. The long flexible snake-like neck elongated 
 itself, rose to a great height, paused there, then fell down, 
 leaving behind a shower of sparks which were extinguished 
 one by one beside the winking stars. Down on the edge 
 of the Lake, the Venetian lanterns twinkled amongst the 
 trees like oranges, squibs burst amongst the laughing 
 crowds, the band played softly. . . . When a woman 
 passed, dressed apparently in transparent gauze, Pot- 
 terat said to his son : 
 
 " Look up there, Carlo ! . . . Everything splendid is 
 carried out on the heights ! . . ." Aside to his wife he said : 
 
 " Did you see that ? . . . Slit-up skirts, stockings 
 like a spider's web, her dress cut so low that it shows 
 the whole of her neck, and openwork here, there, and 
 everywhere ! . . . Exposing herself like that . . . just 
 enough to make still greater fools of the fools now going 
 about the world. . . . But some of the young men, nowa- 
 days, are just as bad . . . with their long hair, their open 
 shirt fronts showing their chests, their necklaces, their 
 bracelets. ... I tell you what, if this sort of thing had 
 been going on when I was in the Police, I should have 
 
152 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 brought them all to the police-station to give an 
 account of themselves. ... Oh yes, there's not a doubt 
 of it, the time is ripe for war. The world is growing 
 decadent. If people try to live standing on their heads, 
 they're very likely to wake up and find themselves sitting 
 in the fire. . . . Come along and listen to the band. ..." 
 
 The conductor, a short, thick-set man, with a red 
 face, led his circle of shining instruments with sweeping 
 gestures. 
 
 " Ah, there's no one like him for bringing out the lilt of 
 a waltz. . . ." 
 
 " He must be pretty old ! . . ." said Madame Potterat. 
 
 " Old ! . . . Not a bit of it ! My own age, that's all. 
 . . . He's a fine conductor. ... I like the things he chooses 
 too, those pieces where the air comes out strong and clear 
 amongst the runs and shakes, and finishes up in the end 
 clean and smart, with one big major chord. ..." 
 
 When the last firework had rushed up into the sky, the 
 musicians methodically emptied out the tubes of their 
 instruments, and packed away their music-stands. The 
 lamps began to go out, and men were taking down the 
 strings of Venetian lanterns. In the sky, which suddenly 
 seemed much darker, the stars shone out more brightly, 
 as if taking heart again. And young couples strolled along 
 in the damp heat of that airless night, in the languor 
 which succeeds excitement. . . . 
 
 "To keep in good health the best of all ways 
 Is in frolic and laughter to spend our days," 
 
 yelled a party installed on the terrace of a cafe. 
 
 " Just listen to that !" murmured Potterat. " Well, 
 William's going to give them all some fun presently. . . . 
 After all, if it's a question of dying of war, or dying of 
 luxury, one might as well die of war. Let them all 
 come ! . . ." 
 
 " Come, David ! Think of the fete, instead of all 
 these dismal things. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 153 
 
 " Ah, those who see clearly what's coming are always 
 told they're cracked. . . . Wait until the crash comes ! . . . 
 This fete gives me a funny sort of feeling, you know. . . ." 
 
 " Hallo, Potterat ! . . . Good-evening, Madame !" 
 
 They turned and saw Bigarreau. 
 
 " Well, how goes it, David ?" 
 
 " Oh, pretty well on the whole. I'm glad to see you. 
 I like the fellows who wear the gloves the sun gives them. 
 . . . Have you seen anyone else you know here to-night ? " 
 
 " Good Heavens, no ! . . . In this neighbourhood, I'm 
 as lost as — I don't know what ! It's a foreign land to me." 
 
 "Do you remember it thirty years ago ? . . . When the 
 women used to pick their mattresses out on the road, and 
 the cats used to come and lie in the middle of them. 
 Everybody one met used the speech of the country, a 
 friendly speech. . . . Those were good times. . . . One 
 turned sometimes to look at an extra fine man, but not 
 to look at petticoats. . . . Nowadays, it is the triumph 
 of Eve. ... At eight years old, even, they begin to make 
 eyes ! . . . I heard one slip of a girl the other day saying 
 to another one, and by way of a compliment too, if you 
 please, ' You look like a foreigner !' . . . And mothers 
 nowadays give their children names that are enough to 
 make them go to the bad : Roxane Tauxe, Edmee Petoud, 
 Odette Truquet, Jaqueline Petermann. ... At fifteen 
 the girls think they can do as they like, and at sixteen 
 they run about the streets in gowns that you can see 
 through. . . . My opinion is that there is a thorn in the 
 heart of the century. . . . And the worst thing about all 
 these shows we are constantly seeing is, that everyone 
 is more or less coarsened by them, becomes more like a 
 pig. . . . Don't you think so, Bigarreau ?" 
 
 " Don't run down pigs. . . . They may be a bit 
 dirty in their habits, but anyhow, they don't cheat you, 
 they don't lie, they don't steal. At heart they're quite 
 decent. They are pigs, and nothing else . . . but man 
 is that, and something more. ..." 
 
154 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 By this time they had reached No. 5, Avenue des Roses. 
 Up on a window-sill, a cat sat, mewing piteously. 
 
 " What's the matter, Minon ? . . . Are you wondering 
 at the ways of the world ? . . . It'll be a long time 
 before you can understand them." 
 
 " Oh look, David !" said Madame Potterat once more, 
 before putting the key into the lock. " What crowds of 
 people are going up to town ! . . ." 
 
 " Oh, all right ! All right ! . . . As if one hadn't seen 
 more than enough of these people ! . . . Oh, we're going 
 to have a nice peaceful night, I can see ; the gramophones 
 braying at the cafe, lovers promenading about, drunkards. 
 ... If we keep the windows closed, we shall be stifled : 
 if we open them, we might as well be in the street. ..." 
 
 In the square, a band of young men were howling with 
 savage energy: 
 
 " Deutschland, Deutschland iiber alles !" .... 
 
 "Ho, yes ! . . . The Vaudois people are getting scarce 
 about here. . . . Very soon, we shall be going about, 
 no doubt, with labels on our backs : ' Old Swiss. Rare 
 specimens. Please do not touch.' . . . Ah well ! . . . Good- 
 night, Bigarreau. ..." 
 
 They shook hands and were just going in when Madame 
 Potterat gave a cry of alarm : 
 
 " Where's Carlo ? . . ." 
 
 " Carlo ! . . . He was here just now. He must have run 
 out again to see some of those foreigners who are yelling 
 those horrible songs. ... At the least thing he's off like 
 a shot, and if one didn't look after him, he wouldn't come 
 home till four o'clock in the morning. ... H'm, yes ! . . . 
 The clergyman says in church, when one is getting 
 married: * May God send you the blessing of children !' 
 . . . My word ! . . . A nice sort of blessing ! . . . I should 
 say rather ' Blessed are the barren !' . . ." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 On market days the Potterats went shopping together. 
 They bought vegetables and fruit from their old friends 
 Bigarreau and Burnand. On the ist August, Potterat, 
 holding fast gallantly to the biggest basket, left his wife 
 for a little while to go and see his old chum Corbaz, who 
 had retired, after forty years of office life, to a little flat 
 in the Palud, where he struggled with his gout. They 
 had pushed the invalid's chair up to the open window, 
 which overlooked the Place de la Palud, a gay and 
 bustling scene. 
 
 " The flag is flying from the tower of the Town Hall in 
 honour of the National Fete," explained Potterat. " It 
 looks fine against the blue of the sky." 
 
 " Yes," replied Corbaz: " By the way, the news 
 to-day is not very good. Have you read it ? . . ." 
 
 Just then from the Place, fragrant with the smell of 
 fresh raspberries, rose the sound of a rapidly beaten 
 drum, a sound which had something menacing in it. 
 Immediately the market was in a state of commotion; 
 there was a swift mingling of many colours, as green 
 hats, blue jackets, and grey suits rushed together like 
 a swarm of ants, all quivering with excitement. The 
 seed merchant left his stall to take care of itself, the 
 seller of cream cheeses forsook his red umbrella ... all 
 were closely clustered round the drum. Now from the 
 heart of the crowd a voice began to intone. 
 
 " What does he say ? . . ." asked the old man, raising 
 himself on the arms of his chair. Leaning out of the 
 window, Potterat watched the crowd, as one watches 
 
 i55 
 
156 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 the happening of some terrible thing one has often 
 foretold, only half believing it, and which suddenly comes 
 to pass. Never before had he seen his country-people 
 preserve such a tragic silence. 
 
 " What is it ? What's the matter ? . . ." cried Potterat 
 from the window. A man looked up with a stupefied 
 face. 
 
 " War ! . . . We're called out ! . . ." 
 
 Potterat repeated: M War ! . . . We're called out ! . . ." 
 
 Terrified, his hands still convulsively clasping the arms 
 of his chair, Corbaz gazed fixedly at the clock of the Town 
 Hall, with its brown hands, its golden figures, the dial he 
 had so often consulted. That dial he now, in fancy, saw 
 demolished, in ruins, as if by a lightning stroke. And 
 Corbaz repeated in his turn: 
 
 " War ! . . . They're caUed up ? . . . What ? . . ." 
 
 In the houses opposite people were leaning from their 
 windows, a tailor, with his iron still in his hand, from one, 
 an old toothless woman from another, a cook from a 
 third, some children, the notary, with his pen behind his 
 ear, Madame Gindroz, the butcher's wife, with her 
 crimson face, and her tie of a different red. All these 
 shouted up to Potterat : 
 
 " War ! . . . It's war ! . . . We're called up !" . . . 
 
 "Not you! . . ." shouted Potterat to the butcher's 
 wife with a sort of impatience; then seizing the basket 
 where sea-kale, lettuces, plums, lay side by side, and 
 leaving Corbaz trying to rise from his chair, he flew down 
 the narrow tortuous stairs, and mingled with the crowd. 
 
 " Are they already in Switzerland ? . . . Where are 
 they ? ..." he asked. The crowd surged backwards and 
 forwards, and everyone asked questions which no one 
 could answer. 
 
 " But doesn't anyone know anything ?" 
 
 " What do you want to know ?" 
 
 " Have they wired from Berne ? . . ." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 157 
 
 " Nobody seems to know. . . . But anyhow the order 
 is to mobilize. Elite, Landwehr, Landsturm, . . . every- 
 body's to go. . . ." 
 
 " Then they must have invaded Switzerland. . 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder. ..." 
 
 It takes only a moment to go from peace to war. How 
 trivial these baskets of vegetables and fruit seemed 
 now. . . . Swept backward by an eddy of the crowd, a 
 man sat down in one of them . . . and nobody laughed. 
 And one poor woman, with her hands on her hips, her bon- 
 net tilted over one ear, kept on monotonously repeating : 
 
 " Good God ! . . . All to go ! ... I have four sons of 
 military age ! . . ." 
 
 A motor-car forced its way through the crowd. In it 
 sat some staff officers, their heads close together, evidently 
 discussing the situation with each other. 
 
 "That's Bornand! . . ." 
 
 Then some younger men passed, running as if to put 
 out a fire. Everywhere men came out of their houses, 
 approached strangers, and clustered in groups in the 
 cross-roads. Already at one window, an artillery uni- 
 form was spread out on the sill to air. . . . The crowd 
 grew more and more excited ; they shouted and gesticu- 
 lated, and uttered big threats against the enemy. But 
 there was gloom in every heart. Something turned like a 
 millwheel in their heads, legs trembled and grew weak, 
 hands felt like lead, and a throbbing of the arms told of 
 the quick rush of blood to the heart. Emptying a basket of 
 spinach on the ground,, one woman explained to the crowd 
 at large, none of whom took the slightest notice of her : 
 . " I'm throwing it away, that spinach. ... If there's been 
 one foot, there have been thirty in that basket. ... What 
 good is it after that ? . . . Besides, it's war ! . . ." 
 
 Madame Potterat sat, her hands spread out on her lap, 
 and regarded her husband with wide frightened eyes. 
 
158 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 '■ War ! . . ." she murmured. " War ! . . ." 
 
 On the wall opposite, the deer was still quenching its 
 thirst at the brook in the peaceful woodland glade, on 
 the floor the new carpet still shone in multi-coloured 
 splendour. Round the table stood the five armchairs. . . . 
 A little peaceful interior. . . . Tragically Potterat groaned : 
 
 " Well, well ! . . . There's your fine drawing-room in 
 the soup ! . . ." 
 
 As she moved about among her saucepans later, she 
 said, sprinkling sugar, instead of salt, over the cutlets : 
 
 " Was it worth while breaking my back with hard work 
 over it ? . . . and selling our land, and putting our money 
 in the bank ? . . . What will happen to it ? . . . They'll 
 take everything ! . . . This afternoon I'll collect all our 
 silver and good things, and take them to Aunt Francoise 
 at Romainmotier. They'll never find them in that out- 
 of-the-way corner. . . . Oh, good gracious ! . . . There, 
 I've sugared the meat ! . . . Oh well, I can't help it ! . . . 
 In any case, nobody wants to eat anything ! . . ." 
 
 " On the contrary," protested Potterat. " This is just 
 the time that one wants to keep up one's strength. . . . 
 Mon Dieu! Think of all those big guns, and mitrail- 
 leuses; all those rifles and bayonets which are longing to 
 begin their work ! . . . How many of those who eat their 
 dinner to-day will perhaps be dead to-morrow ? . . . 
 W T ar was bound to come . . . the madness of the world 
 was past all bounds . . . the rottenness was beginning to 
 stink. . . . We were getting too soft, too wrapped up in 
 cotton wool. Now we'll have to lie on the hard ground, 
 often with an empty stomach, and to call up our courage 
 from our boots if necessary. ..." 
 
 " To lie on the hard ground ? . . ." 
 
 " Well, how do we know what may happen ! . . . 
 Russia, Germany, Austria, Montenegro, Serbia, France, 
 England. . . . Three hundred millions of people firing at 
 each other over our heads, and we in the middle of them ! 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 159 
 
 Do you imagine that we shall be left long quietly in our 
 beds ? . . . I bet you it won't be more than a week or so, 
 before the enemy will be marching past our windows. . . . 
 And if so, I'll establish myself in the cellar, and wipe out 
 everyone who comes within range. ..." 
 
 " For goodness' sake, be quiet, David ! . . . Suppose 
 somebody heard you ! . . . There's one of them on the 
 floor above. ..." 
 
 "Who ? . . . Schneegans ? . . . Let him just say a 
 word, and I'll soon send him to the floor below. . . . For 
 the present, anyhow, we can do what we like in our own 
 house, I hope. ..." 
 
 Everyone was in a state of excitement. People flew 
 out on their balconies, and in again, as if some insect had 
 stung them. A voice called out from a fourth-floor 
 window: 
 
 " Monsieur Potterat ! . . . Monsieur Potterat ! . . . If 
 it should become necessary, may we bury our silver in 
 your garden ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, certainly, Madame, certainly. . . . Only they'll 
 know everything about it. . . . There are spies on 
 every side. ..." 
 
 In the Square outside, people eagerly snatched from 
 the newsboy the papers, still damp from the press. 
 
 ' Well," someone said, " as long as France keeps quiet 
 there is some hope. . . . There she is with her Caillaux 
 business. . . . She'll give in again, no doubt. ..." 
 
 A rumour went round that some French Customs 
 officers and a detachment of German dragoons had had 
 a scrap close to the Swiss frontier: a dozen or so killed. 
 . . . Throughout the whole of France, from the Vosges 
 to the Pyrenees, the tocsin was sounding. Some millions 
 of men, already, had set out to the sound of their bugles. 
 
 " I don't like the look of things at aU ! . . ." said Pot- 
 terat. " We are surrounded on all sides. Well, at any 
 rate, we'll die standing ! . . . To-morrow, I shall enroll 
 
160 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 myself. . . . Thirty years in the Police ! . . . One's pretty 
 well accustomed to war. ... To begin with, if I meet 
 anyone who stares at me too impudently, I'll run his head 
 into the nearest drain. ..." 
 
 " Do be quiet, David ! . . ." 
 
 " I won't be quiet ! . . . Why should I ? I was only 
 making a remark. Surely a man's got a right to do 
 that ! . . ." 
 
 He went out, and presently met some of his ac- 
 quaintances. 
 
 " Things are getting hot, eh ? . . ." 
 
 " Nearly cooked, I should say. . . ." 
 
 " W T hat a good thing it is that we are neutral !" said 
 another, with a soft voice. " Our territory is protected 
 by treaty from invasion." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! . . . Treaties indeed ! . . . These big 
 nations make treaties all right, but if a moment comes 
 when they are inconvenient they squash them. . . . 
 They're only dodges to put us to sleep. . l . . No, if you 
 want to be let alone, fix your bayonet, and put a couple 
 of hundred cartridges in your belt. ,. . ." 
 
 The big space in front of the railway-station, guarded 
 by elderly Landsturm men, in full uniform, was packed 
 with an immense crowd. Potterat, clutching a parcel in 
 both arms, was jostled and pushed here and there by the 
 crowd. 
 
 " This is for my son, the bank manager, and for my 
 son-in-law . . ."he told someone. 
 
 But would it ever be possible to find a son in such a 
 crowd, or a son-in-law either ? Not to mention that men 
 in uniform look so very much alike. . . . There was a 
 sudden move forward, some shouts, and a wave of people 
 pushing each other back. Women and children began 
 to scream, but a way had to be made for the soldiers, 
 who came marching along, with their square knapsacks 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 161 
 
 on their backs, the straps crossed on their broad chests. 
 Strong odours of leather, of naphthaline, of camphor, 
 floated in the wake of these knapsacks. What fine 
 fellows they looked with their great hands and feet, their 
 tanned faces, and red- brown necks. A blazing sun made 
 stars on the peaks of their caps, as their hob-nailed boots 
 crunched the gravel, some of them laughing to hide their 
 
 emotion In the station entrance hall another crowd of 
 
 people awaited them, trains were drawn up at all the plat- 
 forms, and presently every door and window was blocked 
 with heads, and showed the sparkle of bright buttons on 
 the blue and green uniforms, and the spots of colour 
 which were faces. And on the platforms women young 
 and old, children, all those who were being left behind. 
 . . . Will they ever come back, these dear soldiers ? . . . 
 They looked at each other in silence, reading in each 
 other's eyes the hidden thoughts, the love and devotion 
 of this sacred hour. Potterat listened to the various 
 noises of singing, of shunting carriages, the panting of 
 engines, short quick words of command, all the bustle and 
 noise of battle, already, and he thought of the willing 
 sacrifice. . . . 
 
 In the front row of the crowd stood a little woman with 
 a gaily flowered hat; in her arms a baby nestled in its 
 laces. Suddenly a big artilleryman leaped down from 
 the train and folded them in his arms, his tall head bent 
 so low that his kepi was hidden under the brim of the 
 rose- wreathed hat. They clung to each other as if it were 
 their last good-bye. 
 
 " Hallo, Gunner !" shouted a voice. " We're off ! . . ." 
 
 The big soldier went off without looking back. 
 
 ' There is a parting such as one never sees on the 
 stage," thought Potterat. 
 
 As a cripple passed, his crutches tap-tapping on the 
 pavement, a soldier said : 
 
 " That's what we shall be like in a few weeks' time." 
 
 ii 
 
162 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 No one replied. They were already inured to tragedy. 
 Fate had them in its grip. Moved to the heart, Potterat 
 rushed up to the train. 
 
 V Look here, my boys," he said, " this parcel was 
 for my son and my son-in-law, but in this crush how am 
 I ever going to find them ? . . . Here you are, if you'll 
 have it ! . . . There are sausages and ham, a bottle of 
 wine, and some pears. . . . Eat all you can, that's the way 
 to keep your heart up. . . . Good luck to you all ! . . . 
 And if you have to hit, hit hard ! . . ." 
 
 " Oh, we'll hit ! . . ." grimly replied the man who had 
 taken the packet. 
 
 Happy in this little act of good comradeship, Potterat 
 was walking along the train when he caught sight of his 
 daughter Louise, his little grandson, and in front of them 
 at the door of the carriage, the surly, honest face of his 
 son-in-law, Justin Schmid, which seemed to have lost 
 much of its individuality under the kepi. Forgetting 
 altogether in the emotion of the moment that Schmid 
 had never replied to his conciliatory letter, Potterat 
 rushed up to them. 
 
 " I had a parcel for you and for Ernest. ... I hunted 
 everywhere, and couldn't find either of you, and the 
 train's just going out, so I gave it away. . . . You must 
 take the will for the deed now. . . . What a pity ! . . . 
 There was ham, and sausages, and pears, and a bottle of 
 good wine. ... I was hoping that you would have eaten 
 and drunk them in the spirit of reconciliation. From 
 to-day there are no longer German-Swiss and French- 
 Swiss. . . . We are all the same ... all fighting under one 
 flag, isn't that so ? . . ." 
 
 Louise smiled at her father, and slowly Justin's gaunt 
 face lit up. 
 
 "I'm very glad to have seen you. . . . Look after Louise 
 a bit while I'm away, won't you ? I'm leaving her in 
 rather a mess, I'm afraid. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 163 
 
 r< That's all right, we'll look after her. . . . Those who 
 stay behind must help each other to keep things going " 
 
 The two men exchanged a long and silent handshake. 
 . . . There was a whistle, a fresh outburst of noise. . . . 
 What can two people say to each other at such a 
 moment ? Which needed the greater strength ? Which 
 felt the parting most ? Those who were going off to meet 
 the unknown, their past lives and daily habits cast com- 
 pletely aside for the moment, with the putting on of the 
 soldier's knapsack; or those who would return to their 
 homes to live in continual anxiety because of this strong 
 tie of discipline and silence which has drawn away the 
 others ? . . . As for the soldiers, some were singing, some 
 laughing, some shouted more or less foolish jokes, their 
 way of expressing their emotion; others, again, stood 
 grave and silent, drinking in, as it were, the last details 
 of the scene, the vision of the crowd, waving of hand- 
 kerchiefs ; a shiver seemed to pass over them. One saw 
 all mouths open, though no coherent words were uttered ; 
 tears stood in all eyes, and one could guess the thoughts 
 behind them, the sympathy, the longing to give help 
 and courage. Then with one accord all the soldiers rose 
 to their feet, waving their rifles above their heads ; some 
 of them had fixed their bayonets also ; and a song sprang 
 from thousands of throats, and rolled and swelled: " Sois 
 heureux, sois heureux, O mon pays ! . . ." 
 
 M Good-bye, Ernest, good luck ! . . . Let them have 
 it ! . . ." snouted Potterat, catching sight of his son just 
 as the train glided slowly out of the station; then with 
 his fist he dashed away his tears as he watched it 
 disappear in the distance. 
 
 " He didn't see me. . . . He was singing. ... It doesn't 
 matter; I'm glad to have seen him. . . . I'm giving one 
 son, at any rate, to the country. . . . Good God ! What 
 a thing war is ! . . . and to think one can't go because 
 one's too old ! . . . Well, I suppose I must go back to 
 
164 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 that barrack. ... I'm played out ! . . . I've done my bit 
 in my time, but now we old ones are scrapped, out of 
 date, prehistoric. ..." 
 
 The station square was quiet now; the August sun 
 poured down on the dust. There was much to think of 
 at home. What is the best thing to do when one's country 
 is blockaded, isolated, and when almost everything in 
 the way of food, everything good, comes from abroad ? 
 In a sort of panic Madame Potterat went through her 
 store-cupboards. Some pounds of sugar, of flour, of 
 macaroni, a packet of chocolate, some haricots and dried 
 peas, etc., . . . not more than enough to go on with for 
 about a couple of weeks. They must lay in some stores. 
 But to buy anything it was necessary to have some small 
 change; Potterat ran over to the hairdresser's with a 
 couple of bank-notes for a hundred francs each. No 
 change ! He went to the greengrocer's, to the tobac- 
 conist's, to ten tobacconists', and twenty cafes, and 
 everywhere it was the same. ... " Change a note ? 
 Absolutely impossible ! . . ." 
 
 It began to rain as Potterat, tired out, took his place 
 in a long queue of people waiting outside the Cantonal 
 Bank. They moved forward at the rate of ten steps in 
 a quarter of an hour. The drippings from umbrellas 
 trickled down people's necks; there was a certain amount 
 of scuffling and wrangling. 
 
 " Can't you look what you're doing ? . . ." 
 
 " What are you shoving f or ? . . ." 
 
 " You're shoving too !" 
 
 " Well, you stepped on my feet !" 
 
 When at last, at about ten minutes to eleven, Potterat 
 had reached the bank counter, and had recognized his 
 friend Boulenaz behind the grille, he felt all right. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Boulenaz ? . . . What a crush ! . . . 
 There are people from here to Montbenon almost. ..." 
 
 Nervous and overwrought, Boulenaz snapped out : 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 165 
 
 " I've no time to talk to-day. ..." 
 
 " Oh, all right ! . . . Give me change, please, for these 
 two hundred-franc notes . . . ." 
 
 " We are only changing fifty- franc notes." 
 
 " Go on ! . . . What are you talking about ? . . ." 
 
 " Those are the orders. . . . Fifty-franc notes only " 
 
 " Damn it all ! . . . Are you going to starve the whole 
 population ? . . ." 
 
 " No need for anyone to starve who has fifty francs. ..." 
 
 Sticking to his point, though with inward qualms, 
 Potterat repeated: 
 
 " Boulenaz, don't be an idiot ! . . ." 
 
 Boulenaz threw a hasty glance round and pushed over 
 to him twenty five-franc pieces, hiding them under his 
 hand. 
 
 " There you are. . . . Don't tell anyone. . . . Next, 
 please! . . . 'Change a thousand-franc note?' Im- 
 possible ! Absolutely impossible ! Fifty . . . not a 
 franc more !" 
 
 " But I was told. . . ." 
 
 " Fifty ! . . . Next, please !" 
 
 Madame Potterat had impressed upon her husband that 
 on his way back he was to buy all he could in the way 
 of provisions. " Never mind what it is," she said, M as 
 long as we can eat it." So he took his place in another 
 queue outside a grocer's shop. The police were lining 
 up the people in twos, old men, children, stout matrons, 
 all armed with receptables of one sort or another — 
 bags, baskets, fruit panniers, empty boxes, etc. Here 
 again there was a certain amount of squabbling. 
 
 " Keep your place, there ! . . . I'm before you ! . . ." 
 
 " I've a family of ten at home. ..." 
 
 " I can't help that ! . . . I'm sorry, but everyone has 
 his rights ! . . ." 
 
 " Don't shove like that ! . . . Such manners !" 
 
 " That's all right. I wasn't talking to you ! . . ." 
 
166 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 When Potterat returned, out of breath, with about 
 four pounds of macaroni, and the news that the shops 
 were besieged, his wife sat down overcome with fright. 
 
 " They say that the Italians are called out too," she 
 said. " One of the clerks at the railway told Madame 
 Bosset this morning. We are surrounded. We shall die 
 of hunger." 
 
 Potterat himself was rather depressed. 
 
 " My word ! It isn't a nice outlook ! . . . I'll tell you 
 what we'll do !   Little streams feed great rivers/ . . . 
 We'll each go different ways, you and I and Carlo, and 
 we'll buy what we can, each of us. . . . Then we'll bring 
 back what we've got, and start again. . . . You'll see how 
 we shall be received ! like dogs. Nobody wants your 
 custom now." 
 
 At half-past two, therefore, Carlo set out with a 
 basket; at three o'clock his mother went off, with a 
 rush basket on her arm ; finally Potterat emerged, with 
 a string bag in his hand, and another in his coat 
 pocket. And lo, from every door were coming out 
 people with baskets, with wallets, with string bags. 
 They glanced at each others' receptacles, evidently with 
 disapproval of the more capacious ones. Steadily, 
 smilingly, Potterat bore the glances thrown upon him. 
 He seemed to say, " Yes, it's Potterat. ... I have devoted 
 myself for thirty years to protecting the public. I have 
 a good right now to claim my share of nourishment . . . 
 and there's a good deal of me to be nourished." 
 
 The better-known groceries displayed the one word 
 ' Closed !' without any further explanations. They had 
 rolled down the iron shutters, and the proprietor 
 appeared at an upstairs window of one shop to shout 
 to the crowd which still persisted in knocking at the 
 closed doors : 
 
 " It's no use knocking ! . . . I'm sold out !" 
 
 "I'm not such a fool !" thought Potterat to himself. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 167 
 
 " I'll go to some of the small shops in outlying 
 districts. ..." 
 
 But there also there were the same crowds of bare- 
 headed women, who regarded this big man, an obvious 
 stranger to the neighbourhood, with no very great favour. 
 " Some people have cheek," said someone in a loud voice. 
 
 'We belong to the same country, Madame," replied 
 Potterat quite gently. " I pay my taxes, I have a son 
 and a son-in-law at the front. Under these circum- 
 stances, I think I have a perfect right to look after 
 myself. ... I'm not asking for any more than my share. 
 . . . It's the Boches who are to blame for all this, and 
 not the French. ..." 
 
 The vicious emphasis he laid on the word ' Boche ' 
 showed a somewhat scant regard for the convention of 
 neutrality. This way of looking at the matter appealed 
 to the crowd. 
 
 !< To bring about such a war as this ... in the twentieth 
 century! . . ." said one. 
 
 " Well, God has a good excuse for sending down his 
 lightnings on them now ! ..." said another. 
 
 ' To kill millions of men . . . why ? . . . My God, why ? 
 ... If an ordinary man commits murder, he is hanged 
 for it. Then what ought to be the punishment for those 
 who have organized this massacre ? . . ." 
 
 " To let them sit for thirty-two thousand years upon 
 a high current electric wire ! . . ." said Potterat, turning 
 to the grocer's wife, a fat woman with flaxen hair. 
 
 " My wife sent me," he explained. " ' Go where you 
 like,' she said to me, ' but don't come back without some 
 food.' . . . And I had to obey her. ... If these other 
 ladies object very much, I must give in, but really 
 my wife didn't know where to turn . . . and I have 
 been trying to get something for more than an hour. . . . 
 Everywhere I go it is the same thing. ,. . . My word, we 
 are having a nice time ! . . ." 
 
168 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " And what about me, I should like to know I" inter- 
 upted a woman. " My husband has had to go off to the 
 frontier, and I am left with five children to feed and look 
 after . . . and fine appetites they have, too !" And 
 shaking one of the five by the shoulder, she added: " Do 
 you hear ? You mustn't come worrying the life out of 
 me for halfpennies any more. ... I say, do you think this 
 war is going to last very long ? ..." 
 
 " My word ! I couldn't tell you. . . . But there are 
 something like ten millions of men to kill. With the best 
 will in the world, that'll take some time. ... A kicking 
 horse is a nasty brute, but I ask you, what sort of a man 
 is it who lets loose on the world such a war as this ? . . ." 
 ' You're quite right, Monsieur," said the grocer's wife. 
 
 Potterat walked off in triumph with ten pounds of rice. 
 
 Encouraged by his success here, Potterat penetrated 
 by a private door into another shop where a shopman 
 was throwing packets about apparently at random 
 amongst the crowd. The proprietor of the shop, a thin 
 little man, overwrought and irritable, in shabby slippers, 
 was shouting at regular intervals: " If everybody speaks 
 at once, we shall never get finished. ... Hi ! you big 
 fellow there ! W 7 hat do you want ?" The ' big fellow ' 
 addressed was Potterat. As soon as he had been served 
 with six pounds of semolina, he asked for some macaroni. 
 . . . " No, no, it's no use, the next one ! . . ." Outside, 
 there was a pushing, shoving mass of people with down- 
 cast faces, and again angry glances were thrown on full 
 baskets by the owners of empty ones. 
 
 When Potterat returned, proudly laden with his sixteen 
 pounds of foodstuffs, his wife was lying down. 
 
 "I'm simply dead tired ! . . ." she said. " I've been 
 to eight shops, and I couldn't get anything at any of 
 them." 
 
 " And you, Carlo ? What luck ?" 
 
 Proudly, the boy exhibited a thick parcel — twelve 
 pounds of chocolate. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 169 
 
 '* They told me this was very nourishing. ..." 
 
 Potterat felt himself truly the head of the family, 
 responsible for their welfare. 
 
 " Don't worry ! . . . To-morrow morning I'll do another 
 round. ..." 
 
 The next day, he betook himself to the shop of a seeds- 
 man, with whom they had dealt for some years for their 
 fowl food, etc. But what a change ! Where formerly 
 there had been pleasant faces, and rows of neat drawers, 
 now all was confusion, and two men, one red and the other 
 pale, gesticulated wildly, both trying to talk at once. 
 
 " Maize ? . . . Neither for gold nor silver. . . . We have 
 nothing left. . . . Absolutely sold out. . . . The hotels, 
 you see, the hotels have bought up everything. ..." 
 
 " The hotels ! . . . Oh'o ! So you're feeding the 
 foreigners, hey ? . . . And what about the Vaudois ? . . ." 
 
 " One hasn't time to ask for birth certificates." 
   You recognize me, however. ... I don't look like a 
 Brazilian, do I ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, but all the same, I can't make maize 
 out of wood. Good Heavens ! We've had such a time of it 
 here for the last two days. ... If it goes on much longer 
 we'll be in the asylum, and half the population too. ..." 
 
 The question was where to search. . . . He went to 
 Allaz, the grocer's. ' Closed.' On to the old baker's at 
 the corner. 
 . " Have you any flour ?" 
 
 The old woman went into the store at the back of the 
 shop, but in a moment she rushed back again, like a 
 frightened wasp. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! The baker tells me that they have 
 got across the Rhine . . . that they are righting near 
 Schaffhausen. That their cavalry are at Zurich ! . . ." 
 
 " Really ! You don't say so ! . . . Well, give me the 
 flour, please. ..." 
 
 " I can only give you four pounds. You'll have 
 to make that last. . . . It's all I've got. ..." 
 
170 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 She cut the string of the parcel with a sharp snap, and 
 cast a glassy eye on the clock. 
 
 " Some people say that the French are at Vallorbe, 
 and that to-morrow they'll be at Lausanne. ..." 
 
 " At Vallorbe ? . . . Do you really think they can get 
 across the Jura as easily as one climbs a fence ? . . . Who 
 told you that ? . . ." 
 
 "A lady." 
 
 " Tell her to go and put on a plaster. It's the Bel- 
 gians they're walking over. ..." 
 
 " Oh, that's not so bad !" 
 
 ' You see, I've been thirty years in the Police, and I 
 know pretty well what's going on." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, sir. You have relieved my mind a 
 lot. . . . Really, I scarcely know what I'm doing. And 
 people are so trying. Just now a lady asked me if my 
 rolls were quite fresh. I said to her, ' Madame, go and 
 ask the Germans if my rolls are fresh.' " 
 
 Moreover, the prevailing anxiety and irritability 
 affected even the people in their own homes. When night 
 fell, drawing its veil of sombre mystery over the world, 
 Madame Potterat closed the shutters. In the courtyard 
 below, some little rascals were playing at war, bands of 
 them rushing wildly about, shouting " Here they are ! 
 Bang ! Bang !" 
 
 " I simply can't stand it !" moaned Madame Potterat. 
 
 Potterat opened a window, and the shutters : ; 
 
 " Carlo ! . . . Stop those silly games at once. They 
 upset your mother. Ha ! There's someone ringing. 
 Who can it be at this hour ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't open, David ! . . ." 
 
 " What ? . . . Nonsense ! A man who can spend the 
 night in the Cathedral isn't afraid of anything. ..." 
 
 It was the little grocer with the down-at-heel slippers. 
 He threw some packets on the table in the kitchen, and 
 went off again without a word, his mouth open, forgetting 
 to close the door after him. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 171 
 
 " Another ten pounds of vermicelli and six pounds of 
 rice. . . . Good ! We are all right. . . . But how hot it 
 is to-night ! . . . Open that window again for a bit. ..." 
 
 " Oh no, David, I beg of you. ..." 
 
 " Oh well, then, I'll go outside. . . ." 
 
 Potterat paced up and down his little garden a hundred 
 times and more. A cat fled through the bushes. The 
 full moon shed its blue light on everything. Down under 
 the orchard trees, some paths shone silvery in the moon- 
 light, others lay in shadow; over all was the indefinable 
 sadness of safety trembling on the verge of tragedy. . . . 
 The whistle of a newspaper boy broke the silence. . . . 
 Standing on the pavement, Potterat read: ' Hamburg 
 bombarded by the British Fleet !' He gave a sigh. 
 " Well, that's something done !" 
 
 Some days later, towards the end of the afternoon, 
 Potterat said: 
 
 " It's as hot in here as if one were sitting on a stove. 
 Suppose we go out for a little while, and get aired !" 
 
 They walked down to the Lake by a narrow path. The 
 sun was setting in a red glow: the Lake, no longer dotted 
 with gay, beflagged little boats, slept under the calm of 
 the summer evening. On the other side of the water lay 
 Savoy. 
 
 "Just to think of what may be happening on the other 
 side of the Lake !" said Potterat. " Here the men have 
 gone out; they are ready for anything and everything, 
 but still they are waiting. . . . Over there it's a fiery 
 furnace. . . . Many of these Savoyards have already 
 fallen. Their wives may reap and rake and mow : but in 
 vain will they watch the turning of the road to see their 
 husbands come home again. . . . This lovely evening, 
 that beautiful sunset sky, this corner, so like a Paradise 
 of peace, all this must make them sick at heart. ... 
 Don't you think so ?" 
 
 " Who knows ? . . ." said Madame Potterat, a little 
 
172 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 ashamed. '* Perhaps they are taking it all more calmly 
 than we are." 
 
 " Upon my word ! . . . We do seem to have rather lost 
 our heads these first days." 
 
 " Is it any wonder ? . . . It was so absolutely unex- 
 pected." 
 
 " That's where we were wrong. We know what men 
 are ... we ought to have been more wide awake. On 
 the surface there's a lot of talk about peace and harmony, 
 brotherhood, the good God, and all that sort of thing; 
 but in reality it's roguery, selfishness, war, atrocities. 
 War is everywhere; under the leaves, in the sky, under- 
 ground, and in the hearts of people. Things may look 
 peaceful outwardly, but underneath there is always war. 
 . . . Cats eat birds, the birds eat caterpillars, the cater- 
 pillars eat leaves, the leaves overshadow and kill the 
 plants. ... I have long felt that we were sleeping on the 
 edge of a precipice. . . . There were some among us who 
 sang the Ranz des V aches. . . . But there were also those 
 who were undermining their neighbours, dabbling in 
 foreign shares, those who are so much for economic pro- 
 gress that in the end the heart is subject to the purse. 
 The people feel that. But even the people are spoilt 
 nowadays with luxury. The days are gone when we 
 rushed to our frontiers for a mere nothing . . . when we 
 stood up to kings and emperors. To-day they present 
 us with clocks and with photographs, and that keeps us 
 quiet. Nevertheless, there's this poor little Belgium, a 
 neutral country like ourselves, as peace-loving as we are, 
 gutted and devastated. ..." 
 
 V Oh, David, do be quiet !" implored Madame Pot- 
 terat, pointing with her umbrella to a clump of acacias 
 which were quivering in the Lake breeze. " Suppose 
 there should be one of them there ! . . ," 
 
 Potterat brandished his cane. 
 
 " One what ? . . . One of which ? . . . If he doesn't like 
 what I say, let him come out here ! I'll soon shove him 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 173 
 
 into the Lake ! What the blazes ! . . . This is Switzer- 
 land ! ... we are free ! To violate a treaty ! To pillage 
 and murder an innocent people ! . . . No one in the world, 
 no one, will hinder me from calling that a low-down, 
 dirty trick. . . . Do you hear ? . . . No one ! . . . Damn 
 it all ! . . ." 
 
 " I agree with you on the whole. But all the same one 
 doesn't know everything. And besides, we are neutral. 
 It is no business of ours." 
 
 " That's a heathen sort of sentiment," replied Potterat. 
 "In that case what good is your religion ? . . . What is 
 the use of churches, and schools, of patriotic addresses at 
 our annual trainings, of our national motto : ' One for all, 
 all for one !'?... Do we mean a word of it all, or don't 
 we ? . . . Are we utter hypocrites or not ? Tell me that. 
 . . . Are the words justice, liberty, brotherhood, 
 humanity, mere bluff and humbug ? . . . In the Police 
 I was always taught to arrest thieves, to handcuff mur- 
 derers, and to inform at once on those who tampered 
 with contracts. It is a good rule, and it holds just as 
 good for international affairs. We've got to decide 
 whether we're going to uphold robbery or not. . . . When 
 a little peaceful people calls for help, it's no time for 
 diplomatic quibbling. ... I have never learnt that our 
 Saviour said on the Cross : ' Justice stops at the frontiers, 
 this is the first and great commandment.' " 
 
 " Father," said Carlo, " what does it mean to be 
 neutral?" 
 
 " My dear, ask me in what year the world was made ! 
 Neutrality is a sort of labyrinth; you go in, but you can't 
 come out again. A month ago you were neutral, but you 
 didn't know it. Neutrality is like growing old; you don't 
 notice it until a day comes when you want to jump or 
 climb somewhere, and you find you can't do it because 
 your joints are stiff." 
 
 " I don't understand it at all." 
 
 " Well, it's like this: Suppose there is a stable, with 
 
174 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 some bulls, some horses and mules, and two sheep in it. 
 Naturally, the big animals quarrel with each other, bite 
 and kick and horn each other. My word ! If the sheep 
 get a rap by mistake, they pretend to think that it came 
 from somewhere else. In other words, they profess them- 
 selves neutral. In their hearts they have their own 
 opinion, but since it is dangerous to express it openly, 
 they pretend to take no notice ; they bleat out all sorts of 
 nice polite speeches, they ring their little bells. They 
 are just good little beasts who take care to keep very 
 close to the walls. . . . Now, suppose the bull declares 
 one evening that because he has grown so fat he must 
 have more room. He puts his head down and charges. 
 The wood flies in splinters, and blood spurts out against 
 the wall. It was the horse he meant to go for, but one 
 of the sheep happened to be in the way, and zip ! . . . the 
 poor thing is ripped up with one blow of the horn. Now 
 what do you think the other sheep ought to do ? . . .!' 
 " I should think he would bleat with rage. ..." 
 " But then he would no longer be neutral." 
 " Oh, then does being neutral mean that one is to take 
 everything lying down ?" 
 
 " I don't know. ... I can't understand it. . . . My 
 own idea is that in certain cases people just efface them- 
 selves from humanity. But it can't be very clear since 
 they are obliged to give lectures to explain it. . . . 
 When I saw that Belgium had been invaded, treated with 
 contempt, shelled, burnt, insulted, slandered, I expected 
 a protest from Switzerland, some official indignation, a 
 cry of horror and sympathy, something. . . . And there 
 was nothing ! . . . nothing . . . nothing ! . . . Nothing 
 but discussions and disputes in the papers. And from 
 headquarters, nothing but warnings to be quiet, to say 
 nothing. One would think that they were all dead at 
 Berne. Dead of what ? . . . not of too much courage, 
 anyhow ! . . . We talk of William Tell. ... How many 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 175 
 
 people nowadays would refuse to salute the hat ? . . . 
 Oh, it's been coming for a long time. The people have 
 grown soft from over- civilization : all these new- 
 fangled things, tunnels, hotels, chocolate, good eating, 
 white shoes, the best seats at the play, kursaals, folly in 
 three acts, trusts, speculation. ... In the long-run, we 
 are tied and bound; we all want to sell,' and we don't 
 want to offend possible customers. ..." 
 
 " But what good could we have done if we had pro- 
 tested ?" objected Madame Potterat. 
 
 " To the Belgians, no good at all. But for ourselves 
 it would have been good. To be brave gives an in- 
 crease of strength. ..." 
 
 The moon, coming out from behind the mountains, 
 threw its silvery scarf over the Lake, checkering the earth 
 with its deep shadows and strange brilliance. Madame 
 Potterat suddenly exclaimed with a start : 
 
 " Good Heavens ! . . . Just imagine oneself in Belgium, 
 and someone all at once shouting ' Here they are !' . . . 
 Imagine seeing the horizon red from burning villages. . . . 
 How dreadful ! . . . I should run away with Carlo. We 
 should run, and run, and run, until we dropped. We 
 should hide in a forest. ..." 
 
 v Yes," replied Potterat. " We don't put ourselves in 
 the place of others half enough. We live only for our- 
 selves. . . . We entrench ourselves behind our mountains. 
 . . . We provision ourselves. . . . Nevertheless, in the 
 main we are sound, there's not any lack of heart. But 
 what we want is someone to lead us, men like Boni- 
 vard, Winkelried, Davel, with whom honour and action 
 were one. . . . To-day we finesse, and diplomatize, but 
 there it ends, our virtue seems to consist only in words. 
 . . . But there ! . . . It's no use talking ! . . . Let's go along 
 as far as Vidy, and see how Louise is getting on. . . ." 
 
 The farm stood all by itself. A lamp lit up the im- 
 mense kitchen. Bent over some baskets Louise was wash- 
 
176 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 ing salad. Her face was lined and drawn from fatigue. 
 She described her life to them : rising early, going to bed 
 late, getting little real help from a rough untrained 
 servant, anxious about her husband, who spoke in his 
 postcards of sprains and blistered feet. 
 
 " Look here !." said Potterat, much moved by the sight 
 of that lined and worried face, but a little while ago so 
 smooth, " I shall come down every morning for a time, 
 and lend you a hand, and every afternoon too. It will 
 be very good for me, it'll take off a little of my fat." 
 
 Louise thought at first that he was joking, but he 
 repeated his promise on leaving, and they parted on 
 excellent terms. On the way back, as they were passing 
 the Cemetery of Montoie, Potterat began to muse aloud, 
 as he had a habit of doing. 
 
 " Sleep well, you dead. . . . We are sending you some 
 comrades now, young and healthy. . . . You'll see them 
 soon, look out for them. . . . We are logical, I must say ! 
 We spend hundreds and hundreds to make our schools 
 hygienic, we fight against tuberculosis, against typhus, 
 against cancer, against phylloxera; we wrap ourselves in 
 cotton-wool, we proclaim ourselves civilized, well dressed, 
 good friends all round. . . . Then the trumpets sound the 
 call to arms. ... It is War ! . . . And where yesterday 
 it was a fifty-franc fine for a blow of the fist, to-day it is 
 a decoration and a Te Deum for him who has killed 
 three thousand men in five minutes ! . . . Humanity ? 
 . . . I'm damned if I can see any meaning in the word at 
 all now ! . . . And why are some walking about here fat 
 and well-liking, while other poor fellows are being buried 
 by the light of a lantern, dragged along by the feet, and 
 chucked into a hole. . . . Why not we ? . . . All those 
 who are shot and buried like that, are certainly as good 
 as ourselves. Yet we don't even protest. We go and 
 buy macaroni ! . . . I one of the first ! . . . Damn it 
 all, I feel ashamed of myself !" 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 After the storm, the calm. Potterat sank into a chair 
 before a cupboard gorged with provisions. 
 
 " Let's say twenty pounds of lentils, thirty of rice, 
 forty-four of macaroni, twenty-six of maize. There's an 
 amount of solid nourishment for you !" 
 
 Just then Carlo came in. 
 
 ' The boys at school say there will be nothing to eat 
 this winter. Their parents told them so." 
 
 " Perhaps. In that case there will be a wholesale 
 burying somewhere about the spring. That will be rather 
 hard on you, my poor boy, you who are growing so big." 
 
 " But the cupboard is full." 
 
 " It certainly is. But in three months' time it won't 
 be very full." 
 
 Feeling ferocious, Potterat unhooked from the wall his 
 old carbine that had served him so well for many years 
 in shooting competitions. He pretended to load it, took 
 aim at an imaginary enemy, and pulled the trigger. 
 
 " Poum ! . . . There you are !" 
 
 " That's right ! Cripple yourself !" broke in Madame 
 Potterat. " A lot of good that will do us !" 
 
 " Cripple myself ! . . . I know my little weapon. . . . 
 In case of an attack in force, I take up my station in the 
 cellar. I block the window with mattresses. And by 
 Heaven ! I'll sweep the courtyard. I'll mow them down 
 as they pass. I'll pile them up in heaps. I'll clear out 
 the corners. I could hold the place for a fortnight. 
 And after that I'd escape by the back gate." 
 
 That evening, frightened by the alarming telegrams 
 
 177 I3 
 
178 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 in the papers, and his imagination inflamed by the 
 bloodthirsty adventures of Nick Carter (he devoured an 
 instalment of these each week), Carlo refused to sleep 
 alone in his room. He wailed feverishly. 
 
 " All right then, all right ! We'll move your bed into 
 our room." 
 
 No sooner said than done. Carlo consented to go to 
 bed under the protection of the big walnut bedstead. 
 But as he still could not sleep, and his eyes were fever- 
 ishly bright, his father took down his carbine again and 
 laid it on the window-sill. 
 
 " There now ! Are you satisfied ? . . . Just let them 
 come now !" 
 
 Carlo contemplated the carbine whose murderous eye 
 raked the suburbs. And presently he was asleep. 
 Happy age of childhood which passes at a bound from 
 fear to perfect confidence ! 
 
 Potterat himself was much longer in going to sleep. 
 It may be that across the ether that transmits the tragic 
 fluids were borne to his inner consciousness the cries 
 of mothers, the wailing of little children, the groans of 
 men dying on the field of battle. In the silence of that 
 peaceful summer night, Potterat reviewed with a sort of 
 humiliation the little rules and regulations that he had 
 indulgently administered under the auspices of the 
 Communal Police. To arrest some petty thieves, to 
 summon people for offences against the regulations, a 
 bucket of rubbish forgotten on the pavement, etc. . . . 
 What ignoble work ! Then he thought, almost with 
 terror, sitting up in his bed, of the madness which was 
 hurling whole nations into the depths. He could scarcely 
 understand it, this simple-hearted man who had retained 
 the fresh ideals of the songs of his youth, the con- 
 viction that kings and governments were upright and 
 loyal, shepherdesses beautiful and chaste, that mankind on 
 the whole was good, except for some little peccadilloes 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR i 79 
 
 here and there. And here was he, looking on at the 
 breakdown of laws, customs, decrees, and regulations, at 
 the cynical proclamation that might was right. Suddenly 
 Potterat nudged his wife with his elbow and woke her up. 
 
 ' • Francoise ! . . . How can you sleep like that while ten 
 millions of men are killing each other, and thousands of 
 civilians are running away across the fields ? . . ." 
 
 " And do you think that my staying awake will do any 
 good ? . . ." 
 
 " Not the slightest. . . . There, let's go to sleep." 
 
 At 7.39 a.m. a whistle announced the approach of the 
 news-boy. Carlo ran down to the Square for a paper. 
 Shortly afterwards, sitting on the sofa in the dining-room, 
 where the trivial prettiness of the wall-paper contrasted 
 with the large size of the room, Potterat read aloud the 
 official communiques, punctuating them with frequent 
 exclamations, in turn pitying, indignant, and full of 
 admiration. 
 
 " Nice sort of life the Belgians are having ! . . . Men 
 are lined up against a wall and shot without any attempt 
 at a trial, simply for defending their own soil . . . brought 
 down like starlings in vintage-time. ..." 
 
 Potterat presently rose, red, perspiring, and panting 
 with anger, and stumped round the table in his excitement. 
 
 !< They are asleep, our Government ! ..." he said, 
 " asleep ! . . . Ever since the 1st August, they seem to 
 have been dozing, with cotton-wool plugged in their ears. 
 My goodness ! And to think that it is the same people 
 who have laid waste Belgium and Luxemburg who 
 guarantee our neutrality ! . . . And we hold our tongues 
 as if it were all quite natural . . . but to keep silence now 
 is like making oneself an accomplice. If this sort of 
 thing goes on much longer, I'll write a protest myself, 
 and publish it in the Feuille d'Avis. . . . This silence 
 is too much for me. . . . It's all humbug what they tell 
 
i8o POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 us about Switzerland if we are to grovel in the grass 
 directly we see a bird of prey passing to and fro in the 
 sky. . . . Oh, there's no one like us ! . . . We may soon 
 have to add ' Fortunately V . . ." 
 
 " David, do be careful ! . . ." begged Madame Potterat. 
 
 " No, I won't ! I feel that I should like to go up on 
 the roof and shout all this towards the north — only the 
 truth, after all, though I suppose I should be shut up 
 for five years. ..." 
 
 For Potterat was beginning to be suspicious. ... Of 
 what ? . . . He could not have told exactly. Very often 
 he uttered words as obscure as his suspicions. In every 
 stranger he saw a spy. Fortunately, Schmid wrote from 
 the frontier that the spirit of the army was excellent ; he 
 had received the cake, the chocolate, the flannel. The 
 heat made him terribly thirsty. His feet were now all 
 right. They had killed nothing up to the present but a 
 hare in one of the forests of the Jura. They sang while 
 they were on the march to make the way seem shorter, 
 etc. . . . 
 
 Thinking of this letter, and of many other things, 
 Potterat, kneeling on a sack, weeded Louise's garden, for 
 he went down to Vidy every morning now to help his 
 daughter, and help was certainly needed. 
 
 All round a peaceful silence reigned, broken only by 
 an occasional bark from the dog, when a stray pedestrian 
 passed the farm, and vanished from sight between the 
 poplars bordering the white road. Yawning, and dragging 
 his chain, the dog would then return to his kennel. . . . 
 Everything spoke of peace, the beautiful view, the wide 
 stretch of clear blue sky, the joy of nature in the growing 
 plants and laughing flowers. . . . Yet all the time, beyond 
 the smiling slopes, beyond the vineyards, the orchards, 
 the Lake, Potterat saw far other scenes. His heart, in 
 spite of a certain outward roughness of manner, had 
 always held wonderful depths of tenderness for little 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 181 
 
 children, for those who looked up to him in trust and 
 confidence, for the old and feeble, and for the poor and 
 weak. And he dreaded the sight of tears because they 
 moved him too much. So in spite of the glory of this 
 beautiful summer day, Potterat remained grave and 
 quiet. He felt sad at heart, as he peopled that solitude 
 with scenes of war, saw women sitting amongst the 
 smoking ruins of their homes, corpses lying near those 
 silver-leaved willows, imagined smoke with flickering 
 tongues of flame. . . . 
 
 Full of indignation, the good man went on doggedly 
 with his weeding, digging his fat fingers into the hot earth, 
 and grunting with the effort. Against the possible invader 
 he launched in imagination his country's battalions; ^e 
 ran and fought with them. . . . Forward ! . . . Fire ! . . . 
 Hurrah ! . . . Fighting, groaning, dying : what matters it 
 what happens, if one is with those who are suffering, with 
 those who are fighting for right, and honour, and country. 
 ... A cloud passed over the sky : the vision faded. Be- 
 fore his eyes there lay only the fields of lush grass, the 
 walnut-trees, the Lake so exquisitely blue behind the 
 waving curtain of reeds, and a sailing-boat with one white 
 and one red sail motionless on the horizon. 
 
 In face of this peaceful beauty, Potterat' s heart went 
 out to his country. This dear land ! He loved it so 
 much. His own Canton was almost as dear to him as 
 his wife. And Switzerland's history, more beautiful than 
 any legend. Tyrants driven out at the halberd's point, 
 rocks hurled down the mountain-side: Charles the Bold 
 flying like smoke before the east wind. . . . And of 
 course William Tell with his apple and his crossbow, and 
 Winkelried receiving the spears in his breast, and Nicolas 
 de Flue, and Pestalozzi. . . . And all its beautiful, simple, 
 peaceful life, the little excursions, the songs, ... the going 
 off on Sundays to vote, and to smoke cigars with his 
 friends . . . and the National fete days; flags floating from 
 
182 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 all the church towers, the National flag, the Cantonal 
 flag, the Communal flag . . . and bands, processions, 
 luncheons, speeches. . . . The cheers that rang out while an 
 orator drained his glass, after saying that the Swiss fear 
 no one, that the blood-red of their flag signifies sacrifice, 
 that they will always be ready to uphold justice and right. 
 The crowd rises as one man, and, holding their glasses in 
 their hands, they renew their ancient oath never to submit 
 to a foreign yoke, and to bow the knee to God alone. . . . 
 Then they go back to their homes, and before they go to 
 sleep that night, they thank God that they are Swiss. . . . 
 
 And now to think that two little countries, her sisters 
 in neutrality, had been invaded in defiance of signed trea- 
 ties ; that towns had been burnt and men shot because they 
 had defended their native soil with the courage of despair; 
 the whole soul of a nation trampled underfoot, and the 
 heavy silence of the tomb left weighing on their hearts. 
 And we ? . . . Hush, be quiet ! Don't say anything. 
 . . . We can't do anything ! . . . What ? . . . No, no ! 
 Much better not to say a word, not to draw attention to 
 ourselves ! . . . And what are we provisioning ourselves 
 against ? . . . Oh, we are the best of friends ! . . . (Some 
 sugar.) I never said anything ! . . . (Some macar- 
 oni.) I am a friend to all the world ! . . . (Some 
 coal.) And if some more sincere citizen talks too freely 
 they very soon find means of keeping Trim quiet. .. . . 
 
 Then, too, what endless discussions ! Such senti- 
 ments ! * We speak three languages, and these nations 
 all round us, on whom we must depend, are fighting. 
 Naturally our sympathies go out to this one and to that 
 one, but we can only exist as a nation by keeping neutral, 
 whatever happens and whatever they do. When the storm 
 is past, later on, we shall talk it over and decide what was 
 
 right and just. By-and-by Just now there is too much 
 
 smoke, too much uproar . . . people are too excited. . . .' 
 
 Poor Potterat, who had always believed, simple soul 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 183 
 
 that he was, that there existed something above and be- 
 yond these three languages, above these natural sympa- 
 thies, something which was national unity, and the 
 instinctive, spontaneous hatred, welling up from every true 
 Swiss soul, for the brutal might that laughs at right ! 
 
 However, it was necessary, apparently, to keep quiet 
 if they did not wish to endanger the unity of the country. 
 Potterat did not understand it at all. He looked for 
 his ideal Switzerland, the Switzerland of the school and 
 college songs, the Switzerland who loves her mountains, 
 her flowers, her rushing torrents, who responds at once 
 to the cry of liberty, for herself and for others. He knew 
 she still lived. . . . But she seemed to be fettered. ... By 
 whom ? . . . By what ? . . . What did she fear ? . . . 
 
 He rose from his weeding, and straightened his aching 
 back, and once more he gazed out over the smiling 
 meadows, over the blue surface of the Lake just seen 
 above the bushes, to that fair province of Savoy, where 
 so many men had already laid down their lives in defence 
 of something more than even the safety of their own pro- 
 vince, or of their own country, ... in defence of an ideal. 
 
 " And we ?" thought Potterat. " Well, here we are 
 every one of us muzzled. . . . ' Leave the country if you 
 don't like things, but we're not strong enough to risk 
 speaking out freely.' ... It was Corbaz who said that to 
 me the other day . . . to me ! . . . I did think in those 
 first days that there was only a bit of dry rot among the 
 branches, but now I begin to think that the roots are 
 rotten too." 
 
 Louise called him for the ten o'clock repast. They all 
 trooped into the cool dark kitchen— Ulrich, the man from 
 Schwytz; Henri, from Bioley; the young Louis, his chin 
 stained red with raspberries; and Potterat himself, per- 
 spiring freely, and glowing with life. They helped them- 
 selves to bread, and poured out their coffee. Ulrich ate 
 and drank with his elbows squared on the table; he 
 
184 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 interrupted himself only to catch a fly that had perched 
 on his hairy arm, squash it, and throw it under the table. 
 Henri remarked with an innocent air, that he only wished 
 he could do as much to some other people, which 
 provoked a surly response from Ulrich. At once a 
 discussion began, which soon threatened to become 
 disagreeable. 
 " Ah ! if only they will leave us alone," said Louise. 
 " My word, you're not hard to please !" jeered Potterat. 
 " But one can't give up altogether the right to say what 
 one thinks." 
 Then as Ulrich sneered: 
 
 " What are you sneering at, you ? . . . You're Swiss, 
 aren't you ? You have sworn to uphold justice ? . . . 
 When a little nation is invaded and pillaged, it is your 
 duty to speak out and protest. ..." 
 " Was WiUiam TeU a Vaudois ?" 
 " I begin to think so. . . ." 
 " Damn it all ! . . ." 
 
 There was a silence. Opening a mouth filled with huge 
 teeth, Henri stuffed an enormous piece of plum cake into 
 it, then, as soon as he could speak, he said: 
 
 " What's the good of worrying yourselves ? . . . What 
 do you want to talk about the war f or ? . . . Can't you 
 eat your food and not bother ? . . ." 
 
 Potterat returned to his work. Some time passed, 
 when suddenly Louise appeared beside him, holding up 
 her hands in despair. 
 
 " Father, he's gone ! . . ." 
 " Who?" 
 
 " Ulrich. . . . He left a note on the kitchen table. He 
 complains that we don't understand him, that we insult 
 William Tell. . . . Well, anyhow, he's gone, bag and 
 baggage." 
 
 " That's a pity. Evidently, some people can't stand 
 a joke. It depends very much on where you were born 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 185 
 
 and brought up. No doubt it's wiser to keep quiet. 
 Well, the question is, who is going to milk the cows 
 now ? . . . That Ulrich had a devil of a temper, but he was 
 a good worker, and capable. . . . Well, I must go and 
 try to get someone for you at the registry office. ..." 
 
 All the able-bodied young men being on the frontier, 
 Potterat could only get an Italian, a mason out of work, 
 who assured him that he had done a great deal of farm 
 labour. This Italian, Donato his name, did not, un- 
 fortunately, hit it off with Henri. He was a little man, 
 with a big head, clear grey eyes, animated gestures and 
 fluent speech, and he did not in any way conform to the 
 accepted standards of work in Bioley. He mowed too 
 closely, and he dug too deep. . . . Henri, nowthe head man, 
 declared that he was rude, disrespectful, overbearing. 
 
 " Do you know how to milk ?" asked Henri. 
 
 " I had two goats in Italy." 
 
 Henri gave a shout of laughter. 
 
 " Come along, then, and see if you can milk cows." 
 
 Donato gazed respectfully at the enormous beasts that 
 the Bioley man, sitting on a stool, was milking one after 
 the other, his forehead leaning against the side of the 
 beast, which was bedaubed with manure. 
 
 " Now you try. . . . Not so hard. . . . Gently, and try 
 to do it in time. . . . Not with your hands ... with your 
 thumbs more. ..." 
 
 All this time Potterat was cleaning out the stable with 
 a creaking barrow. With his trousers turned well up, his 
 shirt-sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, and the per- 
 spiration pouring down his cheeks like rain on the petals 
 of a peony, Potterat strained and bent as he came to 
 the plank reared against the manure heap. Before 
 overturning the barrow, he paused a moment, then with a 
 tightening of the muscles, an effort of the loins and a 
 sudden throwing out of the chest, the thing was done, 
 and Potterat came down the plank again with the gravity 
 
i86 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 of an official, the prudence of a good citizen who has a 
 respect for his clothes, but the practised ease of the 
 born peasant. 
 
 " Don't work so hard, father," called out Louise, from 
 the far end of the courtyard. 
 
 " Oh, never fear ! I'm not played out yet. I like to 
 work when I'm working, eat when I'm eating, sleep when 
 I'm sleeping. . . . What do you think, Donato ? . . ." 
 
 Donato showed all his teeth in a broad grin. 
 
 When he got home Potterat flung himself into an arm- 
 chair. 
 
 " My feet are burning. ... I couldn't pick up anything 
 from the ground if you were to give me twenty francs; 
 my back feels nearly broken, my blood seems to be going 
 the wrong way, my ribs are aching, and my thighs, I can't 
 touch them. ... I expect I'll finish up with an attack of 
 lumbago. . . . Let me have a look at the Feuille d'Avis 
 while I'm smoking my pipe." 
 
 * Liege ! . . . Namur ! . . . Maubeuge ! . . . France 
 invaded !' . . . His pipe went out. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! The whole of Europe seems likely 
 to be drawn into this. I bet you it won't be six 
 months before we hear the goose-step going past here. . . . 
 Better to die of starvation ! . . . Better to fall down 
 dead ! . . . Ah, the news makes me ill. I feel as if I want 
 to go and walk all round the Lake. It's a good thing 
 that I'm helping Louise. ... To work, to tire myself out, 
 that will do me good, and take my mind off all this. . . . 
 Otherwise I'd make myself ill with rage. ... I'll go back 
 there to-morrow." 
 
 Donato had taken part in the Tripoli campaign. He 
 was very ready to talk about his experiences. 
 
 " To have to eat and drink in that sand, under that sun, 
 I tell you it doesn't bear thinking about. ... I used to 
 suck little pebbles, and try to pretend to myself that they 
 were pieces of ice. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 187 
 
 " Were many killed ?" 
 
 " The sun killed more than the guns. ..." 
 
 Henri muttered something. Immediately the Italian 
 threw a black look at him. 
 
 " What's that you say ?" 
 
 "Me? . . . I didn't say anything." 
 
 A little later, they were working together, getting in 
 the hay cut the evening before, as quickly as possible, 
 for a storm was coming up. Standing on the waggon 
 Donato was stacking the hay passed up to him on the 
 point of the fork by Henry. 
 
 " You don't know how to pile hay," said Henri suddenly. 
 
 " Sacramento ! . . ." 
 
 " I say you don't know how to pile hay. ..." 
 
 Donato started. There were more lightnings in his 
 eyes than in the clouds. With the suppleness of a cat 
 he flung himself from the top of the waggon, and landed 
 right in front of his adversary, who brandished his hay- 
 fork to keep him at a safe distance. 
 
 " What was that you said about Italians when we were 
 drinking coffee ? . . ." 
 
 "Me? . . . I said nothing. . . ." 
 
 " Yes, you did. . . . You said ' Macaroni !' " 
 
 " Well, and if I did ? . . . Macaroni's good to eat. 
 . . . There's no harm in that. ..." 
 
 " Sacramento ! . . ." 
 
 Donato was about to spring on him when Potterat 
 intervened. 
 
 " You're quite right, Donato. You must make your- 
 self respected . . . but also you must learn to take a joke. 
 . . . You people of the South are far too ready to fight. 
 And this is not the time for that sort of thing either. Go 
 on now ! Both of you shake hands ! . . ." 
 
 " Never ! . . ." cried Donato, and took himself off in 
 high dudgeon. An hour later, his bundle under his arm, 
 he quitted the farm. 
 
188 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " You ought to remember, Henri, that the Italians are 
 very touchy. As you go on in life you'll learn that you 
 must talk to different people in different ways." 
 
 The work was now redoubled for everyone. They had, 
 it is true, the kindly help of a boy scout, very clean and 
 neat, and very good-natured, who hovered about the 
 vegetables unweariedly. 
 
 But in spite of all their efforts, the fruit rotted on the 
 trees, the spinach ran to seed, salads turned yellow and 
 faded for want of water. And, to crown all, the farm 
 mare one evening, as they were harnessing her into 
 the cart, lay down between the shafts, as if dead. In 
 spite of objurgations, a touch of the whip, coaxing, and 
 caressing, there she lay on her side, her head stretched out, 
 her lips drawn back over her teeth. The veterinary surgeon 
 declared it to be an apoplectic stroke, bled the mare, and 
 ordered ten days' rest in the stable. Potterat and his 
 auxiliaries were overworked, stupid from over-fatigue. 
 The sunshine danced on their bent backs, their tanned 
 necks, and on the tops of the hills. Potterat was trying to 
 forget the nightmare of the war in hard work, but some 
 internal ear, as it were, seemed perpetually open to the 
 noises and rumours of the eternal righting. He suffered 
 vicariously for all those trellised vines, those homes once 
 so happy, those ears of corn, those branches laden with 
 fruit, torn by shell fire from their trunks in the orchards 
 of France and Belgium. . . . And for those dark little 
 heaps on the bare ground, which once were men. 
 
 " Which side are you for ? . . ." asked Potterat suddenly 
 of the little boy scout, who was immensely enjoying 
 playing at being a peasant for a time. 
 
 The schoolboy, a slim stripling in khaki, replied 
 promptly, and his answer was satisfactory to Potterat. 
 But he added: 
 
 " But one must give them their due. In chemistry, 
 they are simply wonderful. Last year, when my father 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 189 
 
 was travelling there, he saw a kitchen run entirely by 
 electricity. They even cut up the meat by electricity. ... ." 
 
 " Did they digest it, too, by electricity ?" interrupted 
 Potterat. " I don't think I should altogether fancy that 
 electric sort of life. It would make one hard, I think. 
 . . . They seem now to be trying to wipe out everybody 
 with their electrical contrivances. . . . No, give me some- 
 thing natural. All this science and chemistry is devilish 
 work. To know everything, is to spoil everything. ..." 
 
 " But it's a good thing to study life. ..." 
 
 " To study life ! . . . Why ? What will you find in it ? 
 . . . Life wavers, as you might say, between a note of 
 exclamation and another of interrogation. The wisest 
 people are content not to try to know too much. You 
 can't cure a toothache by watching an aeroplane dance 
 about in the air. No, Mother Nature's good enough for 
 me. I'll stick to her." 
 
 Potterat returned home after these days of hard work 
 under the hot sun exhausted to such an extent that one 
 evening his wife said to him : 
 
 " You're doing too much altogether, David. . . . You're 
 out of breath now when you come up the stairs. . . . And 
 besides, your clothes smell of the stable continually now. 
 I saw Madame Sauer make a face the other day when 
 she came in. . . ." 
 
 " I don't care ! . . . Tell her that the smell of cows is 
 good for anaemia. ... I couldn't possibly leave Louise in 
 the lurch these two last months . . . the worst of the whole 
 year. She is worn to a shadow as it is ... a regular August 
 cat ! . . . But now that the news of this victory on the 
 Marne is confirmed, and we can breathe more freely, 
 there won't be so much need for me to kill myself with 
 work in order to keep from thinking. . . . To-morrow, 
 I'll go round the registry office again, and as soon as I 
 can find someone suitable, I'll take a holiday." 
 
 A temporary registry office had been established, to 
 
i 9 o POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 meet the circumstances of the moment, in a former public 
 office in the heart of the city. Still proudly displaying 
 the official shield on its pediment, and the word • Office ' 
 below, it reminded Potterat pleasurably of the comfort- 
 ably regular and well defined life of the public service; 
 the slow and sure movements, the order, the traditions 
 that he loved. He even rejoiced in the familiar bored 
 yawn of the concierge, as he pointed the way down a 
 maze of corridors with extended hand. 
 
 This office was being run by voluntary workers, edu- 
 cated and orthodox people, patriotic students, etc., who 
 saw in this work an opportunity of helping in this hour 
 of national stress. From dawn to dark there passed 
 before them a procession of Italian masons, seized ap- 
 parently with a sudden love for farm work; of boy scouts, 
 anxious to go and take care of cows ; watchmakers ready 
 to exchange the file for the fork. Behind the counter 
 sat a benignant-looking individual in a white waistcoat, 
 kindly and sympathetic. 
 
 "You know we are passing through a serious crisis. 
 Our people are only too anxious to be useful, but they 
 scarcely know how or where to begin, and they may have 
 to be shown a little. ..." 
 
 " Will he be afraid of the bull ? . . ." asked a peasant, 
 but the genial personage could give no answer to this. 
 He folded his thin hands on his white waistcoat and was 
 silent. 
 
 When Potterat' s turn came, he moved up to the little 
 opening. 
 
 " Good-morning, sir ! . . . I come on my daughter's 
 behalf. . . . She has a farm at Vidy. . . . Her husband is 
 mobilized, and one of her farm hands has run away 
 because of a silly joke. . . . Well, I want a good strong 
 fellow, not too young, not perfection, for that I know is 
 not to be had, but trustworthy and honest. A native of 
 these parts, naturally, if possible. They may be some- 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 191 
 
 what less lively, but they have cooler heads than people 
 from farther away." 
 
 The chosen one was a man, blind in one eye, fifty-two 
 years old, who hailed from the Pays-d'Enhaut. He knew 
 how to wield a pitchfork, anyhow, and spit in his 
 hands in the usual way, and work not too feverishly, 
 and chaff and joke. 
 
 " I'll leave you now," said Potterat to his daughter. 
 " This one-eyed fellow can see better than many another 
 man who's got both his eyes. ... I must give your step- 
 mother a turn now. She doesn't like my being away 
 so much. ..." 
 
 Louise's eyes shone with gratitude. 
 
 "I'm very thankful to you . . . and so is Justin ... he 
 says so in every letter. ... I wish you understood him 
 better. . . . He's a bit close and over-cautious, but at heart 
 he's sound enough. ..." 
 
 " That's all right ! . . . Everyone has his own nature. 
 ... He can't change himself. . . . I'll remember this in 
 future. ..." 
 
 " That's right ! . . . Now do you know what I want 
 you to do ? Carlo will give you a hand. I want you 
 to take the little cart and a basket and fill them from the 
 big apple-tree at the bottom of the garden. You must 
 have something for your trouble. ..." 
 
 " Thank you, I will. And we'll think of you when we 
 are eating apple fritters. Now then, Carlo ! . . . not to 
 mention that this Marne victory has put me in quite good 
 spirits again. ..." 
 
 The red-cheeked apples fell with a dull thud into the 
 outstretched sheet. The bees hummed loudly round the 
 asters in the sweet perfumed air. And presently the 
 father and son went off, drawing the little cart. Near 
 the reeds and the willows where Major Davel had died, 
 Potterat stopped, and drew his son towards the monu- 
 ment. 
 
ig2 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Look here, Carlo ! History in class is rather dull, 
 you know, but out in the open air, it's more interesting. 
 Just here where we are standing a very brave man, a 
 native of these parts, a vine-grower, was killed, simply 
 because he tried to deliver the Canton of Vaud from 
 slavery. As a matter of fact they cut off his head, and 
 good Vaudois looked on calmly. It is a good thing to 
 learn while young to honour great men, but this man 
 was a martyr as well. He ought to be honoured even more 
 than any of the others. Well, one is better than nothing ! 
 . . . Compared with Davel, what poor creatures we are ! 
 He died for an ideal ... a noble death: . . . His disease 
 doesn't seem to be very catching, does it ? . . ." 
 
 The reeds rustled against the stone, and murmured their 
 eulogy; the evening breeze swept over it the gold and 
 silver and russet of the first autumn leaves. 
 
 n All honour to you !" said Potterat again. 
 
 Some crows, a sinister band, with outstretched necks 
 and great outspread wings, flew across in the direction 
 of the Jura; Potterat jeered at them. 
 
 " You're too late, you devil's grave-diggers ! . . . At 
 the rate at which J off re is marching. ..." 
 
 " Who's Joffre ?" asked the boy. 
 
 " He is the grandson of Joan of Arc, and the nephew 
 
 of Davel Come along ! Let's get on with our apples !" 
 
 and drawing the little cart, father and son took their way 
 again along the white road. 
 
 Potterat was in his garden with the little cripple when 
 he suddenly said: 
 
 " Robert, shout: ' Long live Joffre ! ' " 
 
 Astonished, the child looked up at him. 
 
 "Don't you know about Joffre ?" 
 
 Possibly the little one may have heard the name, but 
 it had escaped his memory; he remembered only the 
 colour of the flowers, the pattern of a wallpaper, anything 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 193 
 
 that could bring a gleam of brightness into his stunted 
 soul. 
 
 " Well, listen, and I'll tell you about Joffre. ... He 
 is a rather fat man, like me, but ever so much cleverer. 
 . . . Such a fine head he's got ! . . . And a big moustache, 
 and a kind smile ! . . . Everyone runs after him. . . . 
 And now, this is what he does. . . . Can you understand ? 
 . . . He retreats, he crosses rivers, and streams, and 
 canals: and still he retires. And then suddenly, a half- 
 turn to the right. . . . Forward ! . . . Quick march ! . . . 
 and then Crash ! there's such a burst of fireworks that the 
 other leaps back for about fifty miles ! . . . And Paris is 
 saved ! France is saved ! The world is saved ! . . . Do 
 you understand ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the little invalid, terrified. 
 
 " And I could tell you many other things . . . only we 
 are neutral. ..." 
 
 The thing that most impressed Potterat in this war 
 — for with all his common sense he had the vivid senti- 
 mentality of the man of the people, a creature of instinct 
 and concrete imagination — was the conflict between 
 different nationalities, different attitudes of mind, different 
 outlooks on life, between the will for oppression and the 
 will for liberty. For he simplified everything to the utter- 
 most. 
 
 " ' Round heads against square heads,' it is quite simple. 
 We, thank God, have round heads, so we know in whom 
 we ought to believe, and with whom to have sympathy. 
 Children can always find their mothers. . . . Since that 
 affair of Belgium, it's the duty of every true patriot to 
 speak out." 
 
 Potterat 's imagination was so vivid that for the time 
 being he remembered no longer his age, his name, his 
 nationality. Little by little, however, for no man can 
 live at such high pressure for long, the waves of glory 
 ebbed from that over-heated brain, he came back to his 
 
 13 
 
194 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 surroundings. He saw once more the closed-in court- 
 yard, the five stories, the balconies with their cemented 
 roofs, the puffy face of the nursemaid at the Sauers', 
 Robert's frail little limbs, and lastly, himself, with his in- 
 creasing corpulence. He said presently to his wife : 
 
 " It doesn't seem right, somehow, to have regular meals, 
 to fatten oneself systematically. Since the war began, 
 I can't bear it. . . . I feel as if my blood were on fire, my 
 thoughts run on nothing else. ... I go with the armies 
 in imagination. ... I charge with them ! . . . It mad- 
 dens me, to have to sit here, doing nothing. . . . You see, 
 I am naturally an active man, a born fighter . . . and then, 
 too, I can't get this Belgium out of my head. ..." 
 
 One day Potterat came in with a mysterious parcel 
 under his arm. 
 
 " What have you got there ?" asked his wife. 
 
 " You'll soon see ... or rather hear," said he. And 
 from that time might be heard every evening after supper 
 the strains of a gramophone coming from the dining-room, 
 where Potterat shut himself up with it. Over and over 
 again he played the selection of airs he had chosen: 
 * Roulez Tambours ' ; the ' Cantique Suisse ' ; the ' Ranz 
 des Vaches ' ; the ' Marche Lorraine ' ; ' Sambre et Meuse ' ; 
 the ' Petit Alsacien '; and Deroulede's ' Clairon/ A sort 
 of intoxication possessed him; as the trumpets brayed out 
 the warlike strains, he marched round and round the table, 
 his walking-stick on his shoulder by way of a rifle. " War 
 in a room isn't quite the same thing as war in the open 
 air, certainly, but it's something. ... If I only close my 
 eyes for a minute, I can see the flags flying. ... I can 
 hear the thunder of the guns, the bullets whistling through 
 the air. ..." Potterat 's martial enthusiasm quite carried 
 him away at these times. He lived in turn through 
 terror, horror, and the intoxication of actual battle. . . . 
 He charged an armchair with his walking-stick bayonet. 
 , . . Ah-h ! . . . Then he saw himself wounded, a limb 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 195 
 
 amputated, decorated, . . . and then, multiplying himself, 
 he was by turns the crowd which applauded, the General 
 who decorated him, and the wounded hero. ... It was 
 Nasillard, the well-known baritone, who sang in the 
 gramophone the adventures of the   Petit Alsacien ' ; a 
 volunteer, engaged in fighting for his beloved province, 
 its storks, its blue skies, its birch woods, its churches. . . . 
 Suddenly a cry . . . and the Petit Alsacien falls to the 
 ground, mortally wounded. . . . Potterat, his chin sunk 
 on his breast as he listened, shed real tears of sympathy. 
 He gesticulated. And in the quiet of the well-protected 
 room, he spoke : 
 
 " Me be silent ! . . . Never ! Never ! . . . Let them 
 come and surround me with fifty policemen, and a thousand 
 soldiers, I should still shout : ' Bravo, Belgium ! . . . 
 Bravo, Luxemburg ! . . . Justice and freedom for ever ! 
 . . . France for ever ! . . . Serbia for ever ! . . . Monte- 
 negro for ever ! . . . England for ever ! . . . All those who 
 have fought and died for Belgium, for the independence 
 of little nations! 
 
 Then he changed the record, and listened gravely to the 
 " Cantique Suisse," echoing in his heart the line ' God will 
 bless us from the heavens.' " The true, good God, 
 naturally," he said to himself. " As for the other ... as 
 for the other. . . . Well, there is no other. ..." 
 
 Madame Potterat was not so enthusiastic. " I can't 
 think how you can enjoy those old tunes so much," she 
 grumbled. 
 
 " Oh, it cheers me up, raises my spirits. ..." 
 
 " Sometimes I wonder if you're Swiss at all now. ..." 
 
 Potterat fell back a step at this libel. 
 
 " What ? . . . What's that you say ? . . . Who are you 
 talking to ? . . . I'm a pure-bred Vaudois, Swiss through 
 and through. Listening to the songs of those who fight 
 in a noble caufp doesn't mean that a man is a traitor 
 to his own country. Now I'll put it to you: Suppose 
 
196 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 it had been ourselves who had been invaded and destroyed 
 instead of these other people, and that you heard from 
 somebody that, away over there in Belgium, someone 
 listened to our patriotic songs on the gramophone, out of 
 sympathy, you wouldn't say he was a traitor to Belgium, 
 would you ? . . . It's just because I love my country so 
 much that the account of that invasion has upset me so. 
 It's those who take it all calmly who are false to the 
 traditions of their forefathers. . . . And then you, at any 
 rate, can do something to help, . . . you are knitting for 
 the soldiers, for the wounded. . . . But I'm like a great 
 bumble-bee, droning about. . . . This gramophone makes 
 me feel for the moment as if I were in the middle of it 
 all. . . . How's the knitting going on ? . . ." 
 
 " I've done two pairs of socks for Ernest, two pairs for 
 Schmid, one pair for Cousin Auguste, four pairs for the 
 Red Cross, and six shirts; and this evening I start on 
 some things for the men in the trenches. ..." 
 
 " Make some more of those affairs that keep the stomach 
 warm. There are three places where a man feels the cold 
 most — his stomach, his feet, and between his shoulders. 
 . . . Knit away, you women, as hard as you can. . . . 
 You may hold thousands of lives at the ends of your 
 needles. . . . Now, here in Switzerland, women are of 
 more account than men, thanks to this knitting. . . . We 
 men can only look on." 
 
 Every evening, while her knitting-needles flashed back 
 the light, singing the gay song of workers with a clear con- 
 science, Potterat read aloud the news of the day to his wife. 
 
 " Bravo ! Give me the scissors !" he would exclaim 
 on reading of some touching or some heroic incident. 
 And he wouid cut out these, and add them to other 
 cuttings already stored in a big yellow envelope, labelled 
 ' Records of Brave Men.' 
 
 "Just listen to this! Doesn't it bring the tears to 
 your eyes ? . . . It's the last letter of a soldier at the 
 
POTTER AT AND THE WAR 197 
 
 front : ' Tell my comrades not to weep for me. I die 
 happy, because I've done what I could. . . . Tell the 
 boys to stick to it, and to have patience. When a cause 
 is just it always wins. The great thing is to carry on. 
 ... I salute the flag. ... I'm going to sleep. . . . Good-bye ! 
 . . .' It's almost too fine to be quite true, I'm afraid. But 
 it's beautiful all the same. ..." He continued his reading : 
 11 The condition of things in Switzerland. . . . Sugar is 
 rising in price rapidly. Our housewives had a disagreeable 
 surprise this morning in learning that this commodity, 
 so necessary to our daily needs, had gone up another ten 
 centimes the kilo. . . .' How annoying ! . . . Let's see what 
 else it says. . . . Oh, good ! Splendid ! That's something 
 like ! . . . Oh, I will certainly take some, a whole band 
 of them ! . . . We'll put beds in Carlo's room, in the 
 drawing-room, everywhere ! . . . Since one can't fight in 
 reality, one can at least engage in the field of charity. ..." 
 
 "What is it? . . . What's the matter ?" 
 
 ' The matter is that they're bringing some of these 
 Belgians, who have been turned out of their homes, into 
 Switzerland. ... A committee has been appointed, and 
 asks for the names of those who are willing to put some 
 of them up. . . . We'll take some, shan't we ? . . . You'd 
 like to, wouldn't you ? . . ." 
 
 Madame Potterat let her knitting fall on her lap; the 
 tears shone in her kind blue eyes. 
 
 V Poor things ! . . . Of course, I'd like to take some of 
 them in." 
 
 "Oh, how jolly !" cried Carlo excitedly. 
 
 " Jolly ? . . . What do you mean by jolly ? . . . When 
 you see these poor old men and women, in rags, tired out, 
 perhaps irritable and cross — as you'd be if you had lost 
 everything you had possessed — these poor children, 
 flying before their enemies, you won't feel like shouting 
   How jolly !' This is not a picnic, you know, it's a sad 
 duty. . . . Everyone has his work cut out. Some have 
 
198 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 to die, some have to have their legs cut off, we have to 
 play the Good Samaritan. . . . Those who reckoned on 
 our showing some spirit were disappointed. ... Well, 
 we may win back some of their respect by our charity; 
 we will nurse and care for the old men and women, and 
 the poor little babies without father or mother, and the 
 terrified children. ... All is not yet lost. . . . Now, shall 
 we offer to take four ? or do you think we could manage 
 six ? . . ." 
 
 " My dear ! . . . Where do you think we are going to 
 put them ? . . . No, we can only take two, anyhow, to 
 begin with." 
 
 " And children, of course ? . . . Orphans, if possible " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 ** All right ! . . . Oh, this will set me up again I . . . 
 Those poor little children ! We'll teach them to like 
 Swiss jam. . . . We'll right ourselves in the eyes of Europe. 
 Others kill, but we save life. . . . Well, I must see some 
 of these Belgians here. ... I shall tell them, too, what I 
 think about things altogether. ..." 
 
 Presently, when Carlo had gone to bed, and Madame 
 Potterat's knitting-needles were once more clicking under 
 the lamp, Potterat, his chin almost on the table, his 
 tongue between his teeth, wrote laboriously as follows: 
 
 ' To the President of the Belgian Reception 
 Committee. 
 
   The undersigned and his wife, of 5, Avenue des 
 Roses, the father and mother of a boy of nine, having 
 room and a liking for children, and a strong desire to show 
 their sympathy with the suffering Belgians, apply for 
 two refugees, if possible children, and preferably orphans. 
 They will be lodged, fed, and surrounded with the loving 
 care of a family which will do its best to supply the place 
 of those they have lost. An early and favourable reply 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 199 
 
 will oblige. Please state where, when, and how, we are to 
 take delivery of these orphans. Switzerland for ever ! 
 Belgium for ever ! From one who has a round head, and 
 his heart in the right place, and who begs to remain, 
 ' Respectfully yours, 
 
 ' David Potterat 
 (' Late of the Police, now retired.) 
 
 ' P.S. — If there should be three of a family, or even four 
 brothers and sisters, we should try and manage to put 
 them up. 
 
 * 1 remain, 
 
 * As before.' 
 
 Having finished and addressed his letter, Potterat said 
 simply : 
 
 " Let's go to bed. For once, I shall get a good night's 
 sleep. ..." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 " This evening, at ten minutes to eight." 
 
 " Are you sure ? . . . You've already gone up three 
 times for nothing. ..." 
 
 " Ten minutes to eight ..." repeated Potterat. " I 
 had it from one of the chief officials." 
 
 The moon-like electric light globes of the square out- 
 side the railway- station shone down on a closely packed 
 crowd. Here and there someone stood on tiptoe; others 
 tried to peep between the ever-moving figures in front of 
 them; no one spoke much, for fear of dispensing any of 
 their pent-up sympathy too soon. Everyone waited. 
 Some trains came in, and presently went out again with 
 the louder rumbling of empty carriages. And still nothing 
 happened. A railway official passing, who recognized 
 Potterat, whispered to him : 
 
 " It's no use standing about here any longer. They've 
 sent them out by the little south staircase. ..." 
 
 " By the south stairs? ... By those dark passages where 
 you can't see your hand before you ? . . . that cut-throat 
 place ! . . ." and Potterat rushed off at once, followed by 
 his wife and son, saying as he went, " They've gone out 
 by the other side." The whole crowd ran too, portly 
 gentlemen with their sticks under their arms, workmen 
 in tweed caps, old men, bareheaded women, schoolboys, 
 and schoolgirls with long plaits; a miscellaneous crowd, 
 kicking up a dust that made a halo round the lamp 
 globes. Through that December night a sad procession 
 wound its way slowly towards the new school-house 
 with its brilliantly lighted windows. At the spot where 
 
 200 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 201 
 
 Potterat was standing, between a piece of waste ground, 
 and the tree-shaded promenade, it was too dark to see 
 anything clearly. But soon one's eyes grew accustomed 
 to it, and then one could begin to distinguish, between 
 the helmets of the policemen, three flags mingling their 
 folds — the French, Belgian, and Swiss flags — and behind 
 these, some old men and women, their mouths a little awry 
 from carrying packages too heavy for their strength, but 
 which, nevertheless, they would not give up to anyone, be- 
 cause these were all they had left in the world. And many, 
 many women with little children hanging to their skirts. 
 . . . This procession seemed as if it would never come to 
 an end. . . . On and on they went, these poor people who 
 had seen those red stains made by blood which has sunk 
 into the dust; the stiff forms of the dead, their glassy 
 eyes staring into the distance; the red curtain of smoke 
 from villages in flames, these people who had fled across 
 their fields, running madly, leaping over the hedges. 
 ..." There they are !" . . . They turn round and 
 run still more madly in another direction. . . . The more 
 feeble fall exhausted at the foot of a hill . . . and always in 
 their ears is the sound of the big guns, and sometimes that 
 sound as of tearing calico, the monotonous tack-tack-tack 
 of the mitrailleuses. . . . And now they seem to have come 
 to an end of feeling, they know nothing of what is going on 
 round them, they think of nothing, their mouths are 
 half open, their eyes are fixed, their muscles stand out 
 under their grey skin, and they march on, and on, and on, 
 pell-mell, like a flock of sheep, with their wheelbarrows, 
 their perambulators, and their little hand-carts . . . pell- 
 mell with their cows, and sheep, and goats ; and when the 
 animals give out, they throw them into the ditches, and 
 go on, and on, and on, too tired even to weep. ... On 
 and on, first to this little village, then to that, a little 
 farther on, then to some little town, driven farther and 
 farther each day, by the guns which come ever nearer. . . . 
 
202 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Why run away, when everything is lost ? . . . Their 
 homes a heap of smoking cinders ; their harvests trampled 
 down, ruined, pillaged; the grandmother, too old to run, 
 left in that hell, saying: "I'd rather die here!" . . . 
 husbands and sons prisoners, or shot perhaps. ..." Here 
 they are !" And then they are crowded into a train in 
 the drizzling rain; the windows are dim; they start on 
 what seems an endless journey ; now and then when 
 someone tries to look out of a window after rubbing it with 
 the hand, all they can see across the veil of rain hanging 
 from sky to earth, are leafless trees, a red clock-tower 
 occasionally, a road zigzagging across the track, and on 
 it a dark ribbon, with glittering points in it here and 
 there : and these were men who were going to fight ; then 
 night falls; and always they go on and on. Now when 
 one looks out there is nothing but blackness, a menacing 
 blackness, just now and then a glimpse of a lighted 
 window. So there are still peaceful firesides in the world ? 
 . . . And still they go on, and on, through the night . . . 
 they stop . . . they go on again; always they hold fast their 
 bundles under their feet. Suddenly, someone tells them 
 that they are in another country, a fact to which they are 
 indifferent, since they have no longer a country of their own. 
 All these people, who have seen those rusty stains made 
 by blood in the dust, who have been rushed here and there, 
 who have glued their faces to the dim windows of railway 
 carriages, and seen lights flashing for a moment through 
 the night, are now walking whither they know not — if they 
 did know, it would make no difference to them — and people 
 look at them, and there are gentle kindly policemen all 
 round them, carrying their bundles for them, and they feel 
 sure that the bundles will be given back to them, since 
 the kindly helpers' eyes are wet with tears. 
 
 From the crowd a cry goes up, and if it sounds a little 
 stifled, it is because it comes from the depths of the 
 heart: ' Vive la Belgique !' 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 203 
 
 " Let's get out of this," said Potterat. " I can't bear 
 to see this procession. I feel as if I had a tight cord 
 round my chest, a hand on my throat ! . . . To think that 
 we — we — might have been sent flying like that through 
 Europe, trudging on a December evening between rows 
 of unknown faces, with a valise and our memories ! 
 . . . My God ! It makes me furious ! . . ." 
 
 " Well, it's a good thing that everyone is so ready to 
 welcome them. What a crowd ! . . . And if they don't 
 seem very demonstrative, perhaps it is because they are 
 too deeply moved." 
 
 " For my part, I should like to have ranged up all the 
 schoolboys along the pavements, and to have made them 
 take off their hats to these poor people. . . . And the 
 next day, the masters should have taught them how to 
 think of it. . . . And there should have been a band, one 
 in every corner, playing Belgian airs, airs that would have 
 reminded them of their old home. . . . Can't you imagine 
 what we should feel if we entered Brussels in our flight 
 to the sound of 'II est, amis, une terre sacr£e ' ? . . . 
 How the tears would rush to our eyes ! . . . It is by little 
 touches like these that one shows sympathy best. That 
 which comes from the heart, goes to the heart. When the 
 heart is dead, a people is very near to the rigidity of the 
 
 grave W r e are full of sentiment, only we're ashamed to 
 
 show it ! . . . W 7 ell, I hope they'll realize it all the same ! . . . " 
 
 " Then, too, somebody might have made a speech " 
 
 "Oh, I don't know ! I don't care for the set 
 speech of some orator who speaks well, and rounds 
 off his phrases. What counts is the personal touch, the 
 warm handshake, the sympathetic glance, the spon- 
 taneous words of him who has nothing to gain, who is 
 not obliged to roll and turn his words in his mouth fifty 
 times, and put off the sequel till next year. As soon 
 as official diplomacy comes in, the whole thing goes down 
 ten degrees. And while they're bowing and scraping in- 
 
204 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 side, the popular welcome is freezing outside. . . . There 
 is a great difference. ..." 
 
 " Then you think that there should have been more 
 of a demonstration ? ..." 
 
 " Not at all. As it was, I couldn't stay until the end. No, 
 I was speaking generally. It's this idea of leading them 
 through all the little back streets that I don't like. . . ." 
 
 " Perhaps they were afraid of tiring them." 
 
 " The warm-hearted sympathy of the people couldn't 
 tire anyone. But the back ways are ' more neutral,' I 
 suppose." 
 
 As soon as they reached home again, Potterat began: 
 
 " Now, I've been thinking over this question of room 
 again. . . . Two beds only. ... I keep thinking about 
 that drawing-room of yours. What do we want with a 
 drawing-room in war-time ? . . . Roll up your carpet ! . . ." 
 
 " Oh yes, do roll up the carpet, mother," chimed in 
 Carlo. 
 
 Abruptly, realizing her duty as a privileged Swiss 
 woman, Madame Potterat yielded. 
 
 -■ Certainly, I'll give up my drawing-room. . . . We 
 ought to be thankful that we have one to give ! . . ." 
 
 So the drawing-room was transformed into a dormitory. 
 To give it a touch of patriotism, Potterat brought from 
 the town the oath of the Swiss Federation, a picture of 
 the Battle of Morat, which he hung above the beds, and 
 a brush bag, embroidered with gentian, edelweiss; and 
 rhododendrons. Then he began to grow impatient. 
 
 ' When will they come, these children, I wonder ? . . . 
 Whatever happens, we must have children. One gets fond 
 of them, and they have no fads and fancies. ..." 
 
 " I should like some little girls best, some pretty little 
 girls. ..." 
 
 Silently, they stood with their arms folded, surveying 
 the little white beds, half hidden in the soft shadow of 
 their curtains. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 205 
 
 " It all looks very nice. . . . We have done everything 
 we could to make it so, anyhow. . . ." 
 
 The disappointment of the couple was immense when 
 they received a very thin old man, and a little woman 
 with a tanned face from which her blue eyes shone out 
 with the quick frightened glances of a hunted animal. 
 They concealed their discomfiture, however, as well as 
 they could. 
 
 u Come in, come in, all the same ! . . ." said Potterat. 
 ' You must try to feel at home with us. What we have 
 we offer you with all our hearts. W T elcome ! ..." 
 
 Silently, Madame Potterat, and then Carlo, shook hands 
 with the new arrivals, who stood timidly in front of their 
 little valise, which they had set down on the tiles of the 
 hall. Madame Potterat murmured something of which 
 they only caught the word " pleasure." 
 
 "Madame, do not speak of pleasure. There is no 
 more pleasure. . . ." 
 
 And shaking her head, and raising her short stumpy 
 hands, made still more squat by her mittens, the 
 little woman allowed herself to be led away by Madame 
 Potterat. As she murmured something about rest, 
 supper, a comfortable bed, the woman stopped, and once 
 more raised her hands. 
 
 " Oh, if you only knew ! . . ." 
 
 As for the old man, he smelt of smoke and said 
 nothing. Presently they were all in the kitchen, Carlo, 
 red in the face with his efforts, worked the coffee- 
 mill with tremendous energy; his mother beat up eggs; 
 Potterat drew the cork of a bottle of wine. Suddenly, 
 with a smile, he confided in his guests. 
 
 ' To tell the truth, we expected some orphans. . . . And 
 perhaps we've got some, after all. . . . Anyhow, at your 
 age, you need a little affection. I can well imagine 
 myself in your place. When one has been born, married, 
 and had children, and has buried one's parents, all in the 
 
206 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 same place, one has grown into it firmly, especially men 
 . . . they have their clubs, their politics, their inn, their 
 occupation, their colleagues. . . . And then to be up- 
 rooted, swept away from all one's bearings, driven here 
 and there through half Europe, to have to live among 
 strangers. . . . Oh, it's a terrible thing ! . . ." 
 
 As the old man still remained speechless, Potterat 
 remarked later, when they discussed their guests : 
 
 " He doesn't talk much. . . . But it's very natural, 
 after such a shock. . . . We'll have to watch him, and see 
 that he doesn't try to hang himself from the curtain 
 poles. . . ." # 
 
 Under these words, Potterat hid his emotion. He 
 was very deeply moved, and he winked his eyes hard to 
 keep the tears back. 
 
 " Just think ! . . . To have to settle down amongst 
 strangers at his age ! . . . Imagine us in such a position ! 
 . . . We must pet them up, and be as nice to them as ever 
 we can ! . . ." 
 
 Jeanne Cremet, the little old woman, had been born 
 and brought up, and had lived throughout her married 
 life, in a little town near Ostend. She had had eight 
 children, four of whom had died when very young. The 
 husband was a fisherman, a very precarious trade ... for 
 once that one makes anything by it, one comes back 
 twice empty-handed. 
 
 Drawing from her apron pocket a crumpled picture- 
 postcard, Jeanne Cremet said: 
 
 ' That is the street we lived in. And that window 
 there is our house. And that is the Hotel Vin Clairet, 
 where I often used to go and cook wedding breakfasts. 
 This picture- postcard is all Lhave now of our old home. 
 . . . Everything ! . . . You see, we had to fly at two o'clock 
 in the morning. They were simply pouring in ! . . . The 
 noise and uproar, the dreadful screams ! . . . and the poor 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 207 
 
 people running, running, running away by every road out 
 of the town . . . grandfathers with yelling children, men 
 dragging carts, others carrying sick people. ... I was 
 leading a little grandchild, and my husband two others. 
 . . . How we ran ! . . . We had actually to fight our way 
 on to one of the boats. Everybody wanted to get away 
 at once, no one would stay behind. . . . They had heard 
 enough about the things that had happened to make 
 one's hair stand on end ! . . . And when at last we did 
 get away, there were sixty of us in a boat made to hold 
 twenty. . . . 
 
 " And your three little grandchildren, what became of 
 them?" 
 
 ' There is one at Calais, and two were taken to England. 
 ... As for my two sons, and my two daughters, we haven't 
 the least idea where they are. ..." 
 
 " And how did you manage on that boat ?" 
 
 " The water came up level with the decks. On the 
 way we passed ten English men-of-war, and each time 
 we thought we should have gone under, because of the 
 wash. We kept saying to each other : ' Oh, if only we 
 could feel dry land once more under our feet! We 
 shouldn't leave it again, for fire, or plague, or Germans ! 
 . . . Any death is better than drowning. . . .' We were 
 eighteen hours before we got into Calais. And many 
 people were sick on board, so sick that they just lay on 
 the ground anywhere, across the gangways, and people 
 walked over them. They didn't care. . . . They were 
 more dead than alive. ..." 
 
 For some moments Louis Cremet had been staring, 
 without seeing them, at the portraits of Potterat's two 
 wives. They seemed to be smiling at him, these two, 
 and also the photographs of the policemen, in their tunics 
 with glittering buttons. 
 
 " For my part," he said at last, " I should have been 
 glad if that boat had gone down. For all we are likely 
 
208 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 to get back. ... It was our own . . . the house, you 
 know. ..." 
 
 " Oh, be quiet ! . . . We'll begin to work again . . . 
 we'll rebuild it. . . ." 
 
 In vain did Madame Potterat, too, try to picture their 
 return to their country, once more their own, taking up 
 their old life again. Cremet did not even hear her: his 
 light eyes seemed to be gazing within, seeing only the 
 ruin of his life, the end of everything. 
 
 Carlo, dreadfully disappointed, said to his school- 
 fellows : 
 
 ' We have some old people. At first, it was rather 
 amusing, but they keep telling us the same things over 
 and over again. ..." 
 
 They often looked at each other without saying a word. 
 On each side they were fully determined to do everything 
 that was right. But good will alone is not always enough. 
 W r hen Madame Potterat spread out on the table a length 
 of new linen, saying: " With twenty yards or so of that, 
 you could make yourself a little outfit," Jeanne Cremet' s 
 face wrinkled up with emotion. 
 
 M To think that I had almost the whole of my wedding 
 trousseau still ! . . ." Her hands wandered sadly over 
 the linen. She saw again in imagination the smoking 
 ruins of her home. And suddenly, unable to bear the 
 silence of this house where she knew no one, she heard 
 in a rush of memories the noise of the sabots clattering 
 along the little street, the neighbours calling to one 
 another from their doors or windows; she remembered 
 the general esteem which she enjoyed, because of her 
 skill in cooking; she saw once more the fishing nets 
 hanging up to dry in the shed; a triangle of sea green 
 between the gables, and the sound of the well remembered 
 patois; all the familiar sounds, all the familiar faces, the 
 pavements where she had walked a thousand times, the 
 cream put to rise on the stand, the sugared cakes just 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 209 
 
 out of the oven, her grandchildren coming home from 
 school, rushing upstairs four steps at a time. ... All 
 these dear memories rose up and clutched at her heart. 
 . . . She felt she wanted to be alone so that she might 
 cry like a child. 
 
 Cremet, fortunately, was a great smoker, so Potterat 
 set aside for him one row of his pipe-rack, containing two 
 cherry-wood pipes, and got him some Dutch tobacco. 
 He took him down to the border of the Lake, and pointed 
 out its beauties. He introduced him, too, to Perrin, the 
 old fisherman. And they went together to take up the 
 nets. At last one evening, as they lay just off St. Sulpice, 
 taking his pipe out of his mouth, Cremet spoke. He 
 described the fish he used to catch, his traps for them, 
 the storms they used to have, etc. Playing up to him, 
 Perrin retorted: 
 
 " Wait until you see what we can do in the way of 
 storms ! Water is the same everywhere : it is always at 
 the mercy of the winds. Fresh or salt, it knows how to 
 get back on you. . . . And those big fish that you catch 
 up there ? . . . They would be a bit coarse, and hard, 
 I'm thinking ? . . ." 
 
 " Hard ! . . . As tender as butter ! . . . they melt in 
 your mouth almost ! . . ." 
 
 ' They are full of bones, I doubt. And besides they 
 would have the taste of the salt water. . . . Ours are 
 fresh and sweet to the taste. ..." 
 
 ' You're wrong there. . . . They're delicious, our fish 
 . . . and our people know what's good to eat. ..." 
 
   You must make plenty of money, at that rate. . . ." 
 
 " You're wrong again. Everything is very cheap with 
 us. Good quality, but cheap. ..." 
 
 " In Switzerland, you get a good price for things, but 
 living is very dear. You think you are rich, and you 
 find you have nothing." 
 Then they were silent again. Cremet gazed at the 
 
 14 
 
210 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 rounded shores, the white houses dotted about the hill- 
 sides under the December sky. And suddenly deep 
 depression fell upon him again, as he thought of his 
 bleeding country. 
 
 " You are very sheltered here. ..." There was a hint 
 of something like jealousy in his voice. 
 
 " We are. Almost too much so," went on Potterat. 
 "Of course, nobody wants war . . . perhaps, indeed, we 
 don't think of it quite enough. But we're asleep. . . . 
 We're far too trustful of strangers. . . . We think that 
 everything is well because the wine is good. . . . The 
 volcano is there, but we don't see it. . . ." 
 
 " You'll be treated the same ! ... see if you aren't ! . . ." 
 said Louis Cremet, with a sort of satisfaction. 
 
 " What's that you say ? . . . What about our moun- 
 tains ? . . . We've got some fine fellows up there, too, to 
 guard them. . . . Fighting is in our blood, you know. . . . 
 And we are the best shots in the world. At 800 yards 
 we never miss a bottle. . . . You Belgians have been 
 brave beyond words, heroic. . . . You certainly did 
 the right thing. . . . But we, if they attack us, we'll 
 go for them like a pack of mad dogs. ..." 
 
 The old man did not reply, and the conversation 
 dropped again. 
 
 Madame Potterat, like the clever hostess she was, did 
 her utmost to vary the diet, as far, at least, as she could 
 with her store of farinaceous foods; but one day, when 
 the two women were alone, Madame Cremet said to her : 
 
 " You go in for German cookery, I see. Macaroni, rice, 
 sauces. ..." 
 
 Madame Potterat reddened: 
 
 " German cookery ? . . . Not at all ! . . . We like simple, 
 wholesome food, that's all. ..." 
 
 " Oh, I wasn't criticizing it. . . . But your coffee now ? 
 . . . Won't you let me make it for you some time in the 
 Belgian way ? . . ." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 211 
 
 Madame Potterat boiled inwardly. Were not the 
 Vaudois women noted throughout the world for their 
 good coffee ? . . . What an insult ! . . . 
 
 " Look here !" the old woman said. " I have knitted 
 a strainer. You fix it into the coffee-pot, and the coffee 
 percolates through it. You pour the boiling water in 
 twice. And above all, you mustn't grind your coffee 
 too fine." 
 
 Never before had Madame Potterat seen the old woman 
 so bright and animated. She rolled up her sleeves over 
 her elbows with an air of authority. A tinge of red came 
 into her cheeks, her blue-grey eyes shone with animation, 
 the eyes of a worker who finds again in the practice of 
 her accustomed art some joy in life. 
 
 'What impudence! . . . What impudence! . . ." 
 thought Madame Potterat, as she watched the old 
 woman moving to and fro in her kitchen. " What a 
 good thing that David is not here ! . . . I don't think 
 there is another woman but me who would drink her 
 coffee after this ! . . ." 
 
 Six o'clock. The men came in famishing, after their 
 fishing. They had excellent appetites, found everything 
 delicious, and did not notice the sharp glances the two 
 women gave them as they raised their cups to their lips. 
 
 " Don't you notice anything, Louis ?" 
 
 Louis raised his pale eyes in silence. 
 
 " Oh yes. It's real coffee this time." 
 
 " I should think so !" 
 
 " Haven't we always had real coffee ? . . .'" asked 
 Potterat innocently. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Potterat, but not coffee made in the 
 Belgian way." 
 
 Potterat guessed at once that these embarrassed words 
 hid some jealousy of rival cooks. 
 
 ■■' My word !" said he. " It is good, this coffee ! And 
 yesterday's was just as good; and to-morrow's will be 
 
212 POTTER AT AND THE WAR 
 
 good too. ... I think that you are, both of you, regular 
 cordons bleus. It's good luck to have two in one house." 
 
 Then, as Madame Potterat reddened a little, her 
 husband added to himself: "These feminine jealousies! 
 . . . One has to deal with them as one does with the 
 severely wounded. . . . Keep quiet, and look at 
 them lovingly. ..." 
 
 That same evening, he tried his diplomatic powers on 
 his wife. 
 
 " You must be reasonable, you know. Every country 
 has its own specialities. And even variations of 
 the same speciality may be excellent. . . . One good 
 thing does not hurt another. . . t . These old people, 
 remember, are poor old things who have escaped out of 
 hell into an unknown world. They have their own 
 customs, their own tastes, their own ideas. . To them the 
 Dent du Midi is nothing, nor our pictures that mean so 
 much to us, nor even our way of making coffee, good 
 as it is. . . . Supposing we had had to fly to Belgium, 
 don't you think we should talk about our confectionery 
 and our plum cakes ? . . . Imagine us at Ostend in 
 December, amongst people who lived on oysters and 
 salmon, and we having nothing to do all day long 
 but sit and twiddle our thumbs ! . . . Why, I'm sure 
 we should get queer and cranky, and half crazy. . . . 
 We've got to realize that our things that we love 
 don't appeal to them at all. They have nailed up 
 on the walls of their room that old postcard in which 
 they can see a window of their house; and a photo- 
 graph of King Albert, ... a fine-looking man he is, 
 too ; and a crucifix. And they'd rather have those things 
 than all our pictures. These make them feel, you see, 
 as if they still had their King, their religion, and their 
 home. . . . And if, thanks to you, they are able to 
 feel that they are drinking their own coffee too, why, 
 so much the better. . . . We ought to put up cheer- 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 213 
 
 fully with any of their little fancies. ... If they begin 
 to boast about their things, it is to prove to us that 
 they are not just vagabonds. . . . After all, these 
 Belgians have sacrificed themselves for us, and for 
 Europe, and it isn't much to ask of us, that we should 
 be willing to sacrifice ourselves a little for them in return. 
 ... I feel so sorry for them both, but especially for the 
 old man, who never says a word. I happened to look 
 over at him the other evening, and I watched him -for a 
 minute or two. ... He sat there watching the smoke of 
 his pipe curling up, then he winked a tear away, and 
 stretched out his hands to the fire, evidently remembering 
 things. . . . Come, they're good old creatures, don't 
 you think so ? . . ." 
 
 M Yes, indeed." 
 
 " Well, that's all right. And look here, my dear, I 
 should let the poor old woman brew her coffee as she 
 likes. It pleases her, and doesn't make our way any 
 the worse." 
 
 At four o'clock Carlo burst in from school, threw his 
 satchel on a chair, cut himself a slice of bread and butter, 
 and devoured it, hopping about all the time; tried on, 
 mincing and grimacing, a hat of his mother's, took 
 laughingly the rap on the head she gave him, and 
 then imitated his master, who was very short-sighted, 
 and had to hold every book close up to his eyes. 
 All this amused the old woman immensely; she said, 
 her voice trembling with emotion: " Do you know, that 
 boy makes me almost forget my sorrows ! . . ." And 
 when she heard that the next day was his birthday : 
 
 " Oh, do let me," she begged — " do let me make him 
 a tart ?" 
 
 With eager delight she mixed the paste, her red cheeks 
 like winter apples, her forehead, framed in grey hair, 
 leaning over it lovingly; whipped some cream with tiny 
 
214 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 straws of orange peel floating about in it, and when at 
 last the tart lay, puffed up and golden, on its dish, 
 ready for serving, her joy in activity suddenly departed, 
 and she heaved a great sigh. 
 
 " How often I used to make these tarts at home ! . . . 
 Dear, dear ! . . . But it is getting late, I must run. Are 
 you ready, Louis ? . . . Au revoir, Madame. ..." 
 
 Always in the twilight, the old couple went out for a 
 walk alone together, he in an overcoat of Potterat's, 
 which had been considerably taken in and shortened, 
 but which was still a good deal too big for him, and hung 
 in folds on his chest and over his shoulders; she, very 
 dignified and upright, her chin held high, her hands 
 clasped in front of her. Where did they go ? . . . No 
 one ever presumed to ask them, but on this particular 
 evening Potterat took his stick, and following them dis- 
 creetly at a distance, found himself entering the Catholic 
 Chapel at Ouchy. There was a murmur of prayer 
 going on, and after a little one could see the altar, the 
 choir, the white robe of the Virgin, and the little round 
 head of the Holy Child. And on a low stool, kneeling 
 side by side, were the two old people. What peaceful 
 calm ! What silence ! Only this murmur of prayers, 
 that star of light on the altar. " Is this really you, 
 Potterat ?" he asked himself, " you who have always 
 considered almost as unbelievers those whose names are 
 not entered on the registers of the Vaudois National 
 Church ? . . . Is it really you standing here dreaming in 
 a Roman Catholic Chapel, with your eyes fixed on a 
 statue of the Virgin ?...'■ 
 
 " If I were God, I would send out my thunder-bolts 
 to put everyone back into his place again, and ... we 
 know who . . . into the dust ! ..." he thought. "■ These 
 poor old people praying ! It is touching ! . . . I'm 
 sure their prayers are heard. I'm not of their religion 
 myself, but we worship the same God, I'm sure. , . , 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 215 
 
 The true God, He is. . . . The other one is not much of 
 a God. . . . All the same He is pretty powerful, evidently. 
 . . . He marches with the victorious armies. He draws 
 the sword and orders the fire of the rifles. ... He likes 
 to see corpses of men, of horses, slaughter, and tombstones 
 with soldiers' caps on them. . . . That God ... is He not 
 far more likely to be the Devil ? . . . I shouldn't wonder 
 at all ! . . . And He certainly keeps His disciples up to 
 the mark. . . . They spread His propaganda. . . . They 
 put into practice the precepts of their master. Perhaps 
 this is the beginning of the end of the world ! . . . It's 
 possible that the true God has lost heart and patience, 
 seeing us all so bad, and thinks He'll make a clean 
 sweep of the lot ! . . . There were too many painted 
 women, too much making eyes, too much false hair, too 
 much eating and drinking, too much rushing about for 
 pleasure. . . . And then people have killed off too 
 many lions and tigers in those hot countries, with their 
 ' big-game hunting,' and the souls of these beasts have 
 come back into the bodies of men to-day. . . . And 
 what about ourselves ? .' . . In theory, the heart of 
 a Swiss ought to be like a mountain-top amongst his 
 Alps, where the wind blows fresh and free, sweeping 
 away all dust and disease. . . . That's what it is in theory ! 
 .... In practice, we put everything we have on our 
 backs to impress the crowd: that was our only thought. 
 . . . We have signed conventions, and we have mobilized. 
 . . . We shall have enormous expense, and mighty little 
 glory. . . . Fortunately, we've got these Belgians to take 
 care of; at the Day of Judgment they may serve us 
 as a lightning conductor. . . . But what started me 
 off on this train of thought ? . . . Oh yes, it was seeing 
 those two old things at their prayers. . . . Yes, there's 
 no doubt but He will hear their prayers. . . . We're not 
 in the same fold, as I said, but in this particular case, I 
 agree with them absolutely. ... Ah well, I'm glad I 
 
216 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 followed them. . . . They are evidently good people. In 
 their way, too, they are righting for their country. . . . 
 They are not ashamed to bow the knee. . . . All honour 
 to them !" 
 
 The table was laid when he reached home, and Potterat 
 was glad to see that his wife had evidently recovered 
 her wonted kindliness and good humour. ..." These 
 women !" thought he to himself. " A mere nothing turns 
 them to vinegar, and just as little makes them all smiles 
 again ; they cry their hearts out for a shadow, and revive 
 like a flower under a ray of sunshine. Now we men, if 
 anything upsets us, we are out of temper the whole day, 
 at least. . . . Women are more changeable, more impres- 
 sionable, more like the wind. . . . They're up and down 
 again all in a minute. . . . What a temperament ! . . . 
 But it's half the charm of woman after all ! . . ." 
 
 Carlo, the hero of the day, sat in the place of honour 
 facing the smoking dishes, and the tart, round which 
 burnt merrily nine candles, their dancing flames reflected 
 in the excited eyes of the boy, in the grey eyes of 
 Louis Cremet, in the melancholy eyes of his wife, in 
 the loving motherly eyes of Madame Potterat, and the 
 round merry eyes of her husband ; and also in the silver 
 and glass of the table. They ate and drank, then when 
 they had almost finished, a specially fine bottle of wine 
 Was opened, and Potterat raised his glass. 
 
 " I want to say two or three words, not a speech, you 
 know, but just as they come to me. Here's your very 
 good health, my boy ! May you grow big and strong, 
 and for that you must eat plenty of bread. In the same 
 way you must feed and furnish your mind ; the man who 
 has a well-filled mind makes fewer mistakes in life than 
 the man whose impressions run about in his brain without 
 anything to fix them there. You don't want to stuff it 
 too full, of course, nor on the other hand to let it shrivel 
 up because it is empty; you need not go contrary to 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 217 
 
 everyone else, but it's better not to conform too rigidly 
 to those around you. Everything is a question of 
 proportion, of equilibrium. Half heart, half reason, is 
 a very good formula as a guide to conduct. And if 
 you must lean more to one side than the other, let 
 it be to the side of heart. But you mustn't listen 
 to your heart alone, or you would die of indignation 
 every day of your life. . . . We can't forget that we 
 have here with us at this table some guests who have no 
 longer a home of their own; we can't forget the war. . . . 
 We are warm and comfortable here, with plenty of good 
 food and drink before us, a good bed awaits each of us, 
 and sound, refreshing sleep. . . . Yet, at this very moment, 
 think how many there are in the trenches, in water up 
 to their knees, covered with mud and thick clay, fighting 
 for justice and liberty for all nations ! . . . How many 
 there are, too, under the earth, resting there until the 
 last day ! . . . How many more will die to-night ! . . . 
 Thinking of all this, as a consistent Swiss, as a Republican, 
 a democrat, I drink to the health of General J off re ! 
 May the true God, the only One, breathe into him wisdom 
 and judgment ! . . . May he purify the world as one 
 scrubs a dirty floor: three buckets of water in a volley, 
 then the scrubbing-brush and plenty of elbow grease ! 
 Afterwards, how it shines ! And to make a still more 
 thorough job of it, he may pass a knife between the 
 boards to clear out anything which shouldn't be there. 
 In other words, may Belgium rise again from her ashes, 
 and flourish once more over her ruins ! . . . And may all 
 other little nations, her sisters, raise their hats to little 
 Belgium, who sacrificed herself for the safety of the rest 
 of the world ; to the Belgians, who kept their word, who 
 respected their treaties, who did not say, ' Necessity knows 
 no law !' but rather, ' Honour knows no exceptions !' . . . 
 For my part, in face of this outraged honour, in face of 
 these citizens fighting to defend their country, unjustly 
 
218 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 attacked, it is impossible for me to declare myself neutral. 
 . . . My friends, I drink your health ! . . ." And Potterat 
 emptied his glass. 
 
 " You are a good man," responded Louis Cremet 
 seriously. 
 
 In spite of their efforts the little fete seemed 
 melancholy to the hearts of the exiles. Presently the 
 candles were extinguished. The evening paper arrived. 
 Sensational headlines announced ' Bombardment of 
 Ypres !' . . . and the wind whistled drearily against the 
 windows. Suddenly Potterat raised his head. 
 
 "Do you feel terribly bored here ? . . ." 
 
 Immediately he felt painfully conscious that this was 
 not exactly the most tactful way to begin what he had 
 meant to say, and he threw a glance at his wife, mutely 
 imploring her aid. She knitted steadily, however, 
 keeping her eyes lowered, so he went on: 
 
 " Perhaps I'm meddling with what is none of my 
 business. . . . Don't think I don't understand you, for I 
 do. . . . I should feel it difficult, myself, to settle down 
 in a foreign land, and at the seaside too. . . . Your way 
 of living is different from ours, you look at everything in 
 a different way, you think of the past constantly. ... It 
 is very natural, and we sympathize with you. ..." The 
 old people's eyes had rilled with tears, and Madame 
 Potterat interposed: 
 
 " Oh, do stop, David ! . . . It is too painful ! ; . ." 
 
 But Potterat had dragged his chair up closer to the 
 little sofa, and laid his big hand on the stiff arm of the 
 old fisherman. 
 
 " Excuse me, won't you ? . . . My intentions are good. 
 ... I want you to try and like Switzerland. . . . Some 
 people here are certainly contaminated by the microbe. 
 . . . Well, they are to be pitied. . . . But the rest of 
 us, and the most of us, are secretly boiling with 
 indignation, though we perhaps seem to be taking it 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 219 
 
 all somewhat calmly. ... It's so difficult for us to 
 realize fully all at once all it means, the horror of this 
 war. . . . But I assure you the injustice of it makes us 
 furious, it makes us ill . . . we can never forgive it. . . . It 
 is unforgivable. ..." 
 
 At this moment the door-bell rang, and presently 
 Carlo ushered in Vidoudez, the companion of many a 
 fishing excursion, the enthusiastic office clerk whose 
 fingers were always stained with red ink, . . . but a 
 Vidoudez dejected, worn-looking, unkempt. Somewhat 
 irritated at his conversation being thus interrupted, 
 Potterat looked at the intruder, then, vaguely touched 
 by his forlorn appearance, he rose. 
 
 " Hallo ! What brings you along ?. . . . Let me intro- 
 duce you to our Belgian friends — Madame Cremet, a first- 
 rate cook, her coffee is a dream; and her husband, in 
 ordinary times a fisherman, but for the present rudely 
 thrown out of work by some wicked people whom we 
 need not name. ..." 
 
 They drew up their seats again to the table. Vidoudez, 
 shy and nervous under the blaze of the unshaded electric 
 light, rubbed his hands together. At last, in a gruff 
 voice, he said : 
 
 " I came to ask you a favour. ..." 
 
 An unfortunate beginning ! Potterat thought uneasily, 
 ' How unlucky ! I have just enough to carry me 
 through the month.' 
 
 "I want you to give me your advice as a friend . . ." 
 he went on. " This is the affair. ... My salary, you 
 know, has been reduced . . . and prices have gone up . . . 
 and my eldest daughter, Olga, the typist, has just been 
 dismissed from her place ... not enough work, they told 
 her . . . and yet expenses go on . . . but it's impossible 
 to make both ends meet. ... I don't know what on 
 earth to do. . . . This evening I said to myself, ' I'll 
 go and ask Potterat's advice.' . , . What am I to 
 
220 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 do about the girl ? . . . How can I find her a 
 place? . . ." 
 
 " Isn't she engaged to young Decrausaz, of the 
 I nstrumentale ? 
 
 " She is, but he is mobilized. We have not seen him 
 since the 2nd August . . . and when he comes back, will 
 he get his old place again ? . . . Everything's at a stand- 
 still. . . . My wife is so worried by it all that when I came 
 away, she and Olga were both crying. . . . We can't go 
 on like this, that's certain. ..." 
 
 Potterat smiled dryly. 
 
 " Do you remember how we were all as grand as 
 milords last July ? . . . The poets are right, ' The beautiful 
 days are short.' ... H'm, so typewriting is off, is it ? . . . 
 My word ! The only things that go on as usual, it seems 
 to me, are eating, sleeping, washing up dishes. ... Do 
 you understand ? . . ." 
 
 No, Vidoudez did not understand. 
 
 " It's plain enough. ... Up to now, your girl has been 
 able to keep her hands white. She has gone ' Tra-ta-ta ' 
 on her little machine . . . her husband, when she marries, 
 however, will want his dinner. . . . Look here, Vidoudez, 
 be practical ; go and buy her a cookery book, and half a 
 dozen aprons, and place her in a good house. . . . Yes, 
 as cook, housemaid, anything. . . . She will get good 
 wages, and she will learn to be a good housekeeper. ..." 
 
 Vidoudez bridled a little. 
 
 " You don't know Olga. . . . No, it would be no use. ..." 
 
 " Who is master in your house ? Give her an order, 
 that princess of yours, and make her understand she's 
 got to obey. There must be authority everywhere. 
 You give the command. This is war-time now, you 
 know." 
 
 Poor Vidoudez bent almost double and rubbed his 
 hands together with a sound like crackling paper. 
 
 " Jsfo ? you don't know her. , , . Her mother and she 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 221 
 
 would never think of it for a moment. . . . She might go 
 as a companion, perhaps. . . . Don't you know of anyone 
 who wants a companion ? . . ." 
 
 " As far as I'm concerned, I'm my own companion. . . . 
 Look here, my dear fellow, it seems to me that you're 
 trying to do the impossible. We've all done with luxuries 
 for goodness knows how long. There are only three ways 
 of making a living : either you must have private means, 
 or you must beg, or you must work. . . . Give your 
 princess her choice. ..." 
 
 ' Then you don't know of anyone ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh yes, I know crowds of people, but no one who 
 wants to take on a typist. ... I tell you cookery is the 
 best thing. . . . Let her learn to cook. . . . It's a good 
 trade. ... I myself have learnt to milk cows this 
 autumn. ..." 
 
 Vidoudez got up. " Well, I'll speak to them about it. 
 . . . Oh, these scenes ! They'll be the death of me!" 
 
 " Well, I hope to hear you get on . . . but in any case, 
 let me advise you to keep your womenfolk well in hand. 
 Be firm with them. When they are good, you may 
 loosen the reins a moment, but without taking your 
 eyes off them. ... At the least chance, they'll break 
 loose. Look out, they may already be feminists ! . . . 
 and nothing could be worse than that. ..." 
 
 When Potterat came back into the room, Cremet took 
 his pipe out of his mouth, a thing he only did on great 
 occasions. Without making any remarks on the troubles 
 of Vidoudez, he replied to what Potterat had been saying 
 previously. 
 
 " You ask me if I am bored ? . . . Well, we are very 
 comfortable here with you, and you have been only too 
 kind to us; we are most grateful. . . . But I must confess 
 that the time does seem long. I pine like an old cat. . . . 
 I sometimes feel that I would willingly die the next day if 
 I could only see our old place once again. . . . And then, 
 
222 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 it's terrible having no news of the children, or of our 
 grandchildren. . . . Nothing ! . . . Not a word ! . . . It 
 is dreadful ! We seem to have left them in hell ! . . . I 
 feel just like a rat driven out of its hole by floods ! . . ." 
 
 Jeanne Cremet clasped her hands. 
 
 " Oh, but the time is long ! . . . Long and weary ! . . . 
 Four of our own children, eighteen grandchildren ! . . . 
 One of them is at Calais, two are in England. . . . But the 
 others ? . . . Where are they ? . . . Shall we ever see them 
 again ? . . ." 
 
 Before this despair, Potterat's anger against all this 
 brutality rose. 
 
 " Oh ! the whole world is in darkness ! . . . One 
 can't understand it at all. What a scattering of families ! 
 . . . What fires ! What deaths ! . . . Now, if we were 
 invaded like that, I know what I should do. I should 
 take four down to the edge of the Lake one evening, 
 and I should say to them, ' Just see how clear the water 
 is,' and suddenly, zuh ! ... in they'd go ! ... all four of 
 them, and me after them, so as not to be hanged next 
 day. Then at the resurrection, when I should come up 
 dripping out of the Lake, holding my four by the hand, 
 and the recording angel would call, ' Potterat !' . . . 
 f Present ! Here I am, Lord, with the four that Thou 
 gavest me !' . . . ' Four ? . . . Thou hast been faithful 
 over a few things. . . . That's well ! Sit there, good 
 and faithful servant ! . . . ' " 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 It was a grey day in February. Grey out of doors, and 
 grey indoors. The newspapers were filled with the usual 
 tales of the trenches, and the daily slaughter. Potterat, 
 when asked by Sauer, whom he met on the stairs, how 
 things were going, replied : 
 
 " Oh, they're going on. . . . I don't know whether one 
 ought to say ' Fortunately ' or ' Unfortunately.' 
 
 " He is quite overwrought, quite nervous and un- 
 strung," said Madame Potterat to Madame Cremet one 
 day. " He ought to have something to occupy him. . . . 
 He broods. . . . The war, always this war. ... He dreams 
 of victory, but in the morning the news is always the 
 same. ... It wears one out. ..." 
 
 "It is long ! . . . a weary long time ! . . ." moaned 
 Madame Cremet. " One hardly dares to hope for any 
 end. ... It is long and sad ! . . . And this grey sky ! . . ." 
 
 Ten times a day she would repeat this. Every time 
 she looked at anyone, she seemed to be asking them 
 eternally: ' Do you think it will be over soon ?' . . . And 
 as no one ever replied, she would take up her knitting 
 again, with a great sigh. 
 
 Potterat, having nothing to do, would wander aimlessly 
 along the roads, dragging his low spirits and his anxiety 
 with him. He generally found himself at Bigarreau's 
 sooner or later, in the course of his walk. With him, at 
 any rate, he could discuss the war. They were of one 
 mind about it, and had the same hopes, the same plans, 
 the same reservations, the same fears. Both were rather 
 given to talking largely; carried away by their en- 
 
 223 
 
224 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 thusiasm, they would suddenly come down with a crash 
 to the hard rock of reality. They recovered their spirits 
 very quickly, however, and began climbing the ladder 
 again, rung after rung. On this grey but mild day of 
 February, they chatted together as they went round the 
 beehives. 
 
 " Listen ! . . . They are beginning to buzz already. . . . 
 They are talking to each other, telling each other all 
 their winter dreams. They're doing now what J off re 
 is doing: planning out their spring campaign." 
 
 " Spring !" . . . The very word moved them. . . . 
 What it would be like to be a bee in the spring ! To 
 rush out of the hive, into the sun, to roll oneself in golden 
 dust, to drink in honey and perfume, to brush the 
 gay wings of the butterflies with their more sober wings, 
 to be a welcome visitor to all the flowers, and to die, at 
 last, at the bottom of a lily-cup ! . . . How infinitely better 
 than the life of human beings, in this mad century ! . . . 
 
 " These bees, you know, they set us a fine example. 
 They work hard, they are orderly, and clean, and neat; 
 they rise early, and go to bed early, and they are obedient 
 . . . the queen has only to give a wink of the eye for all 
 the rest to rush to do her will. . . . They have no use for 
 grumblers in a hive . . . nor idlers, those people who are 
 born tired. . . ." 
 
 But whatever they talked about, they came round, 
 sooner or later, to the war. 
 
 " I wonder," said Bigarreau, " if it wouldn't be possible 
 to make use of bees in war ? . . . Suppose one put a kilo 
 or so of them in a shell ! Can't you see that shell arriving 
 in a trench ? . . . That swarm of angry bees ! . . . And 
 all those fellows stung in the face, in the neck, up their 
 sleeves and trousers. . . . Imagine a man trying to shoot 
 with a bee-sting in his eye ! . . . Think what a sharp 
 lookout you'd be likely to keep with three or four angry 
 bees inside your tunic ! . . ." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 225 
 
 " Ah, and the worst place of all is when they sting 
 you on the nose just between the two nostrils," added 
 Potterat. " That happened to me once, and my word, 
 I thought it was all up with me for a minute or two. . . . 
 It's not half a bad idea of yours, that of a shell filled with 
 bees. . . . We ought to drop a line to J off re. ... He can't 
 think of everything. ..." 
 
 Soon they were as usual wildly excited over the 
 strategy of the Russians, firing at the calm horizon with 
 wide sweeping gestures, half closing their eyes to aim at the 
 sun, arguing about the rival merits of a frontal attack or a 
 flank attack. . . . Bigarreau drew Potterat towards the 
 toolshed, against the wall of which hung a map of Europe. 
 
 " These Russians, they always go too much in a mass. 
 . . . They want more personal initiative. . . . What's 
 the good of three million men crowded together ? . . . 
 The others send out patrols and throw bodies of 
 cavalry on the wings, and there you are. . . . Now, 
 if I were Duke Nicholas, I should take up a position 
 more to the north. . . . That country is full of lakes. . . . 
 Just the thing ! . . . All you've got to do is to fortify 
 the ground between them, and there you have a base of 
 attack, and if that fails, a base of retreat." 
 
 It was Bigarreau's plan, this, and then Potterat 
 expounded his views. 
 
 " In my opinion, it's in Serbia that the great offensive 
 ought to be made. . . . They ought to send troops, and 
 guns, and munitions there . . . secretly, of course. . . . 
 And while this is being done, the Russians engage them 
 in the north. Then, when all is ready, J off re goes off to 
 Serbia in a destroyer, takes over command, and attacks 
 the Austrians in the rear. . . . Nothing demoralizes a 
 country so quickly as to surprise it in the rear. ..." 
 
 Their eager fingers, on the map, followed river-courses, 
 crossed mountains, zigzagged across plains. Here 
 
 Bigarreau objected. 
 
 1 5 
 
226 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " But in the plains you can't conceal your movements 
 as you can in the mountains. . . . These aeroplanes see 
 everything. ..." 
 
 " Oh, we'd bring them down with a few shots. . . . 
 And besides, we don't advance marching in full view 
 and upright. We crawl along the ground. ... In 
 our military manoeuvres I was always great at 
 crawling. . . .". 
 
 "With that stomach of yours? . . . That's not 
 exactly the game for you! ..." 
 
 "You think I'd topple over, do you ? . . . Well, look 
 here ! . . ." and Potterat flung himself flat on the ground, 
 and with a suppleness and agility for which one would 
 certainly not have given him credit, and aiding himself 
 now and then with his hands and knees, he attacked a 
 cabbage. 
 
 Suddenly, a voice from an upper window fell like cold 
 water on this warlike enthusiasm. It was Madame 
 Bigarreau's. 
 
 " Look here, you two would-be soldiers, try to be 
 calm, will you ? . . . You make one shiver to hear you. 
 . . . When we have been spared, as we have been, you 
 don't want to work yourself up like that ! . . . That 
 won't do any good ! . . . For my part, when I see the 
 sun go down behind the Jura, every evening, and when 
 I think that it is going down over a country at war on 
 the other side, I feel very thankful. . . . Peace is a 
 privilege ! . . ." 
 
 Potterat jumped up hastily. 
 
 M Good-morning, Madame ! . . . A privilege, you say ? 
 . . . Just wait and see how that will end ! Do you 
 really think we ought to be content to know that others 
 are fighting for our principles ? . . . Doesn't Liberty 
 concern us any more ? . . . If the other small nations are 
 invaded, are we to look on indifferently ? . . . No, no, 
 that sort of thing would lead one to commit suicide." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 227 
 
 " Well, anyhow, I'll thank you not to excite my 
 husband so much. As it is, he doesn't know what he's 
 doing half the time . . . always fussing over those maps. . . . 
 And he tears the paper into bits when the news is not so 
 good, and finds fault with the staff-officers. . . . And it's 
 nothing but grumbling all the time now. . . . There are 
 days when I wonder if he's Swiss at all. . . ." 
 
 Bigarreau seemed crushed under this, but Potterat 
 took up the cudgels on his own and his friend's behalf. 
 
 " My wife says just the same thing about me. . . . 
 Madame, you women don't understand us, that's where 
 it is. Our patriotism is above all suspicion. We're too 
 patriotic, really. In certain circumstances it's not the 
 finest thing to hold back from fighting. . . . Look here, 
 Madame, suppose someone was murdering your husband 
 here, what would you say to me if I was to sit by on a 
 chair and look on, proclaiming my neutrality, hey ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, what's the use of talking nonsense ? . . . And here 
 I am, waiting for the last hour, for him to pull me some 
 leeks ! . . ." 
 
 In silence, Potterat looked out over the countryside: 
 his beloved country, with its hills and slopes, over to 
 where against the setting sun rose the smoke from little 
 villages nestling everywhere in the folds of the hills, 
 across the smiling Lake. . . . 
 
 " Yes," he said. " We have degenerated. . . . We're 
 out of the storm, and we're glad of it. . . . Well, perhaps 
 that is best. . . . But plants that grow in the shelter of 
 a wall are not always the most beautiful. . . . We ought 
 to try and atone for our attitude at the beginning. ..." 
 
 " But how ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, in all sorts of ways. For instance, I intend to 
 go to the station to meet all the trainloads of refugees 
 coming in, and the wounded. ... I shall take them all a 
 packet of chocolate, or a box of matches, or some 
 liquorice, it doesn't matter what, ... the great thing 
 
228 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 is to show that one is there. And nothing will prevent 
 me from shouting • Liberty for ever !' . . ." 
 
 Bigarreau shook his head. 
 
 " ' Liberty for ever !' . . . Why, man, you'll get your- 
 self arrested !" 
 
 " I shouldn't be surprised. . . . They arrested Davel 
 for less than that. ..." 
 
 ***** 
 
 On their knees, their heads thrust into open cupboards, 
 Potterat and his wife were busily throwing out on the 
 floor armfuls of clothes — skirts and trousers, etc. Every 
 now and then, they stood up and wiped their foreheads: 
 smiled affectionately at each other; then plunged their 
 heads again into the depths of their respective cupboards. 
 Over this task of theirs, they showed an almost childish 
 joy and pride. 
 
 " Anyone could see how tidy you are by the way these 
 cupboards are kept. Shirts, socks, trousers, drawers, 
 vests, coats, everything in order in a separate pile." 
 
 " Well, I make a point of going through them 
 thoroughly twice a year, the old things as well as the 
 new." 
 
 '■ And yet just look at this vest, how the moths have 
 riddled it with holes ! Beastly things moths are ! . . . 
 Francoise, you'll have to get some wool the same colour 
 and darn up these holes. . . . And, by the way, I shall 
 buy some braces for these refugees. There is nothing 
 more annoying than when they give way, and one has 
 to hold up one's trousers with one's elbows. ..." 
 
 " This cloak, it's almost a pity it's so pretty ! . . . 
 Oh, well, it doesn't matter . . . and besides, one doesn't 
 want to give them only ugly things ! . . ." murmured 
 Madame Potterat. 
 
 In his eager enthusiasm, Potterat threw into the heap 
 half a dozen waistcoats, with such vigour that one of them 
 lighted on Madame Potterat 's head. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 229 
 
 " Do take care what you're doing ! . . . You've half 
 blinded me ! . . ." 
 
 " I'm sorry ! . . . I can't see what I'm doing, with my 
 head in this cupboard. . . . Let's see ? . . . Oh no, your 
 eyes are all right, my dear, the same forget-me-nots as 
 ever. . . . Ha ! . . . Here's Belisaire's suit . . . that we 
 had dyed for him, do you remember ? . . . Well, I'm 
 glad that he can share in this too. ..." 
 
 In burst Carlo, like a cannon-ball. 
 ' W T hat's the matter ? . . . What are you doing ? . . . 
 Are we going to move ? . . ." 
 
 " No, dear, we're going to the station to meet the 
 refugees from the north of France as they pass through." 
 
 " How jolly ! . . . Mother, may I give them some of 
 my things too ?" 
 
 " Certainly, dear." 
 
 Then what a brushing up of collars, smoothing out of 
 creases, trying the buttons to see if they were firm. . . . 
 And Carlo, before two sailor suits, copied all these gestures 
 exactly. 
 
 At three o'clock, the Potterats went out, carrying be- 
 tween them a basket covered with a clean cloth. Carlo 
 followed, laden with some smaller packages. Madame 
 Sauer was seen, also with a basket ; and numbers of other 
 people came along the corridors, laden with parcels in 
 white or brown paper, with baskets and bags, looking 
 half ashamed of their too visible generosity. 
 
 " Don't they look like ants carrying their eggs into 
 another corner?" said Potterat. "One feels as if one 
 ought not to look at them. . . . Bah ! Why should we 
 mind ? . . . We're not robbing our neighbours' hen- 
 roosts. ..." 
 
 " Father ! There's our head-mistress. What a big 
 parcel she's carrying ! . . ." 
 
 " Be quiet, child ! . . . Big or little, all these parcels 
 are respectable. . . . And no doubt, too, they have other 
 
230 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 things that you don't see. . . . For instance," he went 
 on, too full of it to keep his secret any longer, M in every 
 pocket of these clothes I have put a little piece of paper 
 with the words * Courage ! Sympathy ! Condolences !' . . . 
 It's little things like that which touch people most.* ..." 
 
 At the station, on the arrival platform, there was a 
 motley crowd. Religious ladies and servants, professors 
 and working-men, all furnished with baskets of food; 
 gardeners in green aprons, their pockets filled with 
 tobacco; little girls, carrying over their arms freshly 
 ironed shirts; smart maidens, dangling a little parcel 
 from one finger; labourers, commissionnaires, shop- 
 keepers, shopgirls, and even a little group of blind 
 men at the back of the crowd, in charge of a leader who 
 could see. In this crowd there were no bickering, no 
 shoving elbows. All these incongruous elements were 
 united by the same human sympathy, as the many- 
 coloured flowers in a meadow blend in the sun. 
 
 " Pardon ! Excuse me!" And Potterat's friendly 
 good-humour and patience carried him at length right up 
 to the front of the crowd. 
 
 " Now, watch well, Carlo ! You may be glad, sixty 
 years hence, to be able to tell your grandchildren what 
 you saw to-day. . . . Think of something kind to say 
 to them." 
 
 Not far off stood a couple in mourning, who gazed 
 sadly, from time to time, at a basket in which lay 
 a child's outfit. Potterat leaned over and whispered in 
 his wife's ear: 
 
 " Do you see those people, over there on the left ? . . . 
 They are the Michauds. . . . They lost their only son at 
 the New Year, a boy of eleven. Now do you see, they're 
 giving all his things. ..." Presently he added: " You 
 know this is just like that day when the Belgians came. 
 ... If it upsets me too much, I'll have to clear out, and 
 you'll have to give the things. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 231 
 
 Police-Constable Boulenaz, a giant with the face of a 
 child, turned round. 
 
 " I know. ... I feel just the same/' he said. " Yester- 
 day, the tears poured down my cheeks, I couldn't help 
 it . . . and afterwards I felt I'd made such a fool of myself 
 that I swore for about an hour." 
 
 They were still speaking when the train appeared, 
 coming in with unusual slowness; from every window 
 fluttered handkerchiefs, and from every doorway hands 
 were waved, and heads thrust out like bunches of grapes. 
 Just at first one could see nothing distinctly, but presently 
 details forced themselves on the attention. An old man, 
 hatless, and with his shirt open at the neck; some dis- 
 hevelled women; children laughing gaily, as children do 
 at the unwonted excitement of a journey; babies still in 
 arms; their mothers, with drawn faces and tired eyes; 
 and all those wrinkled cheeks, those terror-maddened 
 eyes, sunk in greyish faces, all that frightful human 
 misery passed slowly, slowly, as the train glided in. On 
 each forehead the drama was written. . . . This old tooth- 
 less crone seemed to be still gazing at brandished rifle- 
 butts, at the dead bodies gathered up into carts. . . . 
 This young woman, by her petrified immobility, showed 
 the utter collapse of her courage and her hopes ; even the 
 little boys and girls had not yet recovered from their 
 terror. Still vivid in all their minds was the remembrance 
 of the blazing homesteads, the ruined churches, the 
 pattering feet of their flocks and herds as they were 
 driven away, the long wearisome journey, standing 
 packed together in cattle trucks, that abominable time 
 when they were herded together in a camp, surrounded 
 by barbed wire, beyond which they could see the glitter 
 of bayonets. . . . And the warder who announced to them 
 disaster after disaster . . . and the bells which were rung 
 for every fresh victory . . . the cold nights through which 
 one shivered . . . and the soup in the mornings in which 
 
232 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 floated morsels of green fat. . . . Their hearts dulled 
 in time by long suffering, until at last they could no 
 longer think of anything, scarcely conscious whether 
 they were alive or dead, huddled in a crowd like sheep 
 on the edge of a precipice, when the fog rises from the 
 depths beneath. . . . 
 
 Before the sight of this misery the crowd remained 
 quite silent, as if it had just seen a forest felled to the 
 ground by the passing of a cyclone, too deeply moved to 
 speak, or to exclaim, unconscious that this silent emotion 
 is the truest sympathy. They were at peace, they had 
 just come out of their warm houses. ... And this was 
 some of the wreckage of war. These poor people over- 
 whelmed by misfortune. These poor old folks driven 
 from their homes. 
 
 Potterat felt the tears rush to his eyes. He dashed 
 them away with his fist. He could only repeat: " This 
 is awful ! It's awful ! . . . My God ! . . . Those poor 
 children, those poor old men and women ! . . ." 
 
 At the first moment, then, a sort of stupor seizes one 
 which makes one stand with open mouth and folded 
 arms and staring eyes, as if one had just had a blow on 
 the head; and then suddenly the blood rushes from the 
 heart again, rises to the cheeks, and to the ends of the 
 ringers, which become active at once. . . . Then the 
 crowd suddenly rushed forward. All the baskets and 
 bags and parcels were frantically opened, and presently 
 the train was bombarded from the platform, with a 
 continuous stream of shirts, trousers, waistcoats, petits 
 pains, oranges, sausages, dolls, woolly bears, chocolate, 
 sweets, flannel, hats, shoes, buttons, cigars, pipes, news- 
 papers, etc. There was a ripple of nervous laughter, 
 and everyone said words that seemed to stick in his 
 throat. The refugees took the things eagerly, glad to 
 possess something once more, eager for this sympathy 
 which rose all round them in a deep murmur, eager to 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 233 
 
 press the hands which were stretched out to theirs after 
 everything had been given. One saw a baker go along 
 the train with his biggest basket on his back filled with 
 hundreds of croissants which he distributed. Boulenaz, 
 the sympathetic policeman, unbuttoned his tunic, and 
 drew from an inner pocket a letter, which he gave, blush- 
 ing the while, to an old man, whose head nodded con- 
 tinually, like an automatic doll. And Potterat could be 
 both seen and heard, as he ran along the train, with a 
 dozen or so of pairs of braces, decorated with a Federal 
 cross, hung over his arm, calling out : 
 
 " Who wants new braces ? . . . You ? . . . And you ? 
 . . . Here you are ! . . . Three more ! Two more ! . . . 
 That's the last ! . . . Who'd like a pipe ? . . . Who wants 
 some tobacco ? . . . Here you are, little girl, here are 
 some sweets for you. Give some of them to your little 
 brothers and sisters , . ." and so on, until at last, " Oh, 
 bother ! I've nothing more ! . . . Oh, here's my pocket- 
 knife . . . and a pencil. . . . There you are." 
 
 To a man who thanked him warmly for a pair of braces, 
 he said: 
 
 ' You'll be rebuilding your house one of these days, 
 my friend, and for stooping and lifting heavy stones you 
 must have strong braces. ... If you read, one day or 
 other, in your newspapers, hard things about us, turn 
 over the page. The real Swiss people, the backbone 
 of the nation, are here to-day on this platform, with 
 hearts full of sympathy and of indignation." For a 
 long time he could not say anything more, then he burst 
 out: " Damn them !" 
 
 At all the doors were children munching the crescents 
 with their golden crust, their little mouths already 
 smeared with chocolate. Their elders were unrolling 
 their parcels. Some old men in shirt-sleeves were trying 
 on waistcoats and coats. Everyone was talking. 
 
 '* Where do you come from ? . . ." 
 
234 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " From the camp at — at Ah, I can't remember 
 
 the name." 
 
 " Did they treat you badly ?" 
 
   You see how we are. . . . And we've buried such a 
 lot. . . ." 
 
 " And where are you going ?" 
 
 " Wherever they take us. I don't know. We have 
 to go where we're taken nowadays. ..." 
 
 One bent old man, his chin covered with a sparse white 
 beard, leant out and said: 
 
 " I used to be in the Chasseurs d'Afrique. ... I had 
 a medal. . . . They have taken it from me. . . . But we'll 
 take it back from them. I have eleven sons and sons- 
 in-law with the colours. . . . Eleven ! . . . I'm seventy- 
 seven years old, but after what I have seen, and suffered, 
 I'd go to the front to-morrow, if they'd have me." 
 
 " I," said Potterat, " am sixty-five, but if they come 
 to Switzerland, I'll bet you that . . ." an important 
 official passed just then, ..." that . . . You're going 
 to have fine weather, I think, for your journey back to 
 France. ..." 
 
 A signal. . . . The faces in the windows were about to 
 fade into the distance. 
 
 Potterat stepped back a little in order to get an im- 
 pression of the whole scene. He wished, too, to send 
 something of himself with these strangers. They passed. 
 As the train moved on, he saluted those in it with 
 wide sweeps of the hat. As the train glided past, he 
 saw again the one-eyed woman, the laughing children, 
 the pale creature with purple shadows under her eyes 
 that spelt death, the lady with a sweet distinguished 
 face, very dignified in her cheap cloak, the old Chasseur 
 d'Afrique, old women, some with haggard faces and 
 cunning eyes, others with calm prayerful brows, young 
 girls with the restrained smiles of those who are ignorant 
 of the fate of brothers, of lovers ... all these human 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 235 
 
 grains, blown hither and thither by the whirlwind of 
 war; . . . doleful attitudes, eyes gazing into vacancy, 
 inexpressible suffering, clenched fists. 
 
 Every head in the crowd was uncovered as from the 
 train hands and handkerchiefs were waved, adieux from 
 eyes and hearts. Vive la Suisse ! . . . Just as the last 
 carriage was gliding round the curve out of sight, a man 
 leant out of a carriage-window, a huge giant with flying 
 hair, and yelled with all the force of his lungs to the 
 horizon: " Vive la France ! Death to the Boches !" 
 
 " There's one, anyhow, who is not so very neutral," 
 said Potterat. 
 
 " How very tactless !" said a gentleman standing near 
 Potterat. " What a pity ! But for him everything 
 would have passed off with perfect dignity." 
 
 " Tactless, do you call it ?" retorted Potterat. " Per- 
 haps it's a good thing on the whole not to be too polite. 
 If one scratches long enough, the polish comes off, sooner 
 or later. It seems to me that the poor fellow might 
 plead extenuating circumstances. They weren't very 
 tactful to him when they turned him out of his house 
 with the butt-ends of their rifles." The gentleman said 
 no more. 
 
 " You and Carlo go home ..." said Potterat to his 
 wife, " I feel too upset altogether to come in just yet. 
 It'll quiet me down, I think, if I take a walk to Vidy 
 and look up Louise. It's over a fortnight now since 
 we've seen her." 
 
 With his arms crossed behind his back he set out on 
 his walk. When he reached the cemetery of Montoie, 
 he felt a desire to go in for a minute or two ; it looked so 
 peaceful under the still wintry sun, its white tombstones 
 showing through the laurustinus bushes. The fountain 
 in the middle was playing. In the trees the birds'-nests 
 showed like black stains. 
 
 " Look out !" he called to a blackbird who was flying 
 
236 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 swiftly about. " Just now cathedrals, and hospitals, and 
 cemeteries are not the safest places to lodge a family. ..." 
 
 The setting sun gilded the resinous trunks of the pine- 
 trees, and lit up the distant Savoyard mountains. All 
 nature was so beautiful that it saddened one; it seemed 
 as if, whilst men were killing each other, Nature pursued 
 unmoved her secret dream. . . . Standing before the 
 tomb of his first wife, Potterat said: 
 
 " You are lucky ! . . . Life's not much of a boon 
 just now ! . . . However, we did our duty this after- 
 noon ! . . . You would have liked to have seen that ! 
 . . . But it would have made you sad. ..." 
 
 Then he came to Belisaire's grave. 
 
 " Good-day, Belisaire ! . . . For once, you keep to the 
 same old place. . . . Ah, you were wise to go when you 
 did ! We don't know what sort of a world of robbers 
 we're living in now. . . . It's no longer a place for people 
 like you and me. ... By the way, I have given away 
 your Sunday clothes, the blue suit, to an old man, the 
 sort of man you would have liked, from whom those 
 Philistines had taken everything. . . . You don't mind, 
 do you ? Hey ?" 
 
 A step crunched on the gravel. Potterat looked round 
 and recognized Rappaz, the gardener, who had lately lost 
 his only child, a little girl of seven. They shook each 
 other by the hand silently. Then, each looking different 
 ways, Potterat said: 
 
 " You have come to see. ..." 
 
 " Yes. . . ." 
 
 "What did she die of?" 
 
 " Oh, there were complications . . . meningitis. . . . 
 It is hard ! . . ." 
 
 " It is that ! . . . On the other hand, they are spared 
 much sorrow and suffering. In a way, it's almost better 
 to die young. ..." 
 
 " That's what I said to myself when I saw those 
 refugees. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 237 
 
 " And I, too, the same thing ! I was just thinking a 
 while ago, before my wife's grave, what a blessed de- 
 liverance, what rest and peace. ..." 
 
 " Your wife's grave ? . . ." 
 
 " Oh, my first wife, I should have said. ..." 
 
 " Ah yes, of course, of course. . . . But these things 
 seem to happen so quickly nowadays, you see. ..." 
 
 Rappaz went away, and Potterat remained for a few 
 minutes longer watching the last rays of the setting sun 
 on the tree-tops, and listening to the fountain's gentle 
 murmur, which the breeze sometimes stopped for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Au revoir !" he said to his dead, as usual, and went 
 on his way. 
 
 At the farm the one-eyed man from Pays-d'Enhaut 
 told him that Louise was out. 
 
 " She said she was going to see the refugees pass 
 through, and she took them a fine big parcel. ..." 
 
 " Really ! . . . And I've just come from there. . . . 
 But in such a crowd as that it's easy to miss people. 
 Well, well, I'm very glad to know that she went. . . . 
 That's like my daughter ! Tell her I said so. . . . Well, 
 and how is everything going ? . ,. ." 
 
 " Oh, we're slaving away as usual. We're clearing 
 every corner of the land to plant all the vegetables we 
 can in the spring. You see, if Italy closes her frontiers 
 against us. . . ." 
 
 " You're quite right. It's just as well to be pre- 
 pared. ..." 
 
 On his way back, Potterat met once more the Cremets, 
 dressed in black as usual, taking their little lonely walk 
 between the silvery Lake and this town of strangers. 
 
 "Isn't the Lake beautiful this evening?" Potterat 
 called out to them. 
 
 " Oh, to appreciate it fully one ought to live here." 
 
 " Well, aren't you living here ?" 
 
238 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Well, not exactly. . . . However kindly we are treated, 
 still, you see, we are here because we can't help it. . . . 
 Our hearts are elsewhere all the time. . . . We look at it, 
 but we scarcely see it, you understand. ..." 
 
 Guessing vaguely how these poor exiles felt, and turning 
 at the same time to stare after a little woman dressed 
 in the extreme of fashion, gaiters, a low-necked blouse, 
 a marvellous coiffure, and a jaunty little hat perched 
 sideways on top of her painted face, Potterat agreed : 
 
 " Oh, there's no doubt that after what you have seen, 
 and what you have suffered, to meet these silly half- 
 dressed little monkeys, like that girl who passed us just 
 now, nearly knocking you down with her scent, isn't 
 exactly in tune with your feelings. . . . And then, too, 
 all these hotel people that we have here, these tennis- 
 players and all those individuals who don't know how to 
 get through the time at twenty-five francs a day, they 
 don't seem to fit in with the war, do they ? . . . The fact is 
 that half these women who frequent the hotels lace them- 
 selves up so tightly that there's no room for any heart. 
 . . . They ought to go into mourning, and put off some 
 of their airs and graces for a time. . . . What use are 
 they anyhow ? . . . All the men in Europe are being 
 killed, and in the future there will be neither weddings 
 nor cradles. ... So what's the good of painting their 
 faces ? . . . But, to change the subject, why don't you 
 ever go to see any of these convoys of deported people at 
 the station passing through ?" 
 
 Cremet shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 :< We don't need to go and see what we have lived 
 through ourselves." 
 
 " That's true. . . . Oh, but it is disgraceful ! Robbing 
 poor people of everything they possess, of all the comfort 
 of life, their food, their wine, their fruit, fire, photographs, 
 the butter on their bread, everything that they can see 
 from their windows, all their little savings. . . . We're 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 239 
 
 going back to the time of Nebuchadnezzar, if I'm not 
 mistaken. . . . Look here ! This is a piece I cut out of 
 the Feuille d'Avis yesterday evening, in an article on 
 The Ninth Commandment. It's taken from a book by 
 a Lieutenant Joachim, called The Ten Commandments of 
 the Sword, and it's authentic. Just listen to this: 
 
 ' There is no room for pity in the heart of a soldier.' 
 1 The soldier who gives up his cloak to a woman 
 who is cold sins against his country. Better that a 
 hundred enemy women and children should die of 
 cold and hunger than that a single soldier should 
 suffer.' 
 
 ' You, soldiers, you must pass over the earth like 
 a storm-wind. Others may speak of pity, but you 
 must strike down and annihilate your enemies. You 
 are the tragedians under the starry sky, and God 
 Himself is the audience. . . .' 
 
 "... They have the cheek to think, you see, that the 
 Supreme Being looks down with approval on their 
 brutalities. . . . What I can't understand is why God 
 doesn't, with one big kick starting from eternity, kick us 
 all like a football straight into hell ! . . . This Joachim, 
 now, I should just like to have him all to myself for a little 
 while behind a hedge ! . . . I should first read a bit of his 
 own book to him. Then I should roll up my sleeves, 
 spit on my hands, and then, wouldn't I just go for 
 him ! . . . I bet you he wouldn't be able to sit down 
 comfortably for a year or two after I had done with 
 him ! . . . Oh, it's a rotten world, I tell you ! . . ." 
 
 Cremet did not say anything: his wife merely shook 
 her head. They knew only one thing, that they had 
 been turned out of their home and country. 
 
 The same evening, when the two women had gone to 
 see a neighbour, Potterat took up the conversation again. 
 Somewhat overwrought, and in consequence a little frac- 
 
240 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 tious, Potterat for once became aggressive, neutral, 
 sarcastic. Cremet was reading the paper which lay on 
 the table. He was indignant because it did not con- 
 demn more decidedly the enemies of Belgium, did not 
 range itself more openly and fearlessly on her side, but 
 contented itself with more or less ambiguous remarks 
 and vague generalizations. 
 
 " You see, you can't very well understand our position. 
 ... If we seem to be trying to please all parties, we have 
 very good reasons. Has it ever occurred to you that 
 we are in the very heart of the fire ? . . . That we 
 ought to think twice before plunging our country, too, 
 into the general conflagration ? . . . That we have, here 
 in Switzerland, three languages and two religions, that 
 the Government has to balance all these conflicting in- 
 terests; to soothe this one, to shut up that one's mouth, 
 and, above all, to be careful not to offend the big ogre ! 
 . . . This neutrality is imposed upon us by our geographi- 
 cal situation. . . . Monsieur Dufournet, the Member of 
 Parliament, calls it a neutrality of existence. . . . You 
 understand, don't you ? . . . This being the case, you 
 mustn't criticize us, our politics, our newspapers, nor 
 our coffee. Everyone has his own ways and customs, 
 and everyone likes his own best, and knows best 
 what suits himself. . . . Our rivers and streams flow 
 in every direction. . . . It isn't very surprising that 
 our individual convictions should do the same. . . . Then 
 again, there is the question of getting in supplies, which 
 is the same for all of us, no matter what language we 
 speak, or what our religion may be. . . . There you have 
 the real national question. ..." 
 
 Cremet, somewhat overwrought too, by the long weary 
 days of aimless waiting, and vaguely jealous of the security 
 of this peaceful home, retorted: 
 
 " Belgium has paid the price of your safety. It's to 
 us you owe your life. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 241 
 
 " What ? . . . Nonsense ! If you had had universal 
 compulsory military service like us, we should both of 
 us have been safe and sound in this business. . . . Besides, 
 I'll just ask you one question. Suppose it had been 
 Switzerland that had been invaded, our towns burnt, our 
 churches shelled, would you Belgians have come to our 
 help ? Hey ? . . . Would you ? . . ." 
 The Belgian was silent. 
 
 " There, you see ! . . . You can't say ' Yes ' ! . . . It's 
 everyone for himself ! Our Government knows what it 
 is doing, and why it's doing it. That may not sound 
 grand, but it's only common sense. ... If one's reason 
 and one's heart don't agree, what's to be done ? To live 
 together in peace, there are times when everyone has to 
 give way a bit. . . . Anyhow, I didn't make the world, 
 thank goodness. ..." 
 
 Cremet's only reply was a somewhat reproachful 
 glance. Potterat jumped up. 
 
 '■ I don't know why I'm talking like this, Cremet ! . . . 
 I expect it's a sort of reaction. . . . The fact is, old man, 
 I was terribly upset this afternoon. ... I'm too soft- 
 hearted altogether. ... It haunts me all the time, that 
 scene at the station ! . . . I feel almost as if I were to 
 blame for it somehow. . . . And it makes one feel a bit 
 touchy, when one has expected great things from one's 
 country, and has been disappointed: disappointed not 
 in its kind-heartedness, but in its pride, in its unity of 
 feeling, in . . . in . . . What was I going to say ? . . . 
 Well, what I mean is, that when one has been disap- 
 pointed in a certain way, and one is a keen patriot, one 
 suffers so much in hearing the country criticized by 
 strangers, that one gives an opening for criticism oneself. 
 . . . Look here, old man, don't let us talk any more 
 about it ! . . . We know each other, and respect each 
 other. We, as well as you, are the victims of circum- 
 stances. It's a pity, but there it is. . . . Shake hands, 
 
 16 
 
242 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Cremet. . . . You are in exile, and you're my guest. . . . 
 I take back everything I said." 
 
 Cremet took his pipe out of his mouth, and held out 
 his hand. And once more he said : 
 
 " Monsieur Potterat, you are a good man. ..." 
 
 That night, while he was undressing, Potterat was 
 seized with an attack of sincerity, which his wife did 
 not altogether understand. 
 
 " It's a nice state of things !" he said. " After having 
 spent the greater part of my life in upholding law and 
 order, to be obliged now, in obedience to these orders 
 from Berne, to bottle up what one thinks, what one 
 knows, to tell only half the truth, to juggle with one's 
 conscience. . . . Sometimes I feel like shouting out all I 
 know . . . but I dare not ! . . . nobody dares ! . . . We all 
 compromise. ... If you express yourself too plainly, the 
 censor steps in with his big scissors. . . . We live in a 
 continual state of uneasiness. ... It would be far better, 
 it seems to me, instead of keeping up this silence and 
 these evasions, to discuss the whole thing freely with 
 our Confederates. . . . Much better to open an abscess 
 than to keep it closed and poison the blood ! . . . Here 
 we are, some millions of Swiss people, most of us splendid 
 patriots, leading a perfectly wretched existence, since. 
 . . . We all feel, every one of us, since our silence last 
 August, that we've not done the right thing. . . . Ah, 
 how I envy Joffre ! . . . There's a man who can say white 
 is white, and black is black ! . . . It's a great mistake for 
 a little country to lose its courage. ..." 
 
 " Then do you want us to join in this war ? . . ." asked 
 his wife, terrified. " Do you want to see thousands of 
 our young men crippled for life ? . . ." 
 
 " Who's talking about war ? . . . W T ar is horrible 
 beyond words. But if, last August, in accordance with 
 our traditions, and our neutrality, guaranteed by all the 
 Great Powers, by Heaven ! if only we had said firmly, but 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 243 
 
 quietly and diplomatically, to anyone whom it might con- 
 cern : ' You have invaded Belgium ! You have invaded 
 Luxemburg ! Allow me to tell you, gentlemen, that 
 Switzerland considers your conduct shameful !' . . . Just 
 that ! . . . Nothing more ! . . . What would have been 
 the result ? Well, we should have an easy conscience 
 now, and the knowledge that our hearts were in the right 
 place. . . . And we should have been cheerful, knowing 
 that we had been brave. We should have done our 
 military service with pleasure. We should have shown 
 to the world that we think of something higher than 
 merely getting in supplies. We should have presented a 
 united front to the world. . . . But fust look at the way 
 things are now ! . . . As for war, there would have been 
 no more likelihood of war than there is now. . . . less if 
 anything. . . . We provoke no one ... we take no sides 
 ... we merely state our opinion. . . . And hang it all, 
 they did invade Belgium, didn't they ? . . ." 
 
 " Look here, David, you take these things too much 
 to heart. All we can do is to say nothing, but to help 
 those poor refugees all we can." 
 
 " That doesn't alter my opinion. We could, and we 
 ought to, do both." 
 
 " It's none of our business." 
 
 " That's a nice sort of thing to say ! . . . ' It's none of 
 our business !' . . . All the little nations are in the same 
 boat. If justice and honour and respect for treaties 
 which enable us to exist, are none 'of our business, I 
 should like to know what is our business ? . . . Oh, let 
 me go to sleep ! At least one forgets everything for a 
 time. One goes back into nothing. . . ." 
 
 " David ! Don't talk like that ! . . . ' Into nothing !' 
 What would the pastor say if he heard you ? . . ." 
 
 " Well, he's not here," said Potterat, casting an in- 
 voluntary glance round him. " I don't know what's the 
 matter with me to-day. I said all sorts of silly things 
 
244 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 to Cremet too. ... I had begun to say something kind 
 and sympathetic to one of those refugees to-day, and 
 when I saw the magistrate close to me, I finished it up 
 quite differently. ... I'm a nice fearless kind of man, 
 eh ? . . . I'm only a tame cat about the house, that's 
 what I am ! . . . coming in for my meals, and quite con- 
 tent with that. . . . What is the matter with us all ? . . . 
 WTiat we need is a little more of the blood of our ancestors 
 in our veins, a little more love of liberty for ourselves 
 and for others. . . . Really, I begin to think that it would 
 be far easier to stand the fleas and the privations of a 
 concentration camp than to be as we are. ..." 
 
 He got into bed. The rain dashed against the window- 
 panes, a cold February rain, half sleet. It was very 
 pleasant to find a hot-water bottle at his feet. The 
 thick curtains were closely drawn. Potterat enjoyed 
 the exquisite warmth. 
 
 " It wouldn't take much to make me purr like a cat," 
 he said. " My word ! WTiat it must be like at the 
 bottom of those trenches ! . . . Dragging one's feet 
 through thick mud, walking on frogs, slipping in blood, 
 feeling the fog creeping down your back, and chilling you 
 through and through, no more able to change your shirt 
 than an onion, to have to sleep with one eye open, and 
 to keep a lookout for a possible attack of the enemy 
 through the bushes with his bayonet between his teeth. 
 . . . Nice, comfortable, luxurious sort of existence, isn't it ? 
 ... I declare I am ashamed of this hot-water bottle ! 
 . . . All the same, I suppose I'd better keep it. ..." 
 
 Madame Potterat was already asleep. The breath 
 came evenly from her parted lips. Her husband felt 
 jealous of this easy sleep, and he sighed. 
 
 "These women! . . . After all, they're very limited! ..." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A thin toothless old Savoyard woman used to come 
 over regularly to the Potterats' to sell eggs, fish, and 
 vegetables. She was very loquacious, and so amusing 
 that they often asked her to come in and have a cup of 
 coffee in the kitchen. Potterat loved to tease her, and 
 she, with her sharp little quick-witted face under her 
 gauffered cap, was quite a match for him. 
 
 Since the war, she had changed altogether. And this 
 morning, drawing a letter from her pocket, she said : 
 
 " They tell me that you have an office for inquiries 
 here at Lausanne. Would you kindly do me a service, 
 Monsieur Potterat ? . . . I have a letter here which I 
 have written. ... If you would please read it, and get 
 it sent to the right people for me ? . . . I shall go mad 
 if I can't get some news. . . ." 
 
 The letter was as follows: 
 
   To all whom it may concern. 
 
 ' Since the 13th August, 1914, I have had no 
 news of my son, Jean Marie Anthouard, private in the 
 4th Engineers, 13th Company, recently in action at 
 Grenoble. We know that he was wounded, picked up 
 by his comrades, and that then he had to be abandoned, 
 because of heavy artillery fire. 
 
 ' Since the 3rd September, 1914, I have had no news, 
 either, of Claude Anthouard, my second son, private in 
 the 3rd Infantry, 1st Company, 1st Battalion, who joined 
 at Annecy. 
 
 ' Any information concerning the above will be thank- 
 fully received by their mother, the Widow Anthouard, 
 Neuvecelle, Haute-Savoie.' 
 
 245 
 
246 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Potterat seemed slow in reading it. 
 
 " I will do my best," said he, at length, in the severely 
 official voice which he put on when he wished to hide 
 his emotion. " I will forward your letter to Geneva 
 with a line or two from myself. You may depend on 
 me. . . ." 
 
 " Do you think it is true, Monsieur, what they are 
 saying over in our place, that they finish them on the 
 spot where they fall, kill them like dogs, with blows from 
 the butt-ends of their guns ? . . . The wounded, too, who 
 might have been able to recover ! . . . There are some 
 who have heard them screaming, they say. . . . Oh, I 
 feel as if I should go mad ! . . ." 
 
 ' This awful war !" said Potterat, unable to say any 
 more. " It makes me sick !" 
 
 Madame Potterat offered her some refreshment. 
 
 " No, thank you, nothing, Madame," she said. " No 
 coffee to-day, thank you. . . . Oh, if you only knew how 
 awful it is to have no news. . . . You have your good 
 man here, your son, everyone belonging to you. . . . No, 
 you in Switzerland can't imagine what it is. . . ." 
 
 Madame Cremet joined the group when she heard this. 
 
 " Ah, I know what it is ! . . . No, they don't realize 
 it here. ... I am a Belgian. . . . And I don't know 
 anything about my children, either. . . . Four children, 
 eighteen grandchildren ! . . . There are some of our 
 villages where every single person was killed. ..." 
 
 Mingling their sorrows and anxieties, the two old 
 women wept together. And seeing the great tears roll 
 down their cheeks Madame Potterat began to cry also. 
 Potterat turned his head away, wiping his eyes. Be- 
 tween two sobs one said : 
 
 " Truly the devil is passing through the land." 
 
 " He's not passing, he's staying." 
 
 " Oh ! When I see the postman going round our road, 
 and never a letter for me," said the little Savoyard, " I 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 247 
 
 go and hide myself in the cellar . . . and then I hear the 
 neighbours shouting: 'A letter from Victor!' ... 'A 
 letter from my Casimir !' . . . I stop my ears. . . . And 
 my third and last son goes next week. He says all the 
 time : ' It's a good thing, too ! You make me miserable 
 with your crying !' . . . But to have lost two, and very 
 soon perhaps the third also, is too much !" 
 
 ' They'll be found for you, Madame, never fear," said 
 Potterat. " We will begin making inquiries at once. 
 I'll see to it, and I'll add a few words to your letter, as 
 I said. . . . Oh, we'll find them, I promise you. . . . And 
 then . . . (he did not quite know how to express his fear) 
 . . . they were brave fellows, your boys ! ... if , by chance, 
 they should be no longer on earth, it is at the top of 
 the ladder you'll find them." 
 
 These words consoled the poor old woman somewhat. 
 She had a momentary vision of her boys at the top of 
 a ladder of gold, in a beautiful blue heaven, where the 
 Virgin Mary, clothed in white, sat enthroned. Shaking 
 hands with them warmly, she went off, bending under the 
 weight of the basket on her back, while the Potterats 
 stood gazing after her, and Madame Cremet sat with her 
 hands on her knees, gazing into the past. 
 
 When Potterat had finished addressing the letter, he 
 said to his wife : 
 
 " It's quite true, what she said about us Swiss, that 
 we don't realize ... we shall never be able to realize 
 what war is. . . . We live too quietly. . . . And heaps of 
 people here are amusing themselves just as usual. . . . 
 Just look at those ' winter sports ' places, where they 
 have to refuse people, they are so full ! The fact is, we 
 don't do half enough for all these poor creatures. . . . 
 On my way back from town, I'll buy some flowers for the 
 Cremets . . . we'll put them at their places at supper. ..." 
 
 Presently came the news that the Russians were in 
 retreat. Potterat had a terrible fit of depression. 
 
248 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " That's very bad news ! . . . They're on the run, 
 evidently ! . . . We'll have to look out ! . . . I think I'll 
 emigrate to Canada ! ..." 
 
 One day, Madame Sauer came in, much excited. 
 
 " Monsieur Potterat, I believe there's a spy on the 
 fifth floor !" 
 
 Zimmerli ? . . . Impossible !" 
 
 " No, the flat opposite. . . . It's a woman. . . . She 
 shows a light every quarter of an hour all through the 
 night. . . . And a Savoy woman told me that there is 
 known to be a nest of spies at Evian who do the same 
 sort of tricks. . . . They are all working together, and they 
 signal to each other across the Lake. ..." 
 
 " What's her name ?" 
 
 " Barbara Tannenbaum." 
 
 " Barbara Tannenbaum ! . . . The very name gives her 
 away ! . . . All right ! Leave it to me. I'll soon find 
 out all about it quietly and discreetly. ..." 
 
 With a job of this kind on hand Potterat was himself 
 again. Soon after this, as he was talking over the affair 
 with a few of his friends at the Cafe d'Etraz, Schmid the 
 landlord leaned over to whisper confidentially in his ear : 
 
 " Spies ? . . . They are everywhere now ! . . . Listening, 
 making notes, collecting all sorts of information. . . . 
 And every now anc\ then some of it comes in useful. . . . 
 You know that case at Geneva ? Well, in that it came 
 out that they had made lists of motor-cars, of horses, 
 and of the facilities for putting them up. . . . They had 
 more information at their fingers' -ends than our own 
 General Staff. . . . Well, now, I'm certain that one of 
 them comes in here ... a big fair fellow. ... He sits 
 there in that corner all alone, and stays for the best 
 part of an hour, drinking half a pint of wine. He pre- 
 tends not to be noticing anything, but in reality he takes 
 in every word that is said. . . . Hell be coming along 
 presently . . . it's just about his time. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 249 
 
 " Would you like me to settle him for you ? . . . I 
 know the way to make these gentry take to their heels. 
 . . . After thirty years in the Police, it would be odd if 
 I didn't. . . ." 
 
 Presently the man, a sturdy-looking fellow, with an 
 upturned moustache, came in and took his usual seat. 
 Potterat in a leisurely way strolled over and took a seat at 
 the same table. Very quietly he took from an inner 
 pocket some papers, a notebook, and a pencil, and pro- 
 ceeded to make some notes, looking very serious, and 
 from time to time casting sharp, searching glances across 
 the table at his vis-a-vis, after each of which his pencil 
 went faster than ever. Presently he said brusquely: 
 
 " Excuse me, Monsieur, are you travelling ?" 
 
 A grunt which might have meant anything was the 
 only reply. 
 
 "It's a jolly fine day to-day. A real spring day. 
 Isn't it ?" 
 
 A nod of the head answered him. 
 
 1 You are a commercial traveller, aren't you ? . . . Oh, 
 no offence, I hope, ... I don't mean to be inquisitive, it 
 was just for something to say. I'm in the Police, myself. 
 I've got here a certain number of descriptions of people 
 I've got to look out for, so I have to study them every 
 now and then, and keep my eyes open as I go about. 
 I make some notes, too, now and then. ..." 
 
 Precipitately, the man rose, paid his score, and departed. 
 A roar of laughter rose from the habitues of the house. 
 
 " Did you see how I sent him off ?" swaggered Potterat. 
 " He took me for a detective. . . . Oh, I know how to 
 track these fellows. ... I'm watching one now at 
 Chailly, and the day before yesterday I was on the Palud, 
 talking to a friend, when my bird passed. So I said to 
 my friend, rather loud, you know, ' Never seen a spy, 
 haven't you ? . . . W T ell, there's one, and a clever one, 
 too ! . . . ' There was a crowd of people about us, 
 
250 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 but he was the only one who turned round. I said to 
 my friend, ' When you call out " Medor !" to a pack of 
 hounds, it's only the one who is called " Medor !" who 
 comes at your call.' See ? . . . Now I am going to get 
 to the bottom of this affair of signalling to Evian. I'll 
 let you know what comes of it." 
 
 Zimmerli always came back from his office about seven 
 o'clock, and after the time required to eat a cold supper, 
 and change his black office suit for an old grey one which 
 he wore at home, he sat down before his music-stand, 
 and began to tune his zither. Everyone in the house 
 was familar with this hour of romantic effusion. When 
 their supper dishes were washed and put away, Madame 
 Mottaz, Madame Sauer, and Mdlle. Peytrequin, used 
 to sit out on their balconies, and live over again the 
 romance of their lives, reawakened by these old songs 
 without words. 
 
 Zimmerli was not surprised to see Potterat appear in 
 his garret. He thoroughly enjoyed a visit from Potterat, 
 who was a kindred spirit in the matter of music. But 
 this evening in particular, Potterat seemed rather pre- 
 occupied. He wandered to the window, drummed with 
 his fingers on the glass, drew aside the curtain, and at 
 last he said : 
 
 " You have a splendid view of Evian from your flat. 
 This window is as good as an observatory. . . . You have 
 the moon and the wind all to yourself up here." ' 
 
 " Oh yes, it's a beautiful view. And just before rain, 
 you can see every house across the Lake quite distinctly." 
 
 " Just so. . . . They can be seen only too well ! ... By 
 the way, Zimmerli, isn't the flat opposite yours occupied 
 now? . . . Rather a good-looking woman, isn't she ? . . ." 
 
 " I've scarcely seen her. She goes out after I've gone 
 in the morning, and she gets back before me. ..." 
 
 Potterat folded his arms, and, fixing a stern eye on 
 Zimmerli, said : 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 251 
 
 " She's suspected of being a spy." 
 
 " What ? . . . This woman ? . . ." 
 
 " Yes. We're not altogether sure yet. . . . I've been 
 asked to find out about her. . . . Rather a difficult and 
 delicate task, isn't it ? . . . Now, your garret overlooks 
 hers, and you must watch her." 
 
 " Certainly not ! I shouldn't do such a thing for the 
 world !" and Zimmerli rose, his celibate modesty deeply 
 outraged. 
 
 ' What's that ? . . . But I don't think you realize 
 what kind of person she is. . . . This is an affair of es- 
 pionage. A light is shown here, and another replies. . . . 
 It seems harmless enough, but they have a whole code 
 of signals by lights. . . . They are carried on further, 
 transmitted from one to the other. It may very well be 
 done to order an attack. . . . Zimmerli, the lives of ten 
 thousand men may depend on what is signalled across 
 the Lake from the window of your next-door neighbour !" 
 
 Zimmerli was startled and impressed by these figures. 
 And that a thing like this should have been going on so 
 close to him seemed to make him a sort of accomplice. 
 
 " But what ought I to do ?" 
 
 " Just watch, nothing else. In the evening, put out 
 your own lights, leave your zither alone for a couple of 
 days or so, and watch this young woman. . . . Listen to 
 her moving about. . . . Notice whether she goes to bed, 
 and if so, when ? . . . Whether anyone comes to see her, 
 and if so, whether man or woman ? . . . Whether she 
 turns on her electric light after she has put it out, and 
 if at regular or irregular intervals ? . . . and anything 
 else that you think may help the authorities." 
 
 Quite concerned, Zimmerli set himself to watch, 
 kneeling behind his window. Next day he reported that 
 she moved about continually, that she turned her electric 
 light on and off at least three times an hour. Potterat 
 whistled through his teeth, and walked twice round the 
 
252 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 garret. Then, stopping suddenly in front of Zimmerli, 
 he gazed into the transparent eyes lifted to his. 
 
 " Zimmerli, this is undoubtedly spying of the worst 
 kind. And it is going on so close to your rooms that 
 you are very likely to be mixed up in any inquiry about 
 it. That's the annoying part of the business." 
 
 Zimmerli sat down. Behind his glasses shone a quiet 
 conscience, a little short-sighted, but quite serene. He 
 murmured : 
 
 " I ought to have known better than to have mixed 
 myself up in the thing at all. . . . This evening I shall 
 take to my zither again. ..." 
 
 '? This evening," said Potterat, with stern authority, 
 " you will resume your watching. It is really necessary. 
 You can't establish a formal charge on the result of one 
 night's watching only. . . . You must do it in your own 
 interests; if you don't, it will seem as if you were aiding 
 and abetting. . . . Besides, this woman may even be a 
 man in disguise, a chemist, perhaps, engaged in making 
 explosives. . . . Perhaps he has, hidden away at the 
 bottom of a trunk, some incendiary bombs, asphyxiating 
 gases, tubes of melinite. ... An accident, and you are 
 blown up, you and your bed, to goodness knows what 
 height ... we should find only your zither, hooked on to 
 a cloud. ..." 
 
 Terrified, Zimmerli took up his place at nightfall as 
 before, behind his curtain. 
 
 On his part, Potterat had requested Sergeant Delessert 
 to get him some information about this Barbara Tannen- 
 baum. This information was excellent, as far as it went, 
 papers all in order, a spotless reputation, rent paid 
 regularly. She was a governess in a foreign family, and 
 since the war, her occupation being gone, she had lived 
 very quietly, in order not to exhaust her savings too 
 quickly. . . . 
 
 " Absolutely nothing against her ? . . ." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 253 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 ' That's a pity. However, since nobody is absolutely 
 infallible, with the best intentions in the world, my next 
 move will be a little friendly call. ... I'll soon find out 
 whether she's all right, or not. There's still something 
 queer about this light-flashing business." 
 
 So Potterat knocked discreetly next day at the door 
 on which was pinned a visiting-card with the name 
 ' Barbara Tannenbaum.' Light steps were heard. Then 
 the door was half opened, showing a terribly swollen face, 
 bound up, with drawn features, and eyes reduced to blue 
 slits. 
 
 " Oh, you are suffering from toothache, Madame ?" 
 asked Potterat, his ready sympathy springing to the 
 surface at the sight of suffering. 
 
 U. Oh yes, Monsieur. . . . But it's beginning to go now. 
 . . . Quite time, too. For three days and nights I haven't 
 had a minute's peace with it. . . . I had to get up almost 
 every quarter of an hour and change the compresses. 
 I'm sure I must have disturbed my neighbour. You 
 know him, I think ? . . . . Would you kindly tell him, from 
 me, that he need not stop playing on my account ?" 
 
 This little old lady was simply charming. But now 
 Potterat felt that he must explain his visit in some satis- 
 factory fashion. He had prepared an elaborate story of 
 a sort of census being taken by a Hygiene Commission, 
 and his being charged with the duty of examining the 
 heating arrangements, and measuring the height of the 
 ceilings, etc. This would give him a plausible reason for 
 obtaining access to the flat. But now he dismissed this 
 as being too complicated, and made use of the fact he 
 had just learnt, to give a more natural reason for calling. 
 
 " I live on the third floor, Madame. ... My name is 
 Potterat, retired police-inspector. ... My wife noticed 
 your electric light going on and off repeatedly, and she 
 said to me: ' I'm sure there's someone ill there. . . , You 
 
254 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 must go up and ask if I can be of use in any way ! . . . 
 It's perhaps someone who doesn't know the place, some 
 lonely person ! . . 
 
 Mdlle. Tannenbaum was quite touched by this atten- 
 tion. She promised, as soon as she was well again, to 
 come down and thank Madame Potterat in person for 
 her kindness. 
 
 " Hallo ! . . . What a fine cat ! . . . May I stroke it ? 
 ... I used to have two, Citron and Mi-Fou, but Citron 
 died, and Mi-Fou disappeared when we were moving in 
 here . . . grief at leaving his old home. . . . Now, 
 we haven't got one ... we couldn't think of replacing 
 Mi-Fou, we liked him too well. ..." As he talked, 
 Potterat advanced into the little room, and began to 
 stroke and pat a grey cat, who arched her back with 
 pleasure under his hand. ' ' There, there, pussy ! . . . 
 You can purr, can't you ? . . ." A hasty look round, 
 while apparently devoting himself to the cat, was so 
 satisfactory, that his last suspicion vanished. To begin 
 with, he saw that an angle of the roof jutted out in 
 such a manner that it effectually hid the view of Evian ; 
 and then also, this little interior, so clean, so neat, so 
 prettily adorned with bouquets and souvenirs, seemed 
 quite inconsistent with his suspicions. 
 
 " Anyhow, Madame, if at any time you should need 
 help of any kind don't forget to send for Potterat, on 
 the third floor, the door on the right as you go down, 
 on the left coming up." 
 
 When Potterat next saw Zimmerli, he said, somewhat 
 cryptically : 
 
 v You may take out your zither again. ... It isn't 
 what we thought. . . . That lady opposite you is simply 
 a charming woman of a certain age, who would like to 
 marry a musician, a nice-looking man, with a little money 
 in the bank, fond of his home, affectionate, and with a 
 blameless past, naturally. ... I believe she's got an eye 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 255 
 
 on you ! . . . I warn you so that you may take pre- 
 cautions. ..." 
 
 Zimmerli blushed. And for the first time in his life, 
 after Potterat had gone, before taking up his zither to 
 play ' Moonlight in the Desert,' he got up and locked the 
 door. 
 
 To his wife, Potterat was still more cryptic. 
 
 !< This is all you've got to do. . . . If she comes and 
 thanks you, you must pretend that you know all about 
 it. . . . Say ' Oh, not at all ! . . . Delighted ! . . . Only 
 too happy to . . .' etc., you know the sort of thing ? I 
 can't tell you the whole circumstances. . . . It's a man's 
 affair. ..." 
 
 " I hope it's not improper, then ? . . ." 
 
 ' Potterat 's Belgians ' were most popular. . . . Every- 
 one wanted to entertain them, at least once. The 
 Bigarreaus invited them and had quite a party in their 
 honour, and many were the expressions of sympathy, 
 and the maledictions on their enemies, that rose to the 
 ceiling. While plying them with delicacies, Madame 
 Sauer tried to draw them out on the subject of their 
 frightful experiences. But they always told the story of 
 their flight in exactly the same words, in voices quiet 
 and toneless, much as if they were reading a passport. 
 But after they had done so, there was no lack of 
 animation in their manner, when they asked every- 
 one, as they did, what news there was, and when 
 they thought the war would be over ? for everyone had 
 said: by the spring, you'll see it will be all over. To 
 this people would reply, " Well, it's hard to say !" and 
 nothing more would be said. 
 
 ' In the spring !' . . . Potterat had comforted them 
 with this assurance all through the winter. And now 
 the hazel catkins hung like golden caterpillars from the 
 branches, the yellow primroses heralded the blackbird's 
 
256 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 song. And yet nothing had changed ! . . . It seemed 
 as if when all nature was gay, that the terrors of 
 yesterday ought to vanish . . . that courage and hope 
 would spring up again with the flowers . . . that the 
 force of all this new life would be manifest in the world 
 of men ! . . . 
 
 Cremet, however, could take no pleasure in the eternal 
 miracle of spring. The Lake, in winter, with its tempests 
 and its grey pall of clouds, he loved. But this smiling 
 azure Lake filled him with longing for the long rollers 
 coming in from the horizon, for the more virile sound 
 of the sea. . . . 
 
 Jeanne Cremet suffered less. Between her and Carlo 
 there had sprung up an odd sort of playful teasing affec- 
 tion, in which the old woman showed her love for all 
 young things, her pleasure in caresses and laughter. 
 
 As soon as the boy came back from school, they would 
 play tricks on each other, running from room to room, and 
 sometimes, in the twilight, sitting in a deep window-seat, 
 she would tell him stories of the fishermen of her native 
 town, of the village fetes, when the young girls are 
 resplendent as flowers, of the baptisms of her many 
 grandchildren, and their names, Paul and Virginie, the 
 twins, Leocadie, Beatrice, Yvonne, Francoise, etc., and 
 the boy would try to repeat all the names without 
 missing one. 
 
 " If you only knew the pleasure it gives me to hear 
 you saying these names ! . . . Every night I dream 
 that my little grandchildren are dead. . . . But you don't 
 think they are, do you ? . . " 
 " Not they !" 
 " Oh, say that again !" 
 "I'm sure they're not dead \" 
 
 " Oh, Carlo, I do fret so for them ! . . . I can't help 
 it ! . . . The time seems endless ! . . . endless ! . . . You 
 don't know what it feels like to have neither home, nor 
 
fOTTERAT AND THE WAR 257 
 
 linen, nor furniture, nor my pots and pans, nor my own 
 ways about me ! . . . Everything that one has touched, 
 and felt, and seen, all gone. . . . Oh, we must go back 
 again soon . . . we're homesick for our own place ! . . . 
 And they can do what they like to us ! . . . In the 
 grave, anyhow, we shall meet our loved ones again ! . . ." 
 
 " No, no, you mustn't think of going back ! . . . They 
 would kill you ! . . . You are all right here." 
 
 She kissed him, and he, who as a general rule, detested 
 caresses, made no protest. 
 
 Every evening they read the papers sitting round the 
 table under the lamp, each one buried in these tales of 
 butchery. Suddenly Potterat broke out: 
 
 "Just listen to this ... in a letter written from the 
 front: ' I don't know what the others think, but as far 
 as I'm concerned, the one thing that worries me is the 
 question whether I shall ever have the courage to plunge 
 my bayonet into a man's body, even if that man is called 
 an enemy ?' . . . Good Heavens ! What an awful busi- 
 ness it is after all ! . . . The things one might have to 
 do ! . . . All the same, if it has to be, it must be done. 
 . . . And when one has right on one's side ! . . . When 
 it's a matter of saving one's house, village, wife, children, 
 country ! And above all, when war has been declared 
 upon you. . . . One's not attacking, one's defending 
 oneself then, . . . besides . . . the whole circumstances 
 are abnormal, and there's some difference between the 
 actual thing and sitting listening to a sermon. . . . It's 
 a disagreeable job, no doubt, but you'd simply have 
 to close your eyes, so as not to see too much, and 
 then . . . zip ! . . . And afterwards you nurse him, and do 
 what you can for him." 
 
 " Oh, how disgusting, David ! Do be quiet ! . . ." 
 
 " Disgusting, do you call it ? . . . And to invade a 
 country which has trusted to your signature, isn't that 
 disgusting ? You women will never understand certain 
 
 *7 
 
258 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 things ! . . . Meantime, they are mowing down all the 
 youth of Europe. . . . They must be wanting some good 
 hay down there. ..." 
 
 Cremet raised his eyes from the paper he was reading. 
 
 " They say here that this war will very likely last 
 another three years ! . . . Oh, it's too long, too long ! 
 . . . We must get back somehow sooner ! . . ." 
 
 " Are you so tired of us then ?" 
 
 Cremet shook his head. 
 
 " I'm a fisherman, you know. That is my trade. It's 
 the only way I can earn my bread, and I've got all my 
 things, there. . . . Here I can do nothing, only walk 
 about." 
 
 " My dear fellow, do you really suppose that you're 
 going to find your nets and things there, just as you left 
 them ?" and Potterat let his hands fall with a resounding 
 slap on his hips, "... and your boat moored to the 
 pile? . . ." 
 
 " And what about me ?" insisted Madame Cremet. " I 
 have my garden to think of . . . it's the time to sow 
 things. ..." 
 
 " And where do you think your spades and rakes are 
 now ? . . . I expect that all you would find in your garden 
 would be a " marmite," but not the sort that you could 
 boil a cabbage in. . . . No, no ! Where the enemy has 
 passed, it's well known that not much remains !" 
 
 " And what about our children ?" 
 
 Potterat was silent. But after a minute or so, he 
 returned to the charge : 
 
 " To go all that long way, only to find a heap of cinders. 
 . . . And since I've adopted you, as it were ! . . . Orphans 
 need an adopted father. . . . No, I refuse my consent. 
 . . . Just you stay quietly here, and don't you go looking 
 for trouble." 
 
 Potterat was absolutely sincere. He loved his guests. 
 Since he could take no active part in the war, and yet 
 felt so strongly surging up in him the instincts of justice, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 259 
 
 the natural indignation of a good man against wickedness, 
 the fact of helping these people seemed to lessen to some 
 extent the remorse he felt as a neutral, whose country 
 had made no protest, standing by with folded arms. 
 Looking at Cremet, the innocent victim of a dastardly 
 outrage, whose eyes had the tint of worn-out things, 
 the melancholy of October rain, he felt inclined to clasp 
 to his broad breast this silent being, wrapped in gloom, 
 whom absence from his home had turned into a little 
 broken old man. As he was going to bed, Potterat 
 said to his wife : 
 
 " I don't believe we'll be able to keep them more than 
 another three weeks. . . . They'll spend their Easter, 
 you'll see, amongst the ruins of their home. . . . When 
 one's as homesick as they are, it's no use trying to fight 
 against it . . . it's too strong for you." 
 
 " It's an odd thing, this homesickness ! . . . I'm sure 
 I do my best to make them happy ! . . ." 
 
 " No, it's not odd. It's very natural. ... As I said 
 to you the other day, I should like to see you, a 
 thorough-bred Vaudoise, set down upon a foreign seaside 
 esplanade ! . . . Thank goodness, we are spared that. 
 We can keep fairly cheerful on the whole . . . things are 
 still pretty well with us. Of course we have difficulties, 
 and business isn't so good, and we're losing some money, 
 no doubt, but we are all here in the flesh. Our Cathedral 
 is intact, our bridges are all sound, our roofs have 
 their tiles, and our cemeteries are no fuller than usual. 
 I can't imagine anything more dreadful than, after 
 having spent a long life in hard work, and having 
 saved up a little money for one's old age, to find 
 oneself suddenly in the middle of the night, tearing 
 along a frozen road with a bundle on one's shoulder, 
 darkness in front, and one's house in flames behind 
 one ! . . . If that had happened to me, I should 
 be suspicious, ill-tempered, spiteful, atrabilious, and 
 asthmatic, I'm sure. ... I should hate everybody who 
 
2 6o POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 owned anything. ... If I saw a man, looking out 
 of the window of a comfortably furnished house, fat 
 and lazy, I should feel inclined, I know, to rush in, 
 throw him out of the window, and take possession of 
 his house. ... I shouldn't care a sou for either God 
 or man. ... I should turn my back on them both. 
 . . . Just think what it would be to have to begin 
 again ... to be like Belisaire . . . when one was well 
 over sixty, and had been accustomed to some con- 
 sideration ! . . . A man would need to be a saint to behave 
 properly in such circumstances ! . . ." 
 
 The next day, Potterat was walking along the Lake 
 promenade with Cremet. The swans on the Lake, 
 the seagulls flying in circles, the snowy crests lingering 
 on the higher peaks, the fleecy clouds all stood out 
 against the deep-blue background. Potterat stopped to 
 look at it. 
 
 '■ Would anybody think, looking at that," he said, 
 " that it could be possible for men to be killing each other 
 all round ?" 
 
 Cremet did not reply immediately. He walked on in 
 silence, but with an unexpressed thought in his eyes. 
 At last, timidly as a child asking permission from a 
 schoolmaster, but still decidedly, he spoke: 
 
 " Look here, Potterat, I must speak plainly. . . . You 
 are good and kind beyond words, you and your wife. . . . 
 But this home-sickness is too strong for us. . . . W T e 
 simply must go ! . . . You can understand how strong 
 the longing for one's own country, one's own ways, one's 
 . . . well, one's own country calls ! . . . You say, ' There's 
 no hurry,' but it is not this place that I'm in a hurry 
 to leave, but my own land that I'm in such a hurry to 
 get back to. . . . If I knew that I should be shot the 
 minute I got there, I should want to go all the same ! . . . 
 After all, it's our own home. In ruins or not, I feel I 
 must go back and see what's going on. . . . And my 
 wife, too, feels just the same. . . . She frets after her 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 261 
 
 house, and her pots and pans, and things. . . . She knows 
 very well that she won't find them . . . but at any 
 rate she will be in the place again. . . and perhaps she 
 might find some little souvenir. . . . And if we must 
 die, well, we could die better there ! . . . But it will 
 put more heart into us, only to be in our own country 
 again I . . ." 
 
 Cremet had never before made so long a speech. When 
 he had finished, he looked away. 
 
 ** But have you thought of everything ?" said Potter at. 
 " Have you really decided ? . . ." 
 
 " Quite ! . . . We must go ! . . ." 
 
 This was said in a tone which admitted of no argument. 
 
 " Well, I'm not surprised. I rather expected this. . . . 
 But I think you're wrong ! . . . Wrong in one way, not 
 in another. . . . Oh, I understand exactly how you feel ! 
 ... A man grows into a niche of his own, as it were, and 
 the longer he lives, the more difficult it is to uproot him. 
 And to be exiled at your age ! . . . Oh, haven't I said over 
 and over again that it must be terrible ! .*.. . Well, if you 
 really have decided, I suppose there's nothing more 
 to be said. I shall be very sorry to lose you, but 
 I should think it a sin to put any difficulty in your 
 way. . . ." 
 
 Then they walked the rest of the way home in silence. 
 
 That same evening, as Potterat was dozing on the 
 sofa, a light touch on his shoulder woke him with a start. 
 
 " Please look at this old thing," said Madame Cremet, 
 u and tell me if you think I should be able to sell it here ?" 
 and she held out to him a gold chain with a medallion 
 attached, on which was carved in beautiful filigree work 
 a kneeling figure of the Virgin, encircled by a motto in 
 interlaced letters. It had belonged, she explained, to 
 her mother, and had been handed down for many genera- 
 tions as a family heirloom. 
 
 " When we had to run away, I had no time to pack 
 anything, but I took this out of the drawer where I kept 
 
262 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 it," she said. M Do you think it would fetch enough . . . 
 for the journey ? . . ." 
 
 " What's that you say ? . . . For the journey ? . . . 
 Madame, what are you thinking about ? . . . As if I 
 should let you pay for the journey ! . . . If you'd rather, 
 I'll buy this from you for the price of the tickets, but as 
 I shouldn't know what to do with it, I'll give it back to 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur ! . . ." 
 
 "That's all right! That's all right! . . . It's a 
 pleasure to me. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, how can we thank you ? . . ." 
 
 " How ? . . . Why, by just glancing at the thermometer, 
 if you don't mind, and telling me how many degrees it 
 registers ? . . ." 
 
 " Ah !" sighed Cremet. " I hope the weather won't 
 hinder us from starting on Monday. ... I know it 
 seems mad to go, but we must, we must. ..." 
 
 They wandered restlessly about the flat; they packed, 
 and unpacked, and packed again, their little portmanteau. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? . . ." said Madame 
 Potterat once, a little crossly. " We are most anxious 
 for you to stay with us, but you want to go. . . . Well, 
 then, why don't you settle it once for all ? . . ." 
 
 They ate very little these days, but furtively watched 
 their hosts and the furniture. In this house everything 
 seemed perfectly ordered. And in the streets people 
 went to and fro, each one with a key in his pocket, each 
 one with a home of some kind to go to. They had only 
 to open a door and they were at home in their own 
 houses, sheltered from wind and weather. These people 
 had furniture, and clothes. . . . But what were they 
 going to find when they got home ? . . . The skeleton 
 of their house, the walls* cracked, the beams charred ? 
 . . . And the children ?..-._ They had heard so many 
 dreadful things ! . . . And yet they were obstinately set 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 263 
 
 upon going . . . upon knowing the worst at all costs. 
 Better even, if it must be, to stand weeping before 
 their ruined hearth, where they could reconstruct it in 
 imagination, . . . than stay, not knowing. . . . 
 
 The Potterats were silent. What could they say in 
 face of this blind homing instinct ? . . . 
 
 At last the day was fixed. The train left at eight 
 o'clock. The steep climb up to the station reminded the 
 Cremets of the evening when they had arrived, tired out, 
 stunned with terror and fatigue. Five months ago ! . . . 
 And now they were going back into that hell ! . . . The 
 combined call of race, of the place where they had been 
 born and brought up, of a hundred half -forgotten things, 
 drew them back irresistibly. Had they not been wrong 
 to stay away so long from the blood-stained sunsets, 
 the well-remembered roads, now trodden only by heavy 
 military boots ? . . . They walked through the crowds 
 unseeing, indifferent to all that was passing, crushed 
 by the fear that had settled down upon their hearts. 
 Poor little Mother and Father Cremet ! 
 
 " Now, Carlo, hurry up ! Come and say good-bye !" 
 
 Carlo was crying behind his mother's back. They all 
 looked at each other. 
 
 " I don't know how to. . . . I can't tell you. . . . We 
 shall never forget your great kindness to us. . . ." 
 
 " Why don't you stay with us ? . . ." 
 
 '* Oh, it's not possible." 
 
 " Come along ! . . . Get out of the train, and let us all 
 go back to the house !" 
 
 " No, no, we must go !" 
 
 It seemed truly as if some relentless Fate were dragging 
 them from that haven of peace to plunge them again 
 into the black cloud of war, but there was their country, 
 the graves of their dead, their garden, the sea. . . . 
 
 " Write to us, anyhow, and if you have need of any- 
 thing be sure and let us know. . . . And if they worry 
 you, threaten them with Potterat, of the Swiss Police. 
 
264 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 . . . And if you can't get along, just you come straight 
 back here as quick as you can. We'll keep your bed 
 ready in the drawing-room. ..." 
 
 " Take your seats, please." 
 
 They were already in the carriage, looking very much 
 as they did when they arrived; the same frightened 
 fugitive air, the rounded backs, the anxious glances, the 
 hands meekly folded on their knees. 
 
 " Tell your countrymen that we think of them. . . . 
 Tell them. . . ." 
 
 But the train was already in motion. Gently it glided 
 out, with the two thin old faces so close together that 
 they seemed almost one, as they waved their handker- 
 chiefs out of the window, until the last carriage hid them 
 from sight as the train rounded a curve. . . . They were 
 gone. For a moment the Potterats stood gazing after 
 them, feeling suddenly desolate, they hardly knew why. 
 
 At the Avenue des Roses they often talked of the 
 Cremets; for them the couple personified exile, the 
 the pangs of home-sickness; they poured out upon them 
 all the pity which the war continually revived in their 
 warm hearts. But from the wanderers, not a word 
 came ! They wrote to them, but they never knew 
 whether the letters were received or not. And this 
 silence seemed only to keep them more strongly in 
 remembrance. 
 
 " I say, father," Carlo would say, " after the war is 
 over, shall we go and see them, and take them money to 
 build their house again ?" 
 
 J Well, anyhow, we might go and see them." 
 
 And sometimes, when the rain beat on the window- 
 panes at night, Madame Potterat would say, with a 
 shiver : 
 
 " We ought never to have let them go, poor old things !" 
 
 " Perhaps not . . . but they would certainly have died, 
 both of them, if we hadn't. And they preferred to die 
 at home. . . . After all, it is instinct. ..." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 The little local train sped onward, chasing the butterflies, 
 passing a country cart with a round-shouldered driver. 
 After the dreary hideousness of some outlying suburbs, 
 with high blocks of flats dotted about over dreary wastes 
 of bare building land, came the joy of open spaces 
 bathed in sunlight, and the rhythm of the far blue hills. 
 Potterat felt no inclination to open the newspaper where 
 staring headlines announced the daily sum of human 
 crime. This day seemed set apart for rest and calm. 
 An old woman was nodding over her basket, some men 
 were discussing the price of milk, a mother surrounded 
 by three fat, rosy-cheeked youngsters pointed out to them 
 the villages, and a corner of the Lake seen between two 
 hills. 
 
 " Who painted your cheeks that lovely red, little ones, 
 hey ?" said Potterat, then without waiting for a reply, 
 he jumped up, seized his rifle, and got out on the platform 
 of the little station. Some voices murmured: 
 
 " There's someone going to shoot ! . . . There's a fete 
 at Bioley. ..." 
 
 Potterat walked gaily along a narrow path between 
 two hedges. What a profusion of flowers ! Here and 
 there, amidst gold and blue and white, were green patches 
 of spring wheat. The larks soared up in the blue, 
 fell like a stone, then launched themselves again, as if 
 intoxicated with the joy of life, uttering their little 
 cries, their cry of joy, above the jays chattering in 
 the copse, above the midges, dancing madly in the 
 sun, they also sending their little hum into the great 
 silence of the fields. Potterat thought : 
 
 265 
 
266 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " It's absolutely idiotic to worry oneself about anything 
 when there are such heaps of flowers. . . . Oh, let them 
 kill each other as much as they like ! . . . The fruit ripens, 
 the blackbirds build their nests, the plants grow up just 
 the same. ..." 
 
 Every little path branching off across the meadows, 
 brought some fresh recollection to him. Here the brook, 
 there the little pond of clear water, the little thicket of 
 hazel-bushes. 
 
 " My word ! There's the place where, forty-five years 
 ago, I upset the cart of wheat-sheaves ! What a chaffing 
 I had over it ! They laughed enough at me in the 
 village ! . . . and a fortnight after I was in the Police ! 
 ... I believe now that the whole thing was fore-ordained. 
 . . . Anyhow, since then I've made my way in the world. 
 I can hold my head up with the best of them !" 
 
 Once more Potterat regarded with admiration the 
 clearness of the water, reflecting the threads of a spider's 
 web, and the swallows overhead, against the blue of the 
 sky. Fancifully he leaned over it, half expecting to see 
 again the young man of former days. 
 
 " Hallo ! Do you know me ? Forty-five years is a 
 good deal of a weight added on to one's shoulders ! . . . 
 Look again ! . . . The hair is much the same . . . and there 
 are no spectacles on the nose . . . the eyes are as bright as 
 ever, the moustache as flowing, the cheeks as red ! . . . 
 Ah, but the double chin ! . . . Yes, there's a good deal 
 more thorax there, I must admit ! . . . But I'm not half 
 a bad-looking fellow still ! . . . I don't look old ! . . . It 
 wouldn't seem so very ridiculous for me to be offering 
 a bouquet to a sweetheart even now ! . . . Courage, 
 Potterat, you've got many a good time before you 
 still! . . ." 
 
 Delighted with the confirmation of the brook, he went 
 on. And when presently he met some people, he saluted 
 them with a gay ' Good-morning !' 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 267 
 
 '- They're Catholics going to Mass/' he said to himself. 
 ". They're quite right. Everyone ought to hold to his 
 religion. If I can manage it, I'll try to go to a service 
 at Bioley. . . . Not that the weather invites one to 
 such exercises, nor the things one sees on every hand. 
 ... On every stalk or branch there are pairs. These 
 insects, . . . they don't distinguish between Sundays and 
 other days. . . . Some people say that they only live three 
 days ... if that's so, perhaps they're right to make 
 the most of their time. . . . There is mercy for every 
 sinner ! . . ." 
 
 Presently the village came in sight, rising high above 
 the fields. How often, both at Thierrens, where he was 
 brought up, and here, where he had been employed, had 
 Potterat driven along this same road returning from his 
 work, pulling the reins to make the mare go faster. . . . 
 By the way, what was the name of the old mare of 
 Bioley ? . . . Ah, of course, Melanie ! . . . And she was 
 gone, too, killed by a rusty nail, which had got buried 
 in her foot. ... 
 
 " Well, now, to come back to the present, who is there 
 that I know now ? . . . Old Noverraz, who used to be 
 a perfect glutton for work, and kept you mowing for three 
 hours at a stretch in the middle of the morning ! . . . 
 I can feel my back aching still ! . . . But the house 
 that I sold him, he did pay a good price for that. . . . 
 Retributive justice ! . . . And Suzette ? . . . I wonder 
 if she's still alive ! . . . And I wonder if the old sign- 
 board is still up at the inn, with its ' Au Midi, c'est 
 toujours Guex !' . . . And Burnat, the syndic ? . . . Oh, 
 he must be in his grave by now, he would be over 
 eighty ! . . . Then there was a big man with a beard, 
 and a little lame man, and Bernioud, the drunkard. . . . 
 We used to call him Tomato. . . . Well, well ! When one 
 knows the village topers and good fellows, it's all right. 
 . . . Since they have done me the honour of making me 
 
268 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 an honorary member of the Rifle Club, the least I can do 
 is to come to one of their annual meetings anyhow, . . . 
 and then, I wanted a glimpse of my native place ! . . ." 
 
 Courtyards were swept; dunghills neatly piled up; 
 flowers bordered all the vegetable gardens. Somewhere 
 a hen had just laid an egg, and was loudly announcing 
 the fact. A dog, lying in front of his kennel, his nose on 
 his outstretched paws, opened an eye, and growled 
 gently. Behind half closed shutters, here and there, 
 people looked out. It was eleven o'clock, and Sunday, 
 a June Sunday, of sunshine and perfume. Presently, 
 the noise of balls rolling along a board, interrupted by 
 another noise as of a shock, when the skittles were bowled 
 over, then a burst of laughter, and then he came suddenly 
 on a group of boys and young men, some with their 
 hands deep in their pockets, others keeping the score in 
 chalk, others drinking, their hats on the backs of their 
 heads. 
 
 " Is there anyone at home ?" called out Potterat, as 
 he knocked at the door where old Noverraz used to live. 
 Just as formerly, the bees were flying in and out of their 
 hives, the foliage of the trees hung over the moss-grown 
 walls, the pent-house shades over the windows seemed 
 like hands put up to shield them from the sun. An old 
 woman, very tall and thin, hobbled across the courtyard. 
 Playing on her rounded back, her small head, and her 
 voluminous petticoats, the sun threw an amusingly fan- 
 tastic shadow of her on the ground, forming three circles, 
 one above the other, the topmost like the dot of an ' i.' 
 Her face was worn with long years of monotonous toil, 
 and her hands, clasping a bowl of grain, were wrinkled 
 and brown. She glided along the mossy wall, and 
 between the garden beds, filled with lilies as white as 
 her snowy cap, past the gnarled apple-trees, whose 
 branches resembled her own bowed back. Presently 
 she returned, her bowl empty of grain, which she had 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 269 
 
 scattered over the chicken-run, and filled with eggs, 
 nestling on a bed of straw, over which she spread her 
 blue-veined wrinkled hand to guard them. 
 
 " That's Suzette, the old servant !" whispered Pot- 
 terat. " Why, she was an old woman ten years ago 1 
 She must have altered a good deal since then. . . . 
 She was crotchety enough; I suppose she is impossible 
 now. ... All the same, I've got a very soft spot in 
 my heart for old women ! . . ." Potterat knocked again 
 at the door, calling out as he did so, " Is anyone at 
 home ? . . ." 
 
 A man's step was heard coming along the flagged hall. 
 Potterat, with the sunlight behind him, and Noverraz, 
 his face in the full light, stood facing each other. Both 
 exclaimed almost simultaneously: 
 
 " Do you remember me ? . . . It was I who sold your 
 father this house the year before you were married !" 
 
 " Of course I remember you, Inspector Potterat. . . . 
 As large as life!" 
 
 They came into the kitchen, which seemed full of 
 children. 
 
 " I often wondered how you were getting on. I 
 remember your wedding. You married a young lady 
 from Baulmes. ... I needn't ask if it was a success. . . . 
 Five children ! . . . And such fine children, too ! . . . 
 Good-morning, Madame ! I congratulate you. . . ." 
 
 The mother smiled, and went about her work, pausing 
 to wipe the nose of one child, to scold another, to lift 
 the lid of a saucepan on the fire, in which a sausage was 
 cooking. 
 
 " Well, and how are you? . . . The syndic told us 
 that you were coming down to shoot for us. . . . I 
 was very glad to hear it. . . . My father hopes you'll dine 
 with him. . . . He's expecting you. . . . He's not able to 
 get out and about much now, but he'll be very glad to 
 see you again. . . . Just for the moment, I'm rather tied 
 
270 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 to the house. ... I've got a cow and a calf sick. . . . And 
 what do they think of the war in your part ? . . ." 
 
 " Well, we think ... we think that ..." Just at this 
 moment a clattering of hoofs was heard on the flagstones 
 outside, and a horse put its head in at the kitchen door, 
 craning its neck round to look at its master. 
 
 •'• That's Mignon coming for his sugar. . . . Every day 
 he must have his lump of sugar. . . . There ! . . . And 
 here comes Suzette, do you remember her ? . . . She's 
 as deaf as a post now. . . . Suzette ! Do you recognize 
 this gentleman from town ? . . ." 
 
 Suzette lifted her trembling head with an effort, her 
 still keen grey eyes looking out of a brown, wizened 
 face. 
 
 " This is the one who didn't like too much reaping. 
 ... Oh yes, I recognize him, only he's fatter than he used 
 to be. ..." 
 
 " My word ! We've grown in opposite directions, you 
 and I ! . . ." said Potterat, teasingly. " One of us is 
 like a mill-wheel, and the other like a lath." 
 
 Someone just then called Noverraz out to the calf. 
 
 "Don't let me keep you . . . you go along ! . . . Good- 
 bye for the present, Madame. . . . Good-bye, kiddies ! 
 . . . Your father's house is the last on the left-hand side, 
 at the top of the village, isn't it ? . . ." 
 
 " That's right ! . . . Well, we'll see you again this 
 afternoon." 
 
 Potterat found old Noverraz very frail-looking, thin 
 and bent. It appeared that since he had been caught in 
 a hailstorm while at work, he had suffered agonies from 
 rheumatism. The doctor could do nothing for him. . . . 
 but in spite of it, Noverraz, still a slave to work, insisted 
 on dragging himself out to the fields, got wet at times, 
 and wore himself out till he was confined to his bed for 
 three weeks at least twice a year. . . . 
 
 " He is so reckless ! . . ." complained his wife. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 271 
 
 Feeling vaguely ashamed of his own physical robust- 
 ness, Potterat strove to minimize it by talking of his 
 growing shortness of breath, of his increasing trouble in 
 going uphill, of his failing memory. . . . 
 
 " I assure you, sometimes I can't remember people's 
 names for the life of me ! . . . Quite simple names, too, 
 like . . . like Schmidhauser, for instance. ... I can think 
 of it now, but sometimes it's two hours and more before 
 I can remember it. . . ." 
 
 Giving free rein to his fancy, he discoursed eloquently 
 about the Cremets, and the Belgian refugees generally, 
 about the Russians, the Turks, the Serbians, J off re, etc. 
 
 f * Will you come to the table ? . . . Here's the soup ! . . ." 
 
 They had placed him with his back to the wall in the 
 seat of honour. In front of him were the two men- 
 servants, and Jenny, the unmarried daughter of the 
 house. To the left was the window, which threw a green 
 light on the ceiling, a blue light on the table ; to the right 
 the door, and near it, some whips on the wall, and 
 the tall grandfather clock. 
 
 Madame Noverraz came and went, serving the stewed 
 rabbit, the cabbage, the potatoes. As she went back- 
 wards and forwards, she talked. 
 
 " I wonder if all the things we hear are true ? . . . All 
 those dreadful atrocities ? . . . Surely it isn't possible ! 
 . . . They print those things just to sell the papers. . . . 
 In any case, we haven't seen anything for ourselves . . . 
 and it doesn't do to talk too freely, you know, it might 
 do us harm." 
 
 Potterat was indignant. 
 
 " You are very happy and comfortable down here," 
 he said. " You have plenty of room, plenty of fuel, 
 vegetables, milk, everything you need. . . . You may 
 take it as truth that those photographs were taken on 
 the spot and that those people are wandering about 
 amongst the ruins. ..." 
 
272 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Madame Noverraz put the cake on the table. 
 
 " Do you think they are likely to come here ?" 
 
 " We don't know. . . . But it's evident they're not too 
 confident at Berne, seeing that they've prohibited those 
 lectures of M. Fuglister's." 
 
 " Well, I say, what's done is done . . . and talking about 
 it won't mend matters. . . . Besides, can we help what 
 goes on ? . . . No. . . . Then it's much better to be silent 
 about it. . . . One can't be punished for not talking. 
 But if we talk too much, we might get into trouble." 
 
 Potterat wanted a second helping of the very excellent 
 cake, so he said no more for the moment. Besides, it 
 was difficult to realize, in these peaceful surroundings, 
 in front of the coffee-pot, and the cherry-brandy, that 
 there actually was a war going on. It all seemed so far 
 away, so unreal. ... A geranium was in bloom on the 
 window-sill, the fountain in the courtyard threw its 
 silver thread up in the sunshine, a cock crowed, perched 
 on the gate-post. 
 
 " Well, they're far enough away at present, thank 
 goodness !" . . . said Noverraz, wiping his moustache with 
 the tip of his tongue. " But all the same, they're very 
 powerful. . . . It's just as well to keep a still tongue about 
 them. ..." 
 
 A long succession of meadows followed the line of the 
 highroad for a time, then turned off, and followed a 
 hedge up towards a wood. A chateau was perched on 
 the summit of the hill, then again more fields spread their 
 carpet of green round the village church tower, and the 
 roofs of the houses glittered in the sun like precious 
 stones; beyond, the confused shapes and colours of the 
 cultivated lands with browns, and yellows, and blacks, 
 melted into a soft haze, and over all rose and floated a 
 blue smoke. . . . 
 
 In one of these meadows stood the butts, with their 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 273 
 
 bull's-eyes of black, and above them those capital letters, 
 which the little children point out to each other with 
 pride, for they are the same as those on the first page 
 of their reading-books: A.B.C.D. . 
 
 These letters can be seen from a long way off; every 
 village has its own. And every Sunday afternoon, men 
 may be seen coming to them, rifle on shoulder, across the 
 ripening fields. 
 
 Having put on their red coats, the markers lie down 
 behind the mounds, and soon the meadows resound with 
 the noise of rifle-shots. They echo and re-echo in the 
 depths of the woods, taking on something of the gravity 
 of their solitude. 
 
 To-day it is the turn of the riflemen of Bioley, and it 
 is the woods of Orjulaz, forming a background to the 
 meadows, with serried rows of tall pine-trunks, and their 
 sombre drapery of foliage above, which carry to the 
 distant horizon the echoing reports of rifles pointed at 
 the targets. 
 
 There are some twenty or thirty men assembled there, 
 from young men scarcely out of boyhood, to middle-aged 
 and even old men, all very quiet and sparing both of word 
 and gestures, but indulging in a sudden burst of laughter 
 now and then at one of Bernioud's broad jokes. All 
 these men know each other well. They know how many 
 cows belong to each, the height of each others' fences, 
 who has one horse and who two, who has none, but 
 goats instead, and all the hundred and one little details 
 of village life and history ; but there are too many present 
 to discuss them now, and the shooting occupies all minds, 
 especially as Potterat is shooting with them to-day — 
 Potterat, who carried off the laurel crown once at Berne. 
 . . . He has the crack marksman's eye, that clear 
 piercing eye which half shuts at times, as if to focus 
 distances, and fix them accurately on one point. In 
 that pure air, that exquisite peace, near the hemlock 
 
 18 
 
274 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 and sheep's parsley spreading their fairy lace against 
 the dark background of the wood, Potterat forgot 
 for the moment the nightmare of the winter, the news- 
 papers, the Belgians, and entered thoroughly into the 
 joy of the summer fields, and the pleasure of being 
 once more amongst his old friends. ... A bird suddenly 
 burst into song close by. . . . Insects ran over his hand. 
 . . . The sound of a bell came from somewhere far 
 
 off 
 
 " They're just going to begin ..." said a placid voice, 
 as a man, sitting on a stone, sounded three times a long- 
 drawn note on a horn, which was re-echoed from the 
 woods and from the horizon. The creatures of the wood 
 know well what that sound means, and the jay, perched 
 on the topmost branch of a cherry-tree, near the targets, 
 fled chattering indignantly. The markers take refuge 
 behind the slope. Four men kneel in a row, the butt- 
 ends of their rifles on their shoulders, their heads on 
 one side, one eye closed, the other wide open, for it 
 must look along the barrel, right on to the black round 
 which is the bull's-eye. The rifle-barrels are absolutely 
 motionless, so calm are these men, so easily, yet firmly, 
 seated on one heel, the chest thrown well forward, in 
 perfect equilibrium. The trigger is released slowly. . . . 
 Ah ! . . . Pahud has the shakes ! . . . That's what comes 
 of taking aim too long ! . . . Suddenly, the rifleman 
 recoils as if he had received a blow, the barrel of the rifle 
 points heavenward, where a light puff of smoke may 
 be seen rising. Installed under his big umbrella, the 
 secretary has seized his pencil. . . . Tu-u-u ! again sounds 
 the horn. At once the markers behave like demented 
 poppies. . . . Each of them has a long pole with a 
 palette fastened at one end, black on one side, white on 
 the other. This they hold up in front of the target, 
 opposite the little hole where the bullet passed through, 
 over which they paste a patch of paper. Sometimes 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 275 
 
 instead of holding it in one place against the target, 
 they wave it backwards and forwards like a pendulum; 
 that means a miss : the ball has gone wide of the mark. 
 
 " Barbezat, two ! . . . Guex, three ! . . . Panchaud, 
 four ! . . . (Four is the highest score.) . . . Pahud, a 
 miss. ..." 
 
 Everyone laughs, for all know the cause of Pahud 's 
 misfortune. 
 
 As soon as one group of marksmen has fired, another 
 takes its place. Marc, Henri's son, a novice; the syndic, 
 a big man with an immense neck; Polien, the mole- 
 catcher; and Martinet, the milkman. And the Orjulaz 
 woods echoed and re-echoed. 
 
 " One ! . . ." grumbled the syndic. " Damn ! I knew 
 I should have bad luck. The first person I met this 
 morning was Suzette ! . . . How could anybody shoot 
 straight who had that scarecrow still in his eye ? . . ." 
 
 The horn sounded, the poppies rushed madly about, 
 at intervals, and the intermittent firing went on. . . , 
 
 " Now," Potterat addressed himself, as he stood 
 watching with folded arms. M It's up to you to let them 
 see what you can do ! . . . If you fail, after coming all 
 this way, they'll think very little of you !'-..-. And 
 the wife will feel so proud, too, if you bring home a 
 prize ! . . . Courage ! . . . Three ' pendulums ' running 
 for the milkman ! . . . He'll be able to set up as a 
 clock-maker soon ! . . ." 
 
 At last it was his turn. Potterat, after depositing his 
 coat and waistcoat on some bushes, took his place de- 
 liberately. His braces, gaily embroidered with Federal 
 crosses, seemed to sink into his fat shoulders. As he 
 knelt down gravely, and inclined his head to one side 
 over his rifle, the pointed end of his moustache seemed 
 to laugh up at the sky, and his arms, like those of a 
 big baby, his plump torso, and the straining strap of his 
 trousers, looked incongruous enough. 
 
276 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " He's a powerful lump ! . . ." said Pahud. 
 
 " Pan ! . . . flah ! . . ." echoed from the wood. 
 
 The poppies ran forward. Potterat mopped his fore- 
 head. " Why don't they hurry up ? . . . What are 
 they so long about ? ..." he murmured to himself. 
 " And yet I have aimed and got a bull's-eye at six 
 o'clock, at a small target too ! . . . Those villains 
 have recognized my shots, that's what it is ! . . . there's 
 something sharp and decided about them, . . . and they 
 are going to play the fool with me ! . . . I say to myself 
 when I'm firing, ' You may be neutral all right, but you 
 can fire all the same, as if you had something in front of 
 you, and don't you miss it !' . . . Ah, that's all right ! . . . 
 " Potterat, four ! . . . Four to Potterat ! . . . Same again, 
 bang in the eye. . . . Potterat, four ! . . . Four to Pot- 
 terat ! . . . Now another in the same place ! . . . No, 
 Potterat, three ! . . . It's this blessed sun gets in the way 
 of my aim. . . . Now the last. . . . Four again ? . . . Pot- 
 terat, four ! . . . Four to Potterat ! . . ." 
 
 Presently it was time to rest and eat. They sat down 
 on the grass, and unpacked from the baskets bread and 
 cheese, and bottles of wine. And the markers, Godoille, 
 who had buried three wives, and Vinoche, a little fat, 
 red-cheeked man, ran up to have a drink. 
 
 " Have a glass, Godoille ?" 
 
 " I don't mind if I do ! . . ." 
 
 " And you, Vinoche ?" 
 
 ** Well, I won't say no ! . . . Who was it made that last 
 series of four fours and a three ?" 
 
 " It was Monsieur Potterat here !" 
 
 " Yes, it was I ! . . . And that three, you know, was 
 almost a four: It's in the family. . . . An uncle of my 
 cousin's aunt at Assens was the best shot of the whole 
 Canton. ..." 
 
 They ate, and drank, and chatted. Potterat related 
 his experiences in the way of spy-catching, not without 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 277 
 
 a little exaggeration. But how remote these people 
 were from all that was going on in the great world ! 
 Potterat, a tactful person, could not help feeling this, and 
 he soon turned the subject, saying carelessly: ' But one 
 never knows how much to believe in these war stories. 
 Then they talked of things nearer home, more tangible 
 things. 
 
 " I like those big red and white cows. ... I think 
 they're splendid ! . . . And they are the right colours for 
 us, red and white. . . . They go with our mountains and 
 our green pastures. ..." 
 
 " Are your calves coming on all right, Octave ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, they're^getting on fine ! . . . I don't think I 
 shall sell them before the autumn. ..." 
 
 And their eyes wandered critically over the serried 
 fields of clover, lucerne, wheat, and barley. Presently 
 some men went for a stroll to look at the crops 
 more closely, and Potterat, too, lit a cigar, and strolled 
 off by himself. The wild roses climbing over the 
 privet hedge held out their blushing faces to the bees. 
 Potterat bathed his hands in a little brook, singing the 
 while snatches of Vaudois songs. He felt himself a 
 Vaudois to the core, here in the heart of his beloved 
 country, with its good fruitful earth, its spreading trees, 
 a little like himself, its gently sloping hills, unbroken by 
 sharp peaks or bristling rocks, its kindly climate and 
 soft air ... a land of bushes without thorns, of vines, of 
 forests, pasturages, orchards, and everywhere, glimmering 
 through the trees, the soft blue of the sky, and the 
 deeper blue of the Lake. Up in the clouds, somewhere 
 a lark was carolling . . . happy larks, for whom heaven 
 is one nest, and earth another, where distant bells chime, 
 where the sun's rays dance, and sweet odours rise. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Potterat !" he said to him- 
 self. ''You talk a great deal too much. . . . You've 
 always got more to say than anyone else, . . . Just look 
 
278 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 at this land of yours ! . . . It's far too beautiful to be 
 exposed to the risk of invasion ! . . . It was made to be 
 neutral ! . . . They're quite right ! It's better to hold 
 one's tongue ! . . ." 
 
 Presently the firing was resumed, and he took his place 
 again, lying full length this time, on that land he would 
 not for worlds expose to danger. And now he had a 
 more difficult task; no longer had he in front of him the 
 comfortable square target, its black bull's-eye standing 
 well out against a background of white, but a blue splash 
 which represented the head and shoulders of a soldier. 
 Three times out of four the young man with budding 
 moustaches has touched the tiny target. . . . Look out, 
 Potterat ! . . . He felt himself in a cold sweat. Wriggling 
 about on his stomach to get lower in the earth, he planted 
 his elbows firmly amongst the clods. And when the 
 syndic maliciously called his attention to a magpie 
 which was flying across the sky with jerky flaps of its 
 striped wings, he muttered, " Beast !" . . . and closed 
 his eyes not to see the magpie, which brings bad luck. 
 
 "It's your turn, M. Potterat." 
 
 He brought his rifle to his shoulder. 
 
 " After all, this ball's got to go somewhere, and it 
 might just as well go into that little man as anywhere 
 else. ... Just try to imagine that with your four shots 
 you are going to clear Belgium of the invaders, to restore 
 their cathedrals, and bring back their brave dead !" 
 
 " Pan ! . . . flah ! . . ." once more comes back from the 
 woods : the markers run up. . . . Another hit ! . . . and 
 another ! . . . and the last, for the left eye ! . . . 
 
 Then his blood begins to circulate again, his features 
 relax, and Potterat gives a big shout of laughter. 
 
 " There you are ! . . . I'm afraid of nobody when I'm 
 lying flat on the ground with a gun in my hand ! . . . If 
 they had a hundred or so like me in the trenches the war 
 would be finished by to-morrow night. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 279 
 
 " You're lucky to head the list of prize-winners." 
 
 " My wife will be pleased. . . . Women don't much care 
 for old men who can do nothing but wheeze. . . . There's 
 nothing like coming out first in a contest to revive their 
 love." 
 
 The chimneys of the village were sending up trails of 
 smoke as they came back in the evening in time to bring 
 in the cows. People appeared at the doors of the houses, 
 and called out: 
 
 " W T ho's won first prize ? . . ." 
 
 Soon the news was all over the village, and when 
 Potterat appeared the children danced round him, hold- 
 ing each others' hands, and singing : 
 
 " When the king of the range went by, 
 Ho ! ho ! ho ! 'neath his canopy, 
 Gaily I lifted my bright black eyes, 
 To greet the marksman who'd won the prize." 
 
 Until supper was ready, Potterat strolled about, his 
 chest well out. He wandered along the little paths 
 between the hedges, and presently met some young girls, 
 with arms intertwined, humming: 
 
 " To love is not a crime, 
 God does not forbid it ! . . ." 
 
 " You have very pretty voices, young ladies. ..." 
 
 They blushed and giggled. They wore their white 
 Sunday fichus, their cheeks were glowing with health, 
 their hair was neatly braided, and their lissom figures 
 were alluring. 
 
 " Are you the king of the range ? . . ." said one of 
 them. " Oh, that's too bad of you ! My fiance was 
 hoping so much. ..." 
 
 " Who is he ? . . . Oh, the young man with the curly 
 hair ? . . . Well, he'll win next year. And these other 
 young ladies? . . . Where are your young men? . . ." 
 
 " At the war." 
 
 " At the war ? . . . Not really at war ?" 
 
280 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Oh, it's just as bad ! . . . They're away for so long !" 
 " Be patient. They'll come back one of these fine 
 days soon. And then you'll be able to sing duets again. 
 On the other side of the Jura it's very different. There 
 they are at war, if you like ! . . . Yes, we ought to be 
 very thankful that we are spared ..." and Potterat 
 looked at the peaceful scene before him, the smoke 
 curling lazily upwards, the heavy ears of corn, the distant 
 ridge of hills, carrying the eye on to the Alps, towering 
 in the distance, and said, ' We are spared much !' . . . 
 
 Half-past seven ! The children in crowds, with their 
 hands behind their backs, and their mouths open, round- 
 eyed, stared at the band, which was playing a lively 
 air. It was exciting . . . even some belated cows going 
 back from the drinking-trough, gambolled as if dancing 
 to the music, . . . and everybody laughed. Then the 
 voice of the President of the Rifle Club was heard. He 
 spoke of Potterat, who stood to attention in his best 
 manner, admired by all the women. He then placed 
 the laurel crown on Potterat's head, and presented him 
 with a coffee-pot. Next, the young man also received 
 a laurel crown, and a cheese-grater. The President 
 spoke of the troublous times in which we are living; 
 he too, like all the rest, was ready to ' protect the 
 frontiers,' etc. Then the band struck up another lively 
 air and marched at the head of the procession to the 
 Inn, while the rest of the crowd looked on; old men 
 leaning on their sticks, their sons with grizzled beards, 
 grandsons with black moustaches, great-grandsons sit- 
 ting on the ground beside the cats, and grandmothers, 
 mothers, young maidens. It was a pleasant scene. 
 The merry tunes of the band swept through this 
 peaceful well-being, bringing to every heart a vague 
 sense of fuller life, a desire for adventure. . . . Those 
 sonorous brass instruments, the rhythmic sound of the 
 marching feet, the swinging arms, the flag, the 'King of 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 281 
 
 the Range ' with his laurel crown. . . . There ! . . . they 
 had all disappeared into the Inn, and the old men sat 
 down again on their sun-warmed benches, amidst the 
 flower-pots. . . . The tinkle of the fountain was again 
 distinctly heard. . . . Through the open windows of the 
 Inn, they could be seen, as they took their places round 
 the table in the big dining-room, hung with fly-blown 
 portraits. Two serving-maids were carrying in huge 
 smoking dishes. Someone said: 
 
 " Is this some of Marc's veal ?" 
 
 Another voice was heard: 
 
 " For my part, I don't think it ever pays to go against 
 the orders of the authorities. It's unreasonable to 
 criticize the people at the head of the Government. ..." 
 
 The voices buzzed on; they drank healths, clinking 
 their glasses against each other; the voices grew louder; 
 cigars were lit; and presently Potterat, asked for a speech, 
 was on his feet, his chest well thrown out. From outside, 
 of course, all he said could not be heard. But he began 
 by saying that he was delighted to be once more in the 
 midst of real old Vaudois folk, who love their country 
 and are part of it; who produce, while others destroy. 
 In the towns, he went on, people are excited, they read 
 too many newspapers, they lose their heads. ... To 
 listen to each of the belligerents, one would think that 
 they all were right, and that God marched under the 
 banner of each. " Now we have the privilege," he went on, 
 " of looking on at the conflict from outside. . . . This day 
 has done me good. It has plunged me, as it were, right 
 into the heart of Nature. And Nature is neutral. . . . 
 Our Government knows it well. As somebody truly said 
 just now, ' It is dangerous to think we know better than 
 the authorities, those at the top.' There have been 
 times, I confess, when I have allowed myself to criti- 
 cize. . . . But I was wrong. . . . Since I have been 
 here with you all, you who are the backbone of the 
 
282 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 race, its very soul, if I may say so, you, so moderate 
 and calm in your judgment of events, I have felt that 
 your way was the wisest, the best, the only one, in fact, 
 for a wise man to follow. ... So I give you as a toast: 
 The peaceful fields, and those who cultivate them ! All 
 honour to them ! . . ." 
 
 Was it really Potterat who spoke these words ? . . . 
 It was. The spirit of the place had taken possession of 
 him. How could he speak otherwise when he was smoking 
 such fragrant cigars, drinking such excellent wine, and 
 when through the windows came the scent of new- mown 
 hay, and the rustle of the lime-trees in the evening 
 breeze ? . . . They applauded him loudly. The band 
 played the Cantonal March. Then they sang the Vaudois 
 song,   A new day rises, men of Vaud !' . . . At last the 
 ceremony was over. On the market-place, Madame 
 Noverraz joined Potterat. 
 
 " Would you mind taking back a parcel for me ? It 
 is some clothes for the refugees. Here we have no chance 
 of seeing them. . . . There are two dresses, a cloak, some 
 stockings, and a dozen handkerchiefs. . . . What you 
 told us to-day at dinner touched me so much. ..." 
 
 Potterat took the parcel, and as he did so, he thought : 
 
 " Good Heavens ! I excite them, and they calm 
 me ! . . ." 
 
 Soon he was on his way back to the station, the parcel 
 under one arm, his prize under the other, his rifle on his 
 shoulder, and the laurel crown still round his hat. The 
 sky was full of stars; the earth dim, and wrapped in dark- 
 ness; but up there, the mysterious fields of space, the 
 Milky Way, like a scarf, thickly powdered with worlds, 
 and stretching away to infinity. ... It made Potterat 
 thoughtful. 
 
 "So many stars up there, and down here so many men 
 burrowing like moles amongst the beetroots ! . . . You 
 weren't very brave to-night, old boy ! . . . Ah well, one 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 283 
 
 can't spend one's whole life shaking one's fist. But I 
 haven't altered my opinions a bit. . . . I think just 
 the same as I've done all the year. . . . We're quiet, peace- 
 able folk, after all, ... we can't be heroes all the time. 
 . . . We must eat, and drink, and sleep, ... as a matter 
 of fact an intelligent man has to adapt himself to his 
 audience. The country is country . . . and the town 
 is town. . . . What can one do ? . . . Besides . . . there 
 are days when one feels neutral. ..." 
 
 Just then a shooting star sped across the heavens. 
 Potterat waved his hand to it. " Bon voyage !" he said. 
 
 It was July. Plucking up courage, the cafe near the 
 flats set its gramophone going once more in its gardens; 
 the little arbours were filled with drinkers. Compelled 
 by the hardness of times to give up their usual abode, 
 gaily-dressed damsels were walking about, making eyes 
 even at staid fathers of families. . . . 
 
 Retrenchment, for some, soon developed into positive 
 poverty. A widow, who had a flat on the fourth floor, 
 and took three boarders, had now lost them. She fell ill, 
 and one could see her son, in his student's cap, washing 
 up dishes. No more pupils came to the music-teacher 
 on the second floor, there were no more scales. Some- 
 times a short piece was played, but without spirit. . . . 
 Potterat would shake his head at the sound of these 
 melancholy notes. . . . One morning, the postman left 
 a fifty-franc note at the flat on the fourth floor, 
 and another fifty-franc note at the second-floor flat. . . . 
 From whom ? . . . The widow thanked God ; the pianist 
 jumped over the music-stool. That same morning, as 
 Potterat watered his plants, he whistled loudly some 
 martial airs. Suddenly he stopped short : 
 
 " What in the world are you whistling ?" he said to 
 himself. " ' Sambre et Meuse,' an air forbidden by the 
 military authorities ! . . . Do take care ! . . . My word ! 
 
284 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 One is dazed by all these prohibitions and regula- 
 tions. . . . One would think we were boys, or fools, 
 without any brains or common sense. And we are 
 beginning to be perpetually watched, and advised, and 
 threatened, and lectured. . . . By-and-by we shan't be 
 able to put our noses outside the door without permission. 
 The absolute last word in neutrality ! . . . ' Show the 
 cream, and hide the pepper !' That's the idea ! . . . 
 And we must mind and be very polite to everybody ! . . . 
 We must learn to salute consuls and ambassadors ! . . ." 
 
 Potterat, as a matter of fact, although it did not affect 
 him in the least personally, had regarded the Censorship 
 from the first with a deadly hatred. The very word 
 infuriated him. All his traditions, as a good Republican, 
 were in favour of that liberty which poets had sung in 
 many songs which he knew by heart. It was with him 
 an article of faith as much as his religion. And now this 
 forbidding of a public lecture announced by the Belgian, 
 Destree, another lecture on ' The Martyred Towns. ' . . . An 
 alarming title, they said, subversive ! . . . Then Vachon, 
 the gentle old artist, with his white beard, had been 
 ordered, at Berne, to take his limelight views apparatus 
 to pieces, and to leave the town, he and his flowing 
 necktie, until people had come to their senses again. 
 Forbidden, too, in many other Cantons, was the lecture 
 given by a Swiss who had been present at the sack of 
 Louvain. 
 
 Now this lecture had been given first at Lausanne, and 
 Potterat had heard it, and had been moved to tears. . . . 
 And continually books were being seized, pamphlets, 
 postcards with the Proclamation of General J off re to the 
 Alsatians. . . . Who were they afraid of ? . . . Potterat 
 indignantly unbosomed himself to Delessert. 
 
 " What do you think of all this nonsense ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't think ! I do as I'm told ! . . . In the 
 beginning, when I had to watch the bookshops, and 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 285 
 
 confiscate the pictures of Reims Cathedral, it used to 
 annoy me. But now I don't care a straw. I have my 
 orders, and I obey them. If the Censorship gave me 
 orders to confiscate the Bible, I would go right into the 
 pastors' houses. ..." 
 
 This word ' orders ' rather pulled Potterat up short ; 
 the word so much respected, so often repeated, so wil- 
 lingly obeyed. Orders ! Even on hearing the word, he 
 had involuntarily drawn himself up, thrown out his chest, 
 and clicked his heels together, mentally, so to speak. . . . 
 Was it possible that he, Potterat, brought up in the 
 tradition of obedience to orders, was now going to rebel 
 against them ? . . . Had he not already done so in 
 showing so plainly, through all these long months, his 
 thoughts and feelings, his revolt, as an honest man, 
 against neutrality, without stopping to consider what 
 effect his attitude might possibly have ? . . . The 
 authorities — the Authorities, mark you, Potterat ! — had 
 called for Silence ! Attention ! Chut ! Sh-sh. Lower, 
 not so loud ! . . . Not that : something else ! . . . and he, 
 Potterat, had jeered, criticized, rebelled openly, and 
 cursed those who had broken their word. ... He realized 
 suddenly the gravity of his fault. 
 
 " And what good does it do ?" he asked himself, 
 u these bursts of valour ? . . . Not a bit ! No, at Bioley 
 you were much more sensible ; you took the right tone, and 
 they applauded you. Wasn't it Abraham who said, ' Am 
 I my brother's keeper ?' . . . We can't police the whole 
 of Europe ! . . . M. Hoffmann explained that to us the 
 other day: the private citizen has to adopt the opinion 
 of his Government. How do you think things would go 
 on otherwise ? Switzerland is neutral by treaty, so the 
 Swiss citizen must be neutral. He must neither blame, 
 nor praise. Even if all the rest of the world, except our- 
 selves, is violated, we must remain neutral. . . . That's 
 how we must think of our duty. And if it seems strange 
 
286 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 to you, it's because you are not truly Swiss. If you are 
 really Swiss, then you must not think it strange. Yes, 
 my boy, you are getting into bad habits. . . . You argue, 
 you think things out for yourself. ... You are a free 
 lance. . . . You must change. . . . You must come to 
 heel. . . . Mum's the word. ..." 
 
 " Father, let's have something on the gramophone ? 
 * Sambre et Meuse '?..." 
 
 " You young anarchist ! . . . Don't you know that that 
 is forbidden to military bands ?" 
 
 " It's forbidden outside, but not at home. Besides, 
 a gramophone isn't a military band !" 
 
 " H'm ! Well, perhaps you're right." 
 
 " David ! Don't listen to the boy ! Don't do it ! 
 Sooner or later, you know, they'll stop your pension if 
 you go on like this ! . . ." 
 
 " Right you are ! We'll play nothing then. . . . Blest 
 if I can understand things here a bit ! In Holland they 
 have no Censorship; nor have they in Denmark. Only 
 ourselves. The other day, at Fribourg, a policeman 
 snatched a toy Swiss flag from a child, because the 
 1 carrying of emblems ' is forbidden in the precincts of 
 the railway-station. They began by being afraid of 
 other people, now they are afraid of us. But there 
 I am again, criticizing as usual ! . . . I withdraw all I 
 said, and all I was going to say. In the end, I expect 
 they're right. . . . That doesn't hinder me from thinking, 
 all the same, that all they have done to make good 
 little performing dogs of us has been retrograde. . . . 
 Little presents in time of peace, little frowns in time 
 of war, a mixture of both, alliance by marriage, in- 
 vestments and withdrawing of investments, gold chains. 
 . . . Oh, I've seen it all coming. . . . There was too 
 much lace about. . . . Damn it all ! Here I am, be- 
 ginning again ! . . . Now what is the use of exciting 
 myself, and worrying myself into a fever ? . . . We've 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 287 
 
 done our duty. We've had some Belgians, and you 
 knit . . . and if they tell us to be quiet and say nothing, 
 well, that's all right ! . . . Let's stop sitting in judgment 
 on the world, and quietly read our newspapers: ' Marc 
 Bassin, farmer of Granges, victim of a recent accident, 
 thanks most warmly the charitable friends who lent a 
 helping hand in ploughing his land, sowing it, cutting 
 wood, and many other kind acts of sympathy.' " 
 
 " Aren't our own people good ? ..." 
 
 " Only too good ! . . . One reads constantly of in- 
 stances like this. Here again, just listen: ' Strayed, about 
 a month ago, a Griffon dog (female), wearing a collar, 
 with the name and address of the owner. As the animal 
 was enceinte, its owner was advised to wait, as the dog 
 would probably return with its puppies. But taking 
 into account its fidelity, as it has not turned up, the 
 undersigned has lost all hope of this, and begs those 
 who may have taken it in to give her news of it, dead 
 or alive. — Mdlle. Muller, Chemin des Jumelles.' She's 
 quite right, by Jove ! to go into mourning for her dog. 
 But why should I go into mourning for the rest of the 
 world ? It only gets one into trouble, and doesn't do 
 the slightest good. I'm going to change my ways." 
 
 Delessert, his friend and successor, consulted again, 
 fortified Potterat in this decision. When Potterat asked 
 him: 
 
 " And this Censorship ? . . . It gives you plenty of 
 running about, doesn't it ?" the sergeant replied: 
 
 " Oh yes, of course, I've a good deal of running about 
 to do, but I'm paid for that. ... If everybody com- 
 manded, nothing would be done. . . . It's not for people 
 in our position, and with our pay, to put our little sticks 
 between the spokes of the big men's wheels ! . . . And 
 it's war-time, after all, you know. To make one's living, 
 one has to stand well with all foreigners. It isn't you 
 and me that will keep the big hotels going after the war. 
 
288 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 Of course we sympathize with the Belgians; only, if one 
 says so, it offends the others, and those others are strong. 
 Sensibly enough, we're inviting those who have a ready 
 tongue and pen to shut off the steam. . . . You'll see 
 that no more people will go singing all over the place 
 ' Liberte cherie, seul bien de ma vie ' . . . but ordinary 
 songs like • Amour, que veux-tu de moi ? ' and that 
 sort of thing. . . . it's more neutral. . . . Oh, you 
 have to manage things in this world. When one plank 
 gives way, you seize another, hey ? . . . Look here, 
 Potterat, to go into opposition will only bring you dis- 
 appointment and bad luck. . . . People like ourselves 
 can't afford to be in the minority. ..." 
 
 " You take life in the right way, hey ? . . . You know 
 how to get along !" 
 
 " You bet ! . . . I'm all right. I'm neutral. Orders, 
 counter-orders. ... I carry them all out as I'm told. 
 After all, it's a bit harder to govern a nation than to 
 milk a goat. ..." 
 
 [' My word, I shouldn't wonder but you're right !" 
 
 There are times when it takes very little to change a 
 man's mind. Potterat had never concealed his tastes: 
 he loved good food, sunny days, pleasant thoughts, to 
 feel himself on good terms with everybody, and above 
 all, to stand well with the authorities. He had been 
 thoroughly miserable for months past. And what had 
 been the good of it all ? . . . He might just as well 
 go back to his former happy state of mind. As he 
 went along to see Bigarreau, he thought that he had 
 never seen the sloping fields looking more beautiful, nor 
 such an exquisite light on the pale-blue waters of the 
 Lake. He gazed with intense pleasure on the grass, the 
 lilies, the foxgloves, roses, and the fruit-trees. Amongst 
 all these Potterat became himself again, jovial, easy- 
 going. He leaned over the flowers to smell their fragrance, 
 he tasted the plums and apricots. . . . They brought some 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 289 
 
 baskets and picked fruit. ... " It's better to hear ripe 
 apricots falling than shells ! ... We haven't been 
 very heroic, but we have been spared ! . . . Ruin and 
 devastation ! One would think twice, ay, sixty times, 
 before provoking that sort of thing. ... I, who was so 
 strong on protesting last year, I begin to think better of 
 it. . . . Everyone for himself ! That's the law of the 
 world !" 
 
 Bigarreau fixed astonished eyes on his friend. Then 
 he said: 
 
 ' Well, it's the way to be comfortable . . . not to men- 
 tion that we give clothes, and take in refugees !" 
 
 Up in the cloudless blue sky, stretched like a cloth 
 with its corners resting on the mountain-peaks, a red- 
 brown hawk was hovering. 
 
 ' What do you want ? . . . It's no use your coming 
 down here, we're too big for you. ..." 
 
 Later, as he sat in his own home, with an apron round 
 his waist, stoning the apricots for jam, while the syrup 
 simmered in the big pan on the lire, he said : 
 
 " How fine these apricots are ! They're like little 
 suns. Oh, we have a fertile country !" 
 
 ' Why do you keep saying that sort of thing all the 
 time ? . . ." asked Carlo. 
 
 " Because I love it ! . . . If you saw faults or defects 
 in your parents it would make you sad, wouldn't it ? . . . 
 But all that is past and gone. . . . Everything's all right 
 now." 
 
 " At school, they're always telling us that we must 
 be patriotic. ,, 
 
 ' They teach you that ? . . . That's a pity. Patriotism, 
 like love, is not to be taught; it comes naturally/' 
 
 Sitting in his little garden, Potterat congratulated 
 himself on his new attitude. 
 
 "I'm too excitable, that's what it is. The least thing 
 carries me away. . . . And what good is it to be too 
 
 19 
 
2Q0 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 generous ? . . . One's only taken advantage of. . . . No, 
 it's all very well to get hot about things in winter, or 
 even in spring, but in summer it makes one ill." 
 
 The honeysuckle that had been brought from Eglantine 
 Cottage to No. 5, Avenue des Roses was in blossom, 
 climbing side by side with the beans, trained on high 
 sticks planted in the borders. 
 
 ' They'll always come in for soup," he said, " not to 
 mention that they wouldn't make at all bad cover if one 
 had to fire from behind them. . . . Bother ! I've got this 
 war on the brain ! . . . Oh, I wash my hands of all these 
 worries. ... I'm not responsible, and I'm not going to 
 care ! If I had got my marching orders, clearly and 
 definitely, wouldn't I just have gone like a shot. . . . 
 They would have talked about me. . . . Liberty and 
 country ! . . . They would have given me a commission 
 before long for the things I would have done. . . . But 
 I wasn't asked to go. Other nations are fighting, and, 
 after all, it's their business. What would be the use of 
 protesting ? . . . The only result would be that we should 
 be gobbled up in our turn. ... To protest ! . . . You 
 only see that sort of thing in a play. We don't do these 
 heroic things nowadays. . . . We look after the cash- 
 boxes now: that's the most important thing. . . . Pride 
 is out of date, it's a relic of the Middle Ages. . . . Besides, 
 people know very well which side our sympathies are on. 
 And we're hospitable. We may not lift a finger or say a 
 word when all these atrocities are committed, but at any 
 rate we try to bind up their wounds as well as we can. 
 Oh, we're not half bad, after all ! . . . It was Cremet 
 who made me feel so indignant. He was so grand, so 
 defiant, that old man. . . . Ah, bah ! Let the Belgians 
 look after themselves ! . . . I'm Swiss, and I'm here, and 
 all our monuments are untouched as yet. . . . And I've 
 served the Government for over thirty years; it would 
 be a pretty business if I became disaffected now. . . . 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 291 
 
 ^nd haven't we had compliments in foreign newspapers 
 for all the good we've done ? What do we want more ? 
 . . . Since when is it a good thing for people of no im- 
 portance to lift up their voices ? . . . We are men, after 
 all, and good men too, when we look into the matter. ..." 
 
 Such were the reflections that the summer sunshine 
 brought to Potterat's mind. On Sundays they went 
 up to Sauvabelin, and strolled about on the Terrace 
 there, admiring the wonderful view. Everything was 
 so fresh and beautiful that Potterat ceased listening 
 for the sound of guns beyond the distant hills. As they 
 walked through the woods his wife discoursed on the 
 blessings of peace, denounced the nations who were at 
 war as un-Christian, and pointed out that even if they 
 were not all equally guilty, the horrors and miseries that 
 war brings in its train are so awful that it is enough to 
 make one's blood run cold only to think of them. 
 
 Soothing words, which were in harmony with the 
 sweetness of the summer air, with the beauty of the 
 distant panorama. Some families had been dining under 
 the trees ; while the children danced in a ring, the mother 
 replaced the glasses in the basket, and the father lay flat 
 on the grass, sleeping, his hat over his face to shade him 
 from the sun, his moustache still white with the cream 
 brought by the youngsters from a neighbouring farm. 
 Potterat taught Carlo how to make a whistle from an 
 elder-branch, and a flute from a hemlock stem. Sud- 
 denly he said : 
 
 " Do you see that boy over there with the College cap ? 
 . , . He is just about your age. In four months more, 
 when the schools open again after the summer holidays, 
 you will be going to College too. How will you like to 
 be learning Latin ?" 
 
 ** Not at all ! Those old languages are no use nowa- 
 days !" 
 
 " That's where you're wrong. They are not spoken 
 
292 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 any more, certainly, but they are very useful, all the 
 same. Don't you think that I should have been something 
 better than a police-inspector if I had only known the 
 dead languages ? . . . With my abilities, I should have 
 risen to a very high position, and perhaps been one of 
 the bigwigs, a syndic, or a Commissioner of Police. . . . 
 One has to conform to convention, and fall in with the 
 manners and customs of those round you if you want 
 to succeed. So you will study hard, Carlo. We are very 
 proud of you, your mother and I. I hope you won't 
 disappoint us." 
 
 M Oh yes, Carlo, you must study well," put in his 
 mother. 
 
 " No, I won't ! . . . I don't want to study !" 
 ' You'll obey your mother, sir ! You have only one 
 mother ! . . . Are you going to study, yes or no ? . . ." 
 thundered Potterat. 
 " Oh, well . . . yes." 
 " I should think so !" 
 
 At the setting of the sun, they turned homewards, 
 arm in arm. The paths, overhung with tall trees, were 
 bathed in soft green light. Before them other people 
 were strolling along, some couples, fat, tired mothers, 
 and young girls in white shoes and lace-trimmed 
 skirts. 
 
 Next day, they resumed the jam-making. No one 
 knew what the winter might hold for them. . . . They 
 couldn't have too much. Potterat took a hand of course. 
 He read out receipts, and gave advice. Presently a dis- 
 pute arose : he wanted to make a preserve of raw currants, 
 his wife vaunted the superior quality of cooked jelly. 
 
 " Bigarreau gave me some of their raw currant jelly 
 to taste the other day, and it was just like fresh fruit. 
 . . . All right then, make a pot of each ! . . ." 
 
 Kneeling on the floor, he strained the juice from the 
 fruit, poured it into a jar, added the sugar, and 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 293 
 
 stirred the mixture carefully with a long-handled wooden 
 spoon. Madame Potterat laughed. 
 
 "If only people could see you, David, with your 
 waxed moustache, and your military look, your big 
 chest, and your woman's apron, and your ringers sticky 
 with sugar ! . . ." 
 
 '' Well, they didn't want me to be a hero, so I may as 
 well be a cook. . . . And perhaps we can give some of 
 this jam to the refugees when they are going back to 
 their own country. ... It will be a help to them. . . . 
 There ! You see how it's stiffening up already. ... It 
 gets almost as firm as ice in a little while. I'm glad it's 
 going well. . . . And bother the war ! . . ." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 On the evening of the ioth July, Potterat ran down the 
 staircase in his slippers to his letter-box, ranged — in a 
 row with eleven others — along the wall in the entrance 
 hall. He took out the Feuille d' Avis and remounted the 
 stairs. Settling himself in the depths of a big red arm- 
 chair, drawn up near the window, he read the burial 
 notices, the telegrams, very uninteresting that evening, 
 and various items of local news. Suddenly a headline 
 caught his eye: ' Report of the Belgian Commission of 
 Inquiry.' ... He read a few lines, then gave an angry 
 shout. 
 
 " The devil ! . . . Francoise, put down your knitting- 
 needles for a moment, and listen to this. It makes one's 
 blood run cold. ... How they could ! . . . How they 
 could ! . . . In the twentieth century ! My God ! It's 
 terrible ! . . . And against peaceful, inoffensive people . . . 
 people like ourselves, who thought they could sleep in 
 peace in the security of their treaties ! . . . Damn ! I'm 
 no longer neutral. ... I can't be neutral in the face of 
 things like this ! . . . ' The village of Battice was pillaged 
 and burnt on the 6th August, 1914. Thirty-five persons 
 were massacred.' . . . ' Bouxhe-Melen counts more than 
 eighty victims.' ' At Nicheroux the church and the 
 Communal Schools were destroyed. The population, 
 their hands bound, were shut up in the church of Fleches- 
 Soumagne.' ... 'At Berneau, nine persons were mas- 
 sacred, and out of one hundred and fifteen houses, only 
 forty-three are standing.' . . . ! With the exception of a 
 few houses, the whole of Barchon was burnt, and twenty- 
 
 294 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 295 
 
 seven persons, including women and children, massacred.' 
 ' At Trembleur, the hamlet of Blegny was completely 
 destroyed, and a great number of the inhabitants put to 
 death. The Abbe Labaye and the Burgomaster of the 
 village were shot before the church, which was then 
 burnt.' ... ' Foret, Olne, and Soiron are amongst the 
 most cruelly treated villages. They are in ruins, and 
 many of their inhabitants were shot.' ' At Lizse, Rom- 
 broek, a farmer, was shot, with his son and servant -man.' 
 ' At Haccourt, Colson's farm was set on fire, the farmer, 
 his son, and his daughter-in-law being shut up in the 
 farm, and burnt alive. The cure of the parish, M. 
 l'Abbe Thielen, was killed. Sixteen persons altogether, 
 of whom many were women, were massacred.' • At 
 Heure-le-Romain, the cure of the parish, M. l'Abbe 
 Janssen, and M. Leonard, brother of the burgomaster, 
 were taken behind the church, tied together, and shot. 
 Seventy-two houses were burnt, and twenty-seven 
 persons killed.' . . . 
 
 " My God ! . . . There are about two columns of that 
 sort of thing, and that is for the province of Liege alone ! 
 . . . Just to think that it might have been Avenches, 
 Moudon, Lucens, Goumoens, Preverenges, Cheseaux ! . . . 
 And magistrates, pastors, mayors ! . . . Belgium, to me, 
 is almost like another Switzerland. ... And those terrible 
 asphyxiating gases. . . . And the Lusitania, with its 
 two thousand passengers, sunk, amongst them forty 
 children, scarcely five years old, not to mention three 
 Swiss citizens ! . . . Horrible ! . . . Have people got con- 
 sciences, or not ? . . . Does justice stop short at the 
 frontier ? . . . Neutral, neutral ! It's easy to say it, and 
 the Government perhaps may be all right, but for any 
 man who has a heart in his breast, it's impossible for his 
 blood not to boil with anger ! . . . Damn it all ! I with- 
 draw every word I said at Bioley ! Every word ! do 
 you hear ? And I throw myself from this moment openly 
 
296 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 on the side of the Allies. I had intended to give up 
 doing anything to show where my sympathies were, but 
 this very evening I shall go to the station to see the 
 wounded pass through. I shall take them wine, cigars, 
 papers, letters, sweets. . . . Yes, for the future I don't 
 care how much I compromise myself. I'm going to shout 
 out before everybody, ' Vive la Eelgique !' " 
 Madame Potterat wore a very anxious face. 
 " My dear David, there you are, working yourself up 
 into a fever again . . . and we were so happy these last 
 few days. You believe every word that you see in the 
 newspapers. ... How do you know whether it's true or 
 not ? . . . Those burnt villages, those murdered people, 
 have you seen them ?" 
 
 " Have you seen America ? . . . Besides, I've heard 
 what those Belgians at Regamey's told us . . . and ours 
 too. . . . when they described that red wall on the horizon. 
 . . . They are good people, these Belgians, for the most 
 part, and not given to exaggerating things ... in fact, 
 they haven't enough imagination. . . . They're all the 
 better witnesses for that. ... And this Commission of 
 Inquiry was composed of people above suspicion, people 
 like our prefects, collectors, Councillors of State, and so on. 
 ... If we had had these awful experiences, what would 
 you say if the Belgians said, when they read about 
 them, ' We did not see anything ' ? . . . The question is, 
 has Belgium been violated or not ? H'm ! . . . The 
 victims tell the truth, because it is to their interest to 
 do so, but supposing there should be in their stories a 
 grain of falsehood, does that justify us in rejecting all 
 the rest ? . . . These declarations, made before the Com- 
 mission of Inquiry, are signed and countersigned, and 
 sworn to before God and before the world; it is a docu- 
 ment for posterity, and I say that any Swiss who can 
 doubt the truth of this Report ought to be put in a 
 sack and thrown into the Lake. . . . One can't doubt 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 207 
 
 the evidence of people who have been murdered for no 
 apparent reason. ... I repeat ' Vive la Belgique !' . . . 
 Shame and disgrace on those who talk of ' scraps of 
 paper ' ! Shame ! Shame !" 
 
 " David ! I don't know what will happen to you if 
 you begin to insult people like this ! . . . Do you know 
 that there's a fine of five thousand francs and six months' 
 imprisonment now, for anyone who says that a nation, 
 or an army, or a part of an army, has been guilty of 
 disgraceful conduct ? . . ." 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " It's true, I tell you ! . . . You never read anything 
 that isn't about the war. But there are things happening 
 in Switzerland, all the same. Look here ! I kept the 
 paper. There it is, at the top of the second page : ' Any- 
 one who publicly vilifies, with a view to influencing 
 public opinion, or who holds up to hatred or contempt, 
 either by word of mouth, or by writing, or by pictures, 
 any foreign nation, ruler, or government, is liable to six 
 months' imprisonment, and a fine of five thousand 
 francs.' . . . Now you see what will happen if you go 
 shouting at every corner, ' It is disgusting !' ' Shame 
 and disgrace !' and the rest. ..." 
 
 " ' Publicly,' it says," rectified Potterat, somewhat 
 sobered. ' ' This is not in public. Who is there to hear ? ' ' 
 " But you talk just as freely as that going along the 
 road, and in the tram." 
 
 " Then if one's Government disgraces itself, the good 
 citizen must keep his mouth shut ? . . . Supposing I were 
 to break a contract, or get into my neighbour's house, 
 I should be sent to prison at once; but Governments, 
 apparently, can do this sort of thing with impunity ! 
 It's the usual thing, I suppose. ' One law for the rich, 
 and another for the poor !' . . . My God ! It's enough 
 to drive one mad ! . . . Now that a man can't say what 
 is true without being punished for it as severely as if he 
 
298 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 had been guilty of swindling, well, for us humble folk, 
 who are honest, and who love justice, there's nothing 
 for it but to sit at home and smoke. ... To say nothing, 
 no matter what happens ! . . . Oh, very well ! All right ! 
 They needn't worry any more. Go on, my friends ! 
 Violate neutral countries, burn, kill, do what you 
 like. . . . 
 
 y And we, who have always stood up for Liberty and 
 Country; we, whose motto is, ' One for all, all for one !'; 
 we who sing 'Before God alone we bow the knee!'; 
 we are told ' Silence ! . . . You mustn't abuse the in- 
 vaders ! . . . Six months' imprisonment, and 5,000 francs 
 fine, if you do !' . . . Oh, it will drive me mad ! . . ." 
 
 " When one is not in the Government, there are some 
 things that one can't always understand. But there's 
 no need to rush into anarchy because of that. ..." 
 
 " Anarchists ! . . . I know very well where the anarchists 
 are to-day ! . . . But I mustn't say anything more. I 
 respect everybody. I take off my hat to invaders and 
 traitors. ... I spoke of shame and disgrace just now, but 
 I take back my words. I withdraw what I thought. I 
 withdraw my convictions, my feelings, my opinions, my 
 words past, present, and future. . . . Invasion of Belgium ? 
 ... Not a bit of it ! They mistook their way, that was 
 all ! . . . Lusitania ? . . . A mere accident ! . . . Villages 
 burnt down ? . . . Carelessness ! . . . Civilians . killed ? 
 ... An oversight ! . . . There ! I'm silent ! I'm silent ! 
 I'm silent ! I'm muzzled !" 
 
 "Really, David, you are unreasonable! That law is 
 intended to prevent agitators from stirring up trouble. 
 It isn't intended to be applied. ..." 
 
 '• I don't care whether it's applied or not. It exists. 
 That's enough for me." 
 
 " And you still intend to go down to the station ? . . ." 
 
 " Certainly ! . . . I'm going with Zimmerli. It's not 
 yet forbidden, I hope, to throw a few sweets and things 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 299 
 
 to some cripples, or that ! . . . And now let's have supper. 
 We're still alive. That's something to be thankful for, 
 anyhow. The dead are dead. So much the better for 
 them !" 
 
 It was midnight. Potterat yawned three times. 
 ' They say the train won't be in until about 2.40. . . . 
 That means that we must stay up all night. Well, I'll 
 walk about a bit. . . . Let's have a smoke. ..." 
 
 Three knocks, one after the other, resounded from the 
 ceiling of the flat below. 
 
 " All right ! All right !" said Potterat, who was 
 walking up and down like a caged lion. " I'm in slippers. 
 No one has any right to object." 
 
 Solemnly, the blows were repeated. Running to fetch 
 his stick, Potterat repeated the knocks with concentrated 
 fury, after which he sat down, giving up the struggle in 
 disgust. 
 
 " Oh, let's be fair," he said to himself. " When the 
 old lady objected to my cornet I held out, because she 
 was in the wrong, seeing that I was playing in ordinary 
 recognized hours. But at midnight, people want to 
 sleep. That's natural ! . . . You can go to sleep, old 
 lady, and dream of the lover who never came for you. 
 I won't budge again. ..." 
 
 Sitting with his arms folded, Potterat went over again 
 in memory that first occasion on which he had gone to 
 see the passing through of the badly wounded, some 
 months before. Again he saw the immense crowds, kept 
 back from the platforms by policemen, whose helmets 
 barred all means of access to the trains. Some words 
 were exchanged from time to time between the people 
 and the police. 
 
 " WVre not going to do them any harm. ..." 
 
 " But surely we may offer a few chocolates to the 
 wounded ? . . ." 
 
300 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 And women held up their baskets for inspection, con- 
 taining white packets. One could easily see that these 
 big fair policemen were not over- pleased with their task. 
 They answered half-heartedly: 
 
 " Don't push like that ! . . . Stand back there, please ! 
 . . . You can give your chocolates another time ! . . ." 
 
 " Another time ? . . . When ? . . ." 
 
 The police are very popular. As a rule, at public fetes, 
 the people willingly facilitate their duties. But in this 
 case, it seemed to the people incomprehensible that the 
 police should apparently feel so differently from them- 
 selves. In vain had Boulenaz gently remonstrated with 
 Potterat : 
 
 ' You ought to understand, after thirty years in the 
 Police, that an order is an order ! . . ." 
 
 Nonplussed for an instant only, Potterat then retorted, 
 with a sweeping gesture of his arms: 
 
 ' The will of the people is sovereign, even in war-time ! 
 Besides, these railways are ours. . . . And anyhow, what 
 harm can possibly be done by our coming to salute the 
 brave men who have fallen for their country ? . . . None. 
 . . . Rather the re verse.' ' 
 
 Boulenaz said nothing more, but contented himself 
 with a shrug of the shoulders. Exasperated by this 
 contemptuous gesture, Potterat squared his shoulders, 
 and cried out : 
 
 " Now then ! Women and children to the back, please, 
 with the baskets. Men to the front. . . . Come on, you 
 fellows ! . . ." 
 
 And headed by Potterat 's broad chest, a sudden rush 
 of the crowd made a big gap in the line of policemen. . . . 
 To Boulenaz, glued against a wall, Potterat said good- 
 naturedly, as he passed : 
 
 " Charity comes before even the police-force !" 
 For a long time afterwards Potterat would relate this 
 little incident with pride. For one brief moment, had 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 301 
 
 he not represented the mighty will of the people, the 
 voice of the populace ? He always finished up by 
 saying: 
 
 " Since then they leave the station open. . . . They 
 know better than to attempt that sort of thing 
 again ! . . ." 
 
 At ten minutes to two o'clock, he went up to call 
 Zimmerli. On the top landing he struck a match: 
 'Barbara Tannenbaum.' . . . "Good Heavens! I've 
 come to the wrong door !" Groping his way across to 
 Zimmerli' s door, he knocked peremptorily. 
 
 ' What is it ?" said a sleepy voice. 
 
 '■ The police ! Open ! . . ." 
 
 [' What ? '. . ." said the voice, still sleepy. 
 
 " Open, in the name of the law, I arrest you ! . . ." 
 
 " H'm ! What is it ? . . ." Then suddenly a frightened 
 voice was heard. " Yes, oh yes ! I'm coming ! . 
 and Mdlle. Tannenbaum had jumped out of bed, and the 
 sound of her little pattering feet was heard as she came 
 running across the floor. Then the keyhole sent out a 
 ray of light into the passage. 
 
 " Who is there ? . . ." 
 
 " It's nothing, Mademoiselle. It's only me ! . . . I 
 was playing a joke on my friend here. . . . We are going 
 down to the station to see the wounded pass through. . . . 
 Excuse this early reveille." 
 
 The two men went down the staircase as quietly as 
 they could. 
 
 " Zimmerli," said Potterat, " it would have been only 
 polite of us to have asked Mdlle. Tannenbaum if she'd 
 care to come with us. . . . In emotional times like these, 
 proposals are made much more easily. ... It would be 
 fine, wouldn't it, to get engaged under the eyes of the 
 wounded ? . . ." 
 
 " How dark it is ! Pitch dark. . . . One can't see an 
 inch before one !" replied Zimmerli. 
 
302 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Oh, that's because of your emotion ! Love is blind, 
 they say." 
 
 Presently, they were walking silently through the 
 darkness. 
 
 " Zimmerli, can you realize it all?" said Potterat 
 suddenly. " Bugles, and drums, and bells ringing, 
 announce war ... a war that no one wanted. . . . Still, 
 everyone goes willingly. . . . They march off singing. . . . 
 Then three days after, they are in a perfect hell ! . . . 
 Marching, fighting, killing, blood and wounds every- 
 where. . . . Men shouting and fighting madly. Then 
 silence. . . . You know nothing more for a time. . . . 
 Then you wake up with an arm or a leg gone, and you 
 are a prisoner of war amongst strangers who don't know 
 a word of your own language. By-and-by, you are able 
 to begin to creep about on crutches, ... or, if you are 
 blind, you begin to grope your way about, with your 
 hands stretched out in front of you, groping, groping, in 
 that darkness which is going to last for the rest of your 
 life. . . . This sort of thing goes on for eleven months, 
 eleven long months, far from your home and family, 
 your friends and your country. . . . Eleven months ! 
 And now you're going back home. What a home- 
 coming ! . . . You'd think your heart would leap out of 
 your breast with joy ! . . . Often in the night when I 
 can't sleep, I have imagined these home-coming scenes, 
 . . . and I assure you, I have been quite overcome, quite 
 overcome ! . . . It takes my breath away ! . . . Some- 
 times, I've even had to get up and walk about for a bit. 
 ... I don't tell my wife, because it would only frighten 
 her, but this war has started something wrong inside. . . . 
 I have terrible shoots of pain every now and then, and 
 a kind of tingling. ..." 
 
 " Yes, it gnaws at one ! . . ." replied Zimmerli simply. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, with the infinite care of a mother, 
 fearing to hurt her sick child, the long train glided in, 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 303 
 
 filled with the mutilated soldiers, their pale faces smiling 
 from rows of stretchers, hung one above another. The 
 crowd welcomed enthusiastically these glorious remnants 
 of men, who had offered their lives so freely, but of whom 
 Death had taken only a part. . . . Outstretched hands, 
 kindly eyes looking into their eyes, confused shouts, 
 everyone offering that sympathy which wells up from 
 the depths of the human heart in such moments as these. 
 . . . Nothing individual, no consciousness of me and thee, 
 something nameless, and simply human, gratitude, pity, 
 admiration in one strong rush of mingled emotions. 
 . . . This enthusiasm, too, seemed to reveal the wounded 
 to themselves, raised them out of the grey depths of 
 depression, the long dreary nights of exile and pain, and 
 set them up on pinnacles of heroism, lighting the way 
 for their brothers still fighting in that other night of 
 horror. . . . But yesterday peasants, with their petty 
 little interests, humble citizens, unknown to fame, . . . 
 to-day they were held up to this crowd as shining examples 
 of the splendour of willing sacrifice, the greater in pro- 
 portion as they had been brought low. Wonderful to 
 relate, it was they, now, who seemed to be blessed and 
 privileged beyond their fellows. 
 
 Potterat ran excitedly from carriage to carriage, 
 pressing their hands in his strong, warm clasp, throwing 
 tobacco and chocolate to all around him, drawing letter 
 after letter from his inner pocket. 
 
 " Look here ! Read that when you are alone ! It is 
 from Switzerland, and from a Swiss man. . . . Where 
 did you fall?" 
 
 " On the 10th August. A leg shattered by a shell. 
 
 " Good Lord ! And we make such a fuss when we 
 have to go to the dentist ! . . . And did they treat you 
 kindly in hospital ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, just the same as their own men." 
 
 " And don't you bear them any ill-will for having 
 taken off your leg ?" 
 
304 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Good Heavens, no ! . . . What can you expect in war?" 
 
 " Well, you're a long way better than I am. I have 
 all my limbs arid yet I'm boiling with rage. ..." 
 
 A Senegalese touched Potterat's shoulder: 
 
 " You French ?" 
 
 " No, Vaudois. And you ? . . . You're a negro, aren't 
 you ? But that doesn't matter a bit. I'm very fond 
 of negroes. . . . Have some chocolate ? . . . You can eat 
 as much as you like, you needn't be afraid. Ah ! . . . 
 You have only one arm ! . . ." 
 
 " Light one ! Light one !" grinned the negro, show- 
 ing all his white teeth. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! The one that is left is always the right one, 
 hey ? . . ." 
 
 Potterat, however, kept in reserve one letter which it 
 had taken him long to compose and write. To whom 
 should he give it ? 
 
 " I'll give it to that officer," he decided. " He'll 
 understand, I'm sure. And he's about my own age, too. 
 And he looks calm and cool ... as if he had plenty of 
 common sense. Here goes !" The officer in question, a 
 grey-haired Major, was looking at Potterat, who took his 
 courage in both hands and approached him. 
 
 " Pardon, Monsieur, here is a letter. . . . May I explain ? 
 . . . The fact is, you see. . . . Well, anyhow, I must thank 
 you for having fought in the cause of right. . . . My 
 respects to you ! . . . I wish you a very happy return 
 to your home, and may you find your good lady and 
 your children all well ! . . . Are you badly wounded ? . . . 
 A leg, too ! . . . Good-bye, sir ! My respects !" 
 
 The officer took the letter. Whether it was the effect 
 of Potterat's respectfully sympathetic voice and eyes, 
 his warm-hearted good-fellowship, or the reference to his 
 family, is uncertain, but the stern face was strangely 
 moved, and presently a tear rolled down the tanned 
 cheek. Seeing this, Potterat held out his big hand. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 305 
 
 " I understand, sir, perfectly. In your place, I should 
 feel just the same. True heroes are not made of stone. 
 ... On the contrary. . . . Vive la France, Monsieur !" 
 
 Too much moved to be able to speak, perhaps too 
 recently freed from long months of iron self-restraint, 
 the Major followed with his eyes the big kindly man, 
 as he threaded his way through the crowd in search of 
 some other hand to shake. 
 
 " Pardon, Madame, are there any wounded in this 
 carriage ?"" 
 
 A woman, in a long white veil, marked with a red 
 cross, turned at the sound of his voice. 
 " Ah, Monsieur. Ho one is allowed to come in here." 
 " Don't be afraid, I don't wish to break any rules, but 
 I have one bunch of flowers left, a lovely bunch, see, of 
 red, white, and blue flowers, the tricolour, hey ? Perhaps 
 you'd kindly give it to someone in there ? From 
 Potterat." 
 
 " My dear sir, these poor men in here are blind." 
 \ You don't say so ! . . .. But they could smell them 
 anyhow. . . . One can almost see a flower when one 
 smells it. . . ." 
 
 The nurse was touched. She made a sign to the police- 
 man on duty, who discreetly looked away, and said to 
 Potterat : 
 
 ' Well, you can come in just for a minute, and give 
 them yourself." 
 
 Coming into this carriage, Potterat had a wave of the 
 strongest sympathy and sorrow he had ever experienced. 
 It seemed to him that he was in the presence of his 
 judges, of beings elect through suffering. Timidly, divid- 
 ing up his flowers, he placed some in the hands of the 
 four men in the compartment. To the last one, little 
 more than a boy, he said : 
 " Here are some flowers for you, my friend." 
 Not a movement was seen on the bandaged face. " I 
 
 20 
 
306 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 am for ever alone in the depths of my sorrow and despair," 
 it seemed to say. " Leave me alone, I am going back to 
 my country, but I shall never see it more." 
 Raising a branch of fragrant bloom, Potterat said: 
 "Just smell that." 
 
 The young man smelt it, but remained unmoved. 
 
 ' Is your mother still alive ?" asked Potterat tenderly, 
 and this time the boy's lips quivered, and he nodded 
 1 Yes.' 
 
 " Ah, well, then, courage ! . . . Courage for your 
 mother's sake ! . . . How she will rejoice to have you 
 again, to nurse you and comfort you ! . . . And perhaps 
 Madame here will kindly give me your address, the 
 addresses of all of you, and I will send you a postcard 
 every week." 
 
 The blind boy, with a sudden gesture, tore off two 
 buttons from his uniform, and gave them to Potterat, 
 saying : 
 
 " Here ! . . . Keep these as a souvenir. . . . And thank 
 you very much ! . . . Oh, but the time will be long, long ! 
 ... I don't know how I shall live through it ! . . ." 
 
 Potterat felt he could bear no more. He placed his 
 hands on the boy's shoulders, leaned down over him, 
 and kissed him on the forehead, then ran out so quickly 
 that the nurse had to run after him to give him the 
 addresses. 
 
 ' You've done them good," she said. " I saw them 
 smiling. ..." 
 
 " It's they who have done me good, Madame. . . . 
 Poor fellows ! . . . What an awful thing war is ! . . . I 
 feel quite broken-hearted !" 
 
 When Potterat found Zimmerli, he dragged him away 
 at once. 
 
 " Let's go, let's go ! . . . I feel as if I should choke if I 
 stayed another minute. . . . What misery and suffering ! 
 , . . Oh, war is horrible . . . horrible ! To see that trainful 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 307 
 
 of young men, ruined for life, disfigured, without legs 
 and arms ! . . . And the most curious thing about it all 
 is that they are so gentle, so unresentful. It's only me 
 who wants to rave and storm, and to shake my fist. . . . 
 I begin to think that it's not angry words that will do 
 any good. . . . But isn't our part a beastly one ? To be 
 good little children, and eat our cake, and keep far away 
 from the fighting ! . . . Oh, it makes me perfectly wild ! 
 It makes me sick with everything and everybody. . . . 
 I came, thinking to cheer them up a little, but I'm blessed 
 if it isn't they who are the most cheerful after all ! . . . 
 But those poor men, what sort of a future can they have ? 
 ... A man may get along somehow with only one arm, 
 or one leg, but if he's blind ? . . . Ah well, if they don't 
 see victory, they'll hear it. The bands will play under 
 their windows. Victory ! . . . I pity those poor fellows 
 who won't live to see that joyful day." 
 
 To all this Zimmerli replied only by shaking his head. 
 When Potterat told him how many of the wounded had 
 spoken gratefully of their warm welcome in German 
 Switzerland, he brightened up. 
 
 " Oh, I've no doubt ! They're just the same there as 
 here. We must all agree that in this war, there are 
 faults on both sides. ..." 
 
 " No, Zimmerli, it's no use. . . . You'll never get me 
 to swallow that. I'm not going to agree with what I 
 think is a lie. Who was it who declared this war first ? 
 . . . There's all the difference in the world between de- 
 claring war and defending oneself, just as much as between 
 giving and receiving a blow. . . . Was it France who 
 violated Belgium and Luxemburg ? . . . And what 
 about Reims Cathedral ? . . . And those asphyxiating 
 gases ? . . . That was the worst thing of all; for men to 
 be struck down without a wound; one minute perfectly 
 strong and fit; the next, spitting blood, gasping for 
 breath, choking, and for weeks after, fighting for every 
 
3 o8 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 breath, dying twice over before they close their eyes. 
 . . . That breathing was not much like your zither 
 playing. ..." 
 
 " Potterat, you're absolutely on one side." 
 ' You're quite right. I am. ... I'm on the side of 
 justice. If the English or the French had invaded 
 Belgium, I should have been down on them all the time. 
 ... You may remember how I went on about that law- 
 suit in France a little while ago. ... I am not biased, 
 but I'm certainly against those who have bathed Europe 
 in blood, thinking that they were going to snatch a hasty 
 victory by taking everyone by surprise, and that very 
 soon all would be forgotten. Because one is neutral, it 
 doesn't follow that one puts all common sense and judg- 
 ment out of one's head. ... ' Faults on both sides/ 
 indeed ! . . . Let them bring back all the Belgians they 
 have killed, and then we'll talk about that. ... I only 
 hope that the dreams of those responsible will be haunted 
 by the five millions or so of skeletons that this war of 
 theirs has made, and I wish that they could be drowned 
 in the tears of the widows and orphans. ... I speak out 
 plainly just what I think; I'm no friend of soporific 
 patriotism ! . . . Right is right, and crime is crime. . . . 
 And a decent man will always stick to that, come what 
 may. ... If a man has to keep his mouth shut all the 
 time, he'd be much more use in the world as a chicken 
 or a rabbit. ..." 
 
 Zimmerli, with his gentle faded face, his timidly 
 pious little soul, his dream of a colourless heaven, re- 
 torted : 
 
 " We mustn't judge others, my friend. We don't 
 know all the circumstances. There are all sorts of 
 complications. ' To know all, is to forgive all !' you 
 know." 
 
 " Well, I'd punish well first." 
 
 " Forgiveness is the noblest part. ..." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 309 
 
 " No, punishment. That's God's way, too. Look at 
 the way the whole world has been under a curse this six 
 thousand years past, just for an apple stolen in a weak 
 moment !" 
 
 "The finest vengeance is forgiveness." 
 
 " Oh, your ' forgiveness ' is what I should call ' funk.' 
 ... If you're such a saint as all that, just you go across 
 the Lake, and preach that sort of thing to the Savoyard 
 mothers whose sons they have killed, and see what they'll 
 say ! . . ." 
 
 " What about Napoleon ?" 
 
 " Well, he was sent to die in exile. . . . That's all I ask 
 for those who are responsible for this war. . . . This war 
 has been forced on France, Zimmerli, . . . there's no 
 getting away from that. And the proper thing for 
 Switzerland to do is to proclaim that fact, and to act 
 accordingly. When a country is afraid of taking its 
 stand boldly on the side of right, it is very near the edge 
 of a precipice." 
 
 * There will be no need to talk of precipices if only we 
 are united." 
 
 " United in what ? . . . That's what I want to know ? 
 ... Is it in steering clear of offence, in equivocating, 
 in sacrificing everything to getting in provisions ? . . . 
 Or is it in pride, in truth and honour, in horror of all 
 that has been done ? . . . When they invaded Belgium, 
 they compelled us to take part in the discussion, as it 
 were. Nobody but a poor brainless, bloodless thing of 
 a man, or a country, but would feel compelled to give 
 his frank opinion, a plain, downright opinion, an opinion 
 which he would be prepared to defend, if necessary. 
 Well, we've done that, but we're not doing it in the right 
 way; we're doing it in a hole-and-corner fashion, behind 
 doors, and in a day-after-to-morrow-rather-than-to-day 
 style. ..." 
 
 " But do you think of the consequences ? . . ," 
 
310 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " My poor fellow ! We had better die quietly to 
 escape the danger of living. . . . We're getting very 
 clever at calling things by other names. . . . You mustn't 
 talk about crime now, but about a ' regrettable action.' 
 ... I suppose we shouldn't say a thing is round, but 
 a ' rather exaggerated oval.' ..." 
 
 By this time they had arrived at the third-floor landing 
 of the flats. 
 
 " Well, I must think over what you've said," replied 
 Zimmerli gently. " Good-night !" 
 
 ' Yes. Think it over when you are in bed, Zimmerli. 
 A good man like you ought to make up his mind for him- 
 self. Good-night ! . . . Don't go to the wrong door as 
 I did!" 
 
 It was now about half-past three. Potterat felt it 
 would be impossible to sleep, so many thoughts were 
 whirling through his brain, so he lit his pipe, got into his 
 slippers, and began to walk round and round the dining- 
 room table. He longed to put on the gramophone. . . . 
 Why not, if he took the precaution of shutting it up 
 in a cupboard ? . . . A bugle call has an effect, even 
 when it's muffled. . . . Instantaneously transported by 
 the music into heroic scenes, enveloped in thick clouds 
 of smoke from his furious smoking, Potterat disposed his 
 troops, attacked, took three trenches at the point of the 
 bayonet, captured a flag, and five mitrailleuses. . . . 
 Two glasses of good white wine from La Cote refreshed 
 him after his exertions. . . . After this his thoughts 
 took another direction. He followed those blinded 
 soldiers into their future lives. For the others,, spring, 
 summer, autumn, winter, would unfold their beauties in 
 due succession; but for these it would always be night, 
 one long night, stretching through days, weeks, months, 
 years ; always, always night ! . . . Oh, here ! This would 
 never do ! . . . Put on the gramophone again. . . . Another 
 fanfare ! . , . " That Major must have read my letter 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 311 
 
 by now, I expect. One never knows what good a little 
 word may do, if it comes just at the right moment 
 . . ." he reflected. ... " He had a fine face, that Major, 
 a handsome face, too, with his moustache, his round 
 chin, his clear, shrewd, honest eyes, ... a man after my 
 own heart . . . and how he responded and understood, 
 in a flash. ... In this war, it seems to me, it is the 
 duty of civilians to encourage the military all they can 
 ... a kind word, a kind thought, whenever possible, is 
 a great help in keeping up a man's heart. ..." 
 
 Then a great idea suddenly came to Potterat. To 
 evolve it the better, he drank yet one more glass of 
 wine. Then he put a sheet of notepaper in front of him ; 
 three times his pen approached the paper, and three 
 times it was withdrawn, as he said to himself : 
 
 " Don't be a fool, Potterat ! ..." A Major, perhaps, 
 it might not seem so impossible; a Colonel, it would 
 be a bit of cheek; a General would think you were 
 presuming; but a Commander-in-Chief would simply 
 think you mad ! . . . Never mind, here goes ! . . . Turn 
 on ' Sambre et Meuse ' ... it sounds almost better in a 
 cupboard than in the open air ! Seems as if it came 
 from the clouds. ..." 
 
 As soon as it reached the point where the bugles 
 ring out triumphantly, Potterat rushed back to the 
 table. 
 
 " Take up that pen again," he said to himself. " Now 
 then, short and sweet, that's the style ! . . . You needn't 
 be afraid of writing to good people. . . . Courage ! . . . 
 Only you mustn't hum and ha and beat about the bush. 
 Go straight to the point. . . . You've been thinking about 
 writing this letter for a long time. . . . Now's your chance. 
 . . . One feels ever so much less neutral, somehow, at 
 night, than in the day-time. ... Go on ! . . ." 
 
 His head bent low over the paper, his eyes fixed, his 
 thick eyebrows frowning terribly, Potterat wrote : 
 
312 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 'TO GENERAL JOFFRE, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF. 
 
 ' Honoured Sir, and Great Commander, 
 
 ' I am one of the thousands of citizens, neutral 
 by national obligations outwardly, but whose eyes are 
 fixed on the Right, and who follow you, and encourage 
 you, in thought. As you have plenty to occupy your 
 mind, I will come to the point at once; we are counting 
 on you to drive the invaders out of Belgium. . . . Beware 
 of flank movements; continue to treat the soldier with 
 sympathy, and at the right moment your arms will be 
 crowned with victory. It is a Swiss who writes this, a 
 pure-bred Vaudois, who loves his own country so much, 
 that he wishes to see the complete restoration and purifica- 
 tion of the invaded countries. 
 
 ' Your respectful and devoted 
 
 1 David Potterat, 
 
 'Retired Police-Inspector, 
 '5, Avenue des Roses, 
 ' Lausanne. 
 
 1 P.S.— This very night I took some cigars to your 
 wounded soldiers at the station. They were very badly 
 cut up, poor fellows, but their spirit is splendid. My 
 respects.' 
 
 Having blotted it, Potterat read the letter over. 
 
 " That'll do," he said. " Matter and manner both are 
 all right, I think. Now for the address: Grand Head- 
 quarters of France. . . . Anyhow, the postman will know 
 where it is all right." 
 
 Encouraged by this attempt, Potterat thought that 
 while he was about it, he might as well write another 
 letter, so he drew a second sheet towards him. He 
 coughed respectfully, as one coughs on entering church. 
 
 " Ought I ? . . . or not ? . . . Oh, don't be so silly ! . . . 
 Afraid of writing to a crowned head ? . . . Bah ! You'll 
 have all to-morrow and the next day to repent in. . . . 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 313 
 
 Good actions have to be done in a rush, one following 
 hard on another. . . . And they say, too, that he is as 
 simple as possible. . . . Much less proud than many 
 ordinary people here. Now then, go on !" 
 
 'TO ALBERT I., KING OF THE BELGIANS. 
 
   Most Honoured Sovereign, 
 
 ' Honour to the people's king ! We follow you 
 here in Switzerland. You have won all our hearts. You 
 will be a king for all time, not merely, like the others, 
 for the duration of your life. You have never trafficked 
 with dishonour; from the first moment, you have taken 
 your stand upon honour. It is the best place. I prophesy 
 for you a splendid future. I am a Republican, but I 
 cry with all my heart, " Long live the King of Belgium !" 
 
 1 From a Swiss who protests against greedy devouring 
 kingdoms, and who has had, all through the winter, two 
 Belgians at his table. (Pity it was so few !) 
 
 ' David Potterat, 
 
 'Retired Police- Inspector.' 
 
 He read both letters over again with delight, rubbed 
 his hands, chuckled to himself silently, wrinkling up his 
 eyes, and felt himself all at once very useful, and 
 necessary to the honour of his country; in short, the 
 good man was inordinately pleased with himself. 
 
 " Potterat, my boy," he told himself, " these heights 
 of courage come very rarely in a man's life. To write 
 only to foreigners, even distinguished foreigners, is not 
 the part of a good citizen. . . . Good things run in 
 threes ! ... In a democratic country like this, the 
 private citizen may, and ought to, keep in touch with the 
 authorities. Now, since you haven't exactly been in 
 agreement with their decrees for the last year, it might 
 be as well for you to write and tell them so frankly, ex- 
 plaining your own point of view respectfully. You are 
 
314 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 in the right: on principle, throughout your career, you 
 have upheld the Government; you have paid your taxes 
 regularly; you are free from debt; your private life and 
 character have always been spotless; this being the case, 
 you have a good right to put forward your point of view 
 . . . and if, after all, they insist on bringing you to book 
 for breaking the regulations, if they accuse you of giving 
 information to foreign nations, because you have written 
 to two well-known and honourable people, residing 
 outside this territory, well, it can't be helped . . . you 
 won't be the first to have made a mistake. . . . Major 
 Davel did worse than that. ... In a Republic, surely 
 it is not a crime to declare to the authorities one's 
 point of view, and to ask them a question or two . . . and 
 that in the politest way, too. . . . Certainly it's not ! . . . 
 That Major has risked his life, and lost a leg: others 
 have lost both eyes; surely I can risk something for a 
 letter. . . . Not to mention that very likely they know 
 nothing about it. This will give them something to 
 think about. . . . Now, another March ! . . ." and Potterat 
 rose, went to the cupboard, and put into the gramophone 
 the ' C antique Suisse,' closed the door, and sat down 
 again at the table. Very soon, inspired by the distant 
 music, he began to write, his tongue between his teeth, 
 multiplying his capitals, by way of emphasizing his 
 respect. ; 
 
 'TO THE SUPREME FEDERAL COUNCIL. 
 
 ' Monsieur le President and Gentlemen, 
 
 ' In the present difficult times, the Authorities 
 must naturally wish to be informed of everything of any 
 importance. I feel it my duty, therefore, loyally to put 
 you in possession of the following facts : Although neutral, 
 I have written a letter of encouragement to General 
 J off re. Furthermore, having had two Belgians living in 
 my house for some time, I have despatched a letter to 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 315 
 
 King Albert, to tell him how much all honest people 
 approve of his actions and conduct. 
 
 1 The undersigned takes this opportunity also of ex- 
 pressing frankly to the Authorities his way of looking at 
 recent Happenings. The said undersigned is neither a 
 fine speaker, nor is he one of the party in opposition, 
 but one who has always done his utmost to act in accord- 
 ance with the ideas of the Government. On this occasion 
 he can no longer do so, and this is why I have ventured 
 to write. I may add that having had neither the time nor 
 the means to attend the University, I hope that this will 
 be borne in mind, if I should express myself in a manner 
 calculated to hurt anyone's feelings, or to offend. I will 
 also add, that as Policeman first, and afterwards Inspector 
 of Police for the town of Lausanne during thirty years 
 and six months, I know by experience what it is to be 
 exposed to criticism, and that it is often best to let the 
 critics bray, and simply to carry out one's duty, not 
 always an easy task. But it has also happened that some 
 of these criticisms have been really well founded, and I 
 have acknowledged it by modifying my course of action 
 in some degree accordingly. May I say that I fully 
 realize the difficulties of the Authorities, and I do not 
 wish to increase them deliberately. 
 
 1 This said, I will now come to the matter that is 
 troubling me. I read yesterday evening in the Feuitte 
 d'Avis a Report of the Belgian Commission of Inquiry, a 
 Committee composed of competent men, chosen by their 
 country for the task, men like yourselves. " The village 
 of Louveigne is in ruins. It was completely pillaged, and 
 a great part of it burnt. Seventeen persons were shot 
 point-blank." There are over two columns of this sort 
 of thing. I wish to ask you why, seeing that Belgium, 
 a neutral country like ours, has been invaded without 
 provocation, and overwhelmed with blood and ruin, in 
 contempt of the treaty signed by a country which has 
 
316 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 also guaranteed our neutrality, . . . why we have let all 
 these months go by without protesting even so much as 
 through the National Council, which would be less serious 
 than a protest from the Federal Council ? My opinion 
 is that it was in the highest degree important to make 
 this protest. There ought to be complete solidarity 
 between all neutral and small countries: they ought to 
 stand by each other. That outrage concerned us very 
 nearly, and you may be sure that if we had been invaded 
 instead, and if Belgium had protested indignantly, we 
 should have been unanimous in our gratitude and ap- 
 proval. It is because of our Neutrality that we ought 
 to speak out. 
 
 ' Everywhere we are held to be an honourable, fair- 
 minded people, law-abiding, and with a strong sense of 
 right and justice. It's up to us to deserve that Con- 
 fidence. Our Confederation ought, in justice to itself, 
 to have lodged a solemn protest against the invasion and 
 destruction of two feeble states, sisters in Neutrality. 
 
   Nothing, you understand, in the least resembling a 
 declaration of war, but a sympathetic and indignant 
 protest. Such a manifesto from the Federal Government, 
 based on simple honesty, calmly and moderately ex- 
 pressed, would have made a tremendous impression on 
 the world. . . . Even if we were taken by surprise in 
 the beginning, we have had ample opportunities. since. 
 . . . Many innocent people, including women and chil- 
 dren, and some Swiss among them, have been shot, 
 . . . thousands of civilians, including three of our own 
 compatriots, have been drowned like rats, without 
 giving them time even to say a bit of a prayer. 
 Hundreds of soldiers have been asphyxiated by abomin- 
 able gases, in direct violation of the Hague Convention, to 
 which their adversaries are co-signatories. The Armenians 
 have been slaughtered like sheep at the shambles. Before 
 this series of abominations we, who are supposed to lead 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 317 
 
 the nations in civilization, we have not uttered a word 
 such as should spring spontaneously from the heart of a 
 good man. As a nation, I mean. The people themselves, 
 by disobeying the regulations at the railway-station, and 
 breaking through the cordon of police in the name of 
 Charity, impressed upon the foreigners in our midst the 
 respect due to Switzerland. I must add, too, that a strong 
 protest would have been of great value to our men on the 
 frontiers. In these last months, when the whole of 
 Europe is fighting and struggling for its life, such a 
 protest, without violence or insults, would have been a 
 safeguard for ourselves . . . and we should have taken 
 our share to that extent. Instead of that we have 
 drawn aside. But there are moments when a country 
 ought to come forward, to speak out on behalf of right, 
 even against the strongest. That is what makes a 
 citizen proud of his country. All our trouble to-day 
 comes from this unpardonable slackness and feebleness. 
 How we should have flocked to the flag, and done our 
 military service with joy and enthusiasm — which, I regret 
 to say, is by no means the case at present : I know it from 
 hundreds of witnesses — if only in those dastardly assaults 
 upon a neutral people the nation had spoken out with 
 no uncertain voice. For my own part, this silence has 
 been a great grief to me. In circumstances like these the 
 neutral who holds himself aloof timidly in the back- 
 ground has the air of agreeing to it all. Surely King 
 Albert, who visited our National Exhibition the other 
 day, and with whom you have shaken hands, who knows 
 and loves our mountains, surely he merits better treat- 
 ment than this at our hands ! Some people say: " That 
 would have driven us into a corner", and drawn us 
 into discussions." Has not a clever orator proclaimed 
 from the rostrum, " Necessity knows no law !" ? No, 
 there's no excuse. The thing was wrong ! 
 
 ' And that certain other neutrals are silent too has 
 
318 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 nothing to do with it. In the first place, they are not 
 neutrals in the same way as we are, with signed treaties; 
 they have not our history; they have not our national 
 songs; and most of them have all sorts of hidden schemes, 
 ideas about colonies, cirri eres-pensees of annexation, and 
 so on. 
 
 ' But we have clean hands. It is William Tell's 
 country, and no other, which ought to take the lead in 
 doing the right thing; for no one will ever convince me 
 that our neutrality absolves us from the claims of 
 Humanity. Meantime, our brothers in neutrality are 
 either dead, or scattered, or under a foreign yoke; the 
 thought of their suffering brings the tears to my eyes. 
 It would have been to the Glory of the Government to 
 have intervened on the ground of respect for Treaties, 
 ready to take the consequences of this Honourable Act, 
 whatever they might be; we should have done our duty, 
 at all hazards. Then, ' ' On guard ! ' ' There are thousands 
 of citizens who think as I do, especially amongst the 
 mass of the people, who are the backbone of the Nation. 
 
 ' As for the provisioning of the Nation, which of course 
 is the first consideration of those in Authority (and if I 
 have permitted myself to criticize any arrangements on 
 this score during these last months, I withdraw them 
 completely. As a matter of fact, I have not hesitated 
 to lay in provisions for my own family as far as I was 
 able) ... for the provisioning of the nation, I have nothing 
 but praise and congratulations. . . . We are all grateful. 
 . . . There is only the one Omission, which still persists. 
 It is only by Acts of Honour and Pride, devoid of 
 all provocation, that a nation so diverse in its elements 
 as ours can be held together. Such an occasion as this 
 is not likely to happen again very soon, and there 
 are thousands of Swiss people who came back from 
 abroad, who have gone away again, disillusioned. . . . 
 Now, that's true. And it's worth thinking out. . . . 
 We're like a loose sheaf at present. 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 319 
 
 ' I am writing this in the middle of the night, having 
 just come back from saluting the wounded on their way 
 through, and this is why I am writing at such length, 
 for at night one is always less reserved than in the day- 
 time. And I add that my gramophone is playing the 
 " Cantique Suisse " for the third time in succession. 
 That's a guarantee of my patriotism, I think. Now, what 
 I want to know is this: I have read and thought over 
 your regulations, Gentlemen and Honoured Leaders, 
 and the more I think of them the more bewildered I am. 
 When one dishonours his signature, and breaks his word, 
 how are we, henceforth, to describe these doings ? If 
 I say that this sort of thing is disgusting, abominable, 
 am I vilifying a foreign Government ? Am I holding 
 it up to contempt ? . . . Frankly, it seems to me, that 
 it is the other who began. . . . And am I liable for 
 that to six months' imprisonment and a fine of five 
 thousand francs ? . . . I wouldn't so much mind the 
 six months, seeing that I am retired, and so have a 
 good deal of time on my hands, but five thousand 
 francs ! . . . That's making the truth very dear in- 
 deed ! . . . In the schools our children are taught to 
 sing " De I'etranger meprisant le courroux." . . . Despising ? 
 . . . Is it against the law to say that ? . . . Is it com- 
 patible with neutrality ? . . . And wouldn't it be as well, 
 too, to fasten up some pages in our history books ? . . . 
 That part, for instance, where William Tell refuses to 
 salute Gessler's cap ? . . . What was that but holding a 
 foreign Government up to contempt ? . . . 
 
 ' Having served my country faithfully and honourably 
 for the time hereinbefore mentioned, and having always 
 been looked up to with respect by the people, I should like 
 to know how I am to behave for the future so as to avoid 
 making myself liable to an action ? If, to avoid this, I 
 must refrain altogether from commenting upon the 
 Events that are happening in the world to-day, and from 
 
320 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 calling things by their right names, I can only say 
 that I have been too long accustomed to Liberty (these 
 lines have just come into my head: " Guard our hearts 
 from cowardice: Our Helvetia is free!") to be able 
 easily to impose such a total restriction upon myself. 
 
 ' And now the day has come, the sun is risen, and I 
 must stop, for the broad daylight will rob me of the 
 courage to approach you. 
 
 ' I hope you will forgive the length of this letter. It 
 is too long, I know, and poorly expressed, but it is 
 sincere. And I beg you to accept, M. le President 
 and Gentlemen of the Council, the expression of my 
 devotion and respect. 
 
 ' David Potterat, 
 
 'Retired Police- Inspector.' 
 
 This letter finished, addressed, and sealed up, a sudden 
 wave of doubt invaded Potterat' s mind as the daylight 
 strengthened and his heroism faded. 
 
 " Suppose they arrest you by return of post ? . . . On 
 the other hand, I have only told them how I feel, and 
 asked them for a word of explanation and advice. . . . 
 There's nothing seditious in that. Not to mention that 
 I have told them the truth very politely. . . . Oh, look 
 here, if you wait another quarter of an hour, you know 
 very well that you'll never send that letter ! Get out 
 of this tunnel ! There are too many tunnels. ... And 
 it's skulking in them that is ruining us ! You're not 
 going to skulk in one ! . . . Besides, ' One for all, all for 
 one,' remember. Since they are all for you, and all 
 intelligent, educated men, they will take the thing in 
 good part. . . . Ah, the belligerents will never know 
 what we in Switzerland have suffered ! 
 
 It was done. The three letters had fallen into the 
 letter-box. . . . The dawn was beautiful, the air blew 
 pure and fresh through the trees, the birds were singing. . . . 
 
 " Well," reflected Potterat, " every man goes mad 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 321 
 
 once in his life, they say. ... I felt as if I simply had to 
 do it." 
 
 It was almost six o'clock by the time he got home. 
 
 " Oh, David, you have given me such a fright !" said 
 his wife. ' When I saw you hadn't been to bed all 
 night ! . . . Where have you been ? . . . I wish you 
 wouldn't go to the station like this ! Here you are, all 
 flushed, excited, upset ! . . . Oh ! this war ! . . ." 
 
 " Oh, you mind your own business, my dear," replied 
 Potterat, " and I'll mind mine." 
 
 ' Well, do go to bed, David, and try to get a little 
 rest." 
 
 He obeyed without another word. . . . But those 
 letters! ... He opened his eyes for a moment, then 
 closed them again, and slept profoundly, heavily. 
 
 Madame Potterat gently closed the shutters, and then, 
 before leaving the room, she looked at her sleeping 
 husband. How he took this war to heart ! Why 
 couldn't he rest for a few days without exciting and 
 worrying himself ? . . . She determined to try and 
 distract his mind at all costs. 
 
 He woke, and stretched himself. 
 
 " What time is it ?" 
 
 " It's nearly twelve o'clock, David, we are just going 
 to have dinner." 
 
 " Good gracious !" 
 
 Quickly he got up, splashed in the basin, and shaved 
 himself. When he sat down to the table, it could easily 
 be seen that he was hiding something. He kept laughing 
 in his sleeve, he began to say something, and then pulled 
 himself up, frowning uneasily. 
 
 " David, what is the matter with you ?" said his wife, 
 lovingly. 
 
 " Hey ? What do you mean ?" 
 
 " You're hiding something from us." 
 
 21 
 
322 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 " Me ! Not at all !" 
 
 " Father," struck in Carlo, " why didn't you go to 
 bed until six o'clock this morning ? ' ' 
 
 Again he laughed to himself. And then, suddenly, 
 not able to keep his secret from them any longer, he 
 confessed coolly, his face betraying his ingenuous pride : 
 " Because I was writing to J off re, to King Albert, and 
 to the Federal Council.' ' 
 
 " David ! Are you mad ? . . . This is terrible ! . . . 
 If you go back to that station, I tell you, it's all up with 
 you ! . . . And what on earth did you write on these 
 letters, may I ask ?" 
 
 " On them ? The address, of course." 
 "And what else? ..." 
 
 " Oh, only some political matters. Women don't 
 understand these things. . . . But let me tell you about 
 last night at the station. ... It was splendid ! Such 
 enthusiasm ! . . . Such a crowd ! . . . Oh, there's no 
 doubt our hearts are in the right place. We're a good 
 people . . . only timid. We're afraid to risk anything. 
 We're like some cocks, healthy and full of spirit and life, 
 fine upstanding creatures, with red combs, and big spurs ; 
 but let a hawk sail over the poultry-yard and we scurry 
 into the fowl-house in double quick time ! . . . And we're 
 all the same. My word ! I had such a discussion with 
 Zimmerli: I got quite hot over it, and after that I didn't 
 feel like going to sleep, so, in a moment of absence of 
 neutrality, I wrote a few words of encouragement to the 
 first two, and of encouragement and explanation to the 
 others. There ! Don't let's talk any more about it ! 
 Only, if the police come for me, you'll know why." 
 
 Potterat took himself off somewhere for the whole after- 
 noon. Perhaps he went to his favourite cafe, to tell his 
 friends of the events of his wakeful night. During 
 supper he was very gay, and rather depressed by turns, 
 but in the course of the evening, he read the paper, played 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 323 
 
 with, and teased Carlo, and at ten o'clock as usual, they 
 said good-night to each other. As soon as the husband 
 and wife had retired, Madame Potterat said: "Well, I 
 hope you're going to get some sleep to-night, anyhow.' ' 
 
 " Not a wink, I'm afraid. I keep seeing those wounded 
 men over and over again, those poor mutilated bodies, 
 armless and legless, that Major, those blind men. . . . 
 They haunt me ! . . . To think that we've gone through 
 life, up to now, with all our limbs, and with our two eyes, 
 that we've been able to run, to see, to do things as we 
 liked ! Seeing those men makes one realize how thankful 
 we ought to be for being spared. . . . We live among 
 the things our fathers and our grandfathers lived with 
 before us; we hear the clocks ticking that they heard 
 in their day . . . and then think of those poor Cremets, 
 for instance, where are they sleeping to-night ? What 
 is left to them ? . . . They have lost their country, their 
 church, their home. . . . Ah, a good many draw blanks 
 in life's lottery. ..." 
 
 The rising wind suddenly wailed through the shutters 
 as if bringing something of human misery with it. Pot- 
 terat's thoughts flew to the countries at war; he saw 
 hapless creatures without shelter; he saw the dead 
 bodies with their rigid faces, imploring help that 
 never came; he saw great masses of men rushing out of 
 trenches, and meeting other masses of men like them- 
 selves, differently dressed, and stabbing them with 
 bayonets . . . and he said: 
 
 " History will come down heavily on certain heads. 
 Some people will be cursed for all time. ..." 
 
 " Come, David ! You come to bed to sleep. . . . You 
 worry yourself far too much about the war. . . . Look 
 here ! Let's go for a nice long walk to-morrow morning !" 
 
 " Poum !" replied Potterat, who was charging the 
 enemy in imagination, at the head of a company. 
 
 " Come, come, David ! Do go to sleep !" 
 
324 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 "Fin thinking ! Fd like to win a battle before 
 I close my eyes !" 
 
 He seemed now to see his own country, its sleepy 
 valleys, lulled by the sound of their waterfalls, its villages 
 and towns, where honest magistrates were sleeping, their 
 beards outstretched on the sheets. By way of rousing 
 them, he said again : 
 
 " Poum ! Poum !" 
 
 " David ! You'll frighten those ladies on the second 
 floor. " 
 
 " All right ! Besides, the battle is won. Go to sleep, 
 my dear. Good-night, and God bless you ! I love you 
 very much." 
 
 For some months past, Potterat had roused everyone 
 each morning at six o'clock by shouting : 
 
 " Get up, you neutrals !" 
 
 This morning he said nothing. His wife leaned over 
 him. How soundly he was sleeping, smiling in his sleep, 
 very calm, a little pale, and so still ! Hastily, she put 
 her hand on his forehead, and immediately she gave a 
 stifled scream, and babbled words without meaning. 
 Carlo came running at the sound of his mother's voice, 
 and he, too, screamed, clinging closely to her. Then 
 they ran out together, their arms round each other, 
 terrified, they knew not why. A frightened neighbour 
 knocked at the door, asked some questions, then ran to 
 the telephone. Presently the mother and son returned, 
 still with their arms round each other. They stood by 
 the bed, and once more the mother put her hand on the 
 icy forehead. s 
 
 M David, David !" she cried. 
 
 " Father ! Father !" 
 
 But he did not answer. The mother and son roamed 
 from room to room in tears, repeating to all the familiar 
 things, to the portrait of his first wife: " He is dead." 
 
POTTERAT AND THE WAR 325 
 
 And presently a doctor with a square forehead was 
 leaning over him. No, there was nothing more to be 
 done. Without any suffering, he had passed away in 
 his sleep, gliding, as it were, from one dream into another. 
 To his loved ones, who leaned over him, who murmured 
 tender words to him, he seemed to say : 
 
 " Don't grieve, it is the universal law. Those who 
 have gone before will be very glad to see me again. And 
 you will come by-and-by, my dears. I love you so much, 
 and I will look out for you. What can I say more ? . . . 
 I must rest now. ..." 
 
 When the notice of his death, surrounded with a black 
 border, and supplemented by these words: ' Blessed are 
 they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they 
 shall be filled, ' appeared in the paper, people who had 
 known him said : 
 
 " Oh ! Potterat is dead V And they added nothing 
 more, for silence is the most beautiful elegy for those who 
 are loved. 
 
 ... A funeral advanced slowly, gravely, along the 
 road, without any excessive travesty of grief, however. 
 On the coffin were four wreaths, with ribbons fluttering 
 in the breeze ; one from the Police, one from his comrades 
 of the rifle-corps, another from the members of his band, 
 and a fourth from the Choral Society. Another carriage 
 was almost covered with flowers sent by all sorts of 
 humble friends, by fishermen, by commissionaires, old 
 men and women, gardeners, a bunch of forget-me-nots 
 from little Robert, the lame boy of the basement, and a 
 bunch of roses from Zimmerli. 
 
 Behind walked the family. Ernest, who held Carlo by 
 the hand; Schmid and his son Louis; some cousins from 
 Romainmotier; other cousins from Thierrens; some of his 
 Bioley friends; the Brise du Lac, with flags at half-mast, 
 brass instruments glittering in the sun, and the red covers 
 
326 POTTERAT AND THE WAR 
 
 of their music-books sticking out of their pockets; some 
 police-officers, amongst them Boulenaz; and, bringing up 
 the rear, a detachment of about thirty police-constables 
 in full dress, commanded by Delessert. 
 
 At the sound of their measured tramp, tramp, small 
 boys came running, their caps in their hands, asking: 
 
 " Who is it ?" 
 
 Someone replied, " It's Inspector Potterat." 
 
 Shaking his head sadly, Bigarreau said to his next 
 neighbour : 
 
 " Poor Potterat ! . . . We shall never see his like 
 again. ... It's this war that has killed him. He felt 
 it and lived it with all his heart. . . . Ah, he was a 
 splendid fellow ! One of the very best ! . . ." 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND 
 
Yb 00 1^7