TO ARMS! 
 
 OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS 
 
 I

 
 TO ARMS! 
 
 (LA VEILLEE DBS ARMES) 
 
 AN IMPRESSION OF THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE 
 
 AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 MARCELLE TINAYRE 
 
 BY 
 
 LUCY H. HUMPHREY 
 
 WITH A PREFACE BY 
 
 JOHN H. FINLEY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 68l FIFTH AVENUE
 
 Copyright, 1918, 
 BY E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 Fir* printing - January, 1918 
 
 Second printing January, 1918 
 
 firinted In the United States of Hmerfea
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 TO 
 
 CHARLES AND MARIE-LOUISE 
 LE VERRIER 
 
 MY friends, I offer you this book, a mirror 
 where everyday and heroic aspects are re- 
 flected, of a Paris we shall never see again. Dur- 
 ing the days preceding the mobilization, we have 
 watched together the shadow of the war climbing 
 the pacific sky, and blacker, hour by hour, extend 
 over our land. With our dearest friends, to-day 
 widely scattered, we have known the agony, reli- 
 gious emotion, inward exaltation, the will to sac- 
 rifice and the sorrow of parting, in those unfor- 
 getable moments when our spirits were only part 
 of the universal spirit, when our personal affec- 
 tions melted into a universal feeling, when the 
 weakest among us felt beating in his mortal heart 
 the eternal heart of France. 
 
 Then, we had the sense of kinship which bound 
 us to the people of our race; laborers, bourgeois, 
 artists, scholars, the greatest as well as the 
 humblest. The obscure, elbowed only recently, 
 with indifference, in an egoistic security, seemed 
 
 v 
 
 2183299
 
 to us, in the face of the common peril, what they 
 are in reality, our brothers and sisters, our own 
 people. There were no more social distinctions 
 nor false convenances: by a word, by a look, by 
 thoughtful silence, we all fraternized. 
 
 The most ordinary street, with those who lived 
 in it and those who walked through it, became a 
 marvellous school of grace and courage. I have 
 always loved this street in Paris, but I have never 
 really seen it and understood it until these days; 
 and it is in a way under the dictation of the pass- 
 ers-by that I have written its history a history 
 which occupied forty-eight hours: from July 3ist 
 to August 2nd, 1914. 
 
 None of my books have required less imagina- 
 tion or admitted of less literary artifice. I offer 
 it to you, my friends, because you will be better 
 able than anyone to recognise in it the true color 
 and the exact meaning I have tried to give. It 
 is for you, whose home made me welcome and 
 happy; but it belongs also to those whom your 
 fraternal love joins in the same memory, to those 
 who kept vigil with you, with me, on "the eve 
 of the war" and who are now at their distant 
 posts: Philippe Millet in the North and Noel 
 Pinelli at the Dardanelles. 
 
 Let us take their beloved names, associated 
 with yours, to be a happy omen for the destiny 
 of this little book, which bears our prayers and 
 our hopes that we may be celebrating their re- 
 turn before long the day after victory. 
 
 vi
 
 PREFACE 
 
 It was said by a correspondent in Paris at the 
 beginning of the war that in France they no longer 
 remembered the days of the week or of the month 
 but reckoned time from the first day of mobilisa- 
 tion. I saw the awesome and ominous affiche 
 ("the placard which, with its crossed flags and 
 black letters, became a sign-post at the crossroads 
 of two epochs") which established the new calen- 
 dar of days that have run into months, of months 
 that have run into years and of years that will run 
 into centuries of a new life for the valorous France 
 which has been revealed to the world since that 
 day of mobilisation; and having myself walked 
 through northern France in those first historic 
 days, and having seen the men on their way to 
 the places of rendezvous and the women in the 
 fields gathering the first harvests, I am able to 
 know with what quiet courage and intrepid heart 
 France began the new and undreamed epoch in her 
 life. 
 
 vii
 
 viii Preface 
 
 And how dearly she must ever cherish the mem- 
 ories of those hours of brave, unquestioning re- 
 sponse on the part of the men and of as brave, 
 uncomplaining relinquishment on the part of the 
 women. It was, technically, a passing from a 
 peace footing to a war footing; but it was spir- 
 itually the sudden forgetting of self in the love 
 of a nation-mother and in the defence of the lib- 
 erties sweet to mankind. 
 
 In this little book one will find in the visuali- 
 sation of the typical incidents of those hours 
 (when the rounds of "accustomed rites" in home 
 and street and shop seemed to make any break 
 with the past impossible) the spirit of those now 
 memorable days days which we of America 
 bring into our own calendar, now that the sun is 
 shining on the bayonets of our own brothers and 
 lovers in France not far from where it shone on 
 those of the men in sky-blue who lie many of them 
 out in the valleys of the Marne and the Meurthe, 
 of the Meuse and the Somme, beloved of the skies 
 but proudly held by the soil of France. 
 
 I had been in France not a week before this un-
 
 Preface ix 
 
 anticipated mobilisation, in the midst of the trial 
 "which concealed France from strangers, specta- 
 tors also" and which had for the French "ob- 
 scured Europe." But when I returned in this next 
 fateful week the real France could not be con- 
 cealed, for her people stood all unconscious of 
 stranger or spectator, holding "close together, 
 heart to heart, hand to hand, in silence turning 
 their faces in the same direction." And one may 
 safely quote and apply to all France the statement 
 within that there was "no brutality in the ardour 
 burning in their blood." I remember particularly, 
 though not as exceptional, the Frenchman with 
 whom I journeyed from London to Folkstone and 
 then to Boulogne as one of those first nights. He 
 had closed his little shop, left his all, to join the 
 colors somewhere out in the north of France, pla- 
 cidly, unboastfully, fearlessly determined, yet hop- 
 ing that it "would not come to bayonets," the bru- 
 tal bayonets. 
 
 As one passes from the early chapters of this 
 book, with their petty, homely incidents and their 
 simple dialogue, at times quarrelsome and not the
 
 x Preface 
 
 most agreeable to puritanical ears, passes from 
 these to the later chapters, sees all France moved 
 by tenderness, and brought suddenly, but not by 
 any mechanistic compulsion, into one great fam- 
 ily, sees "selfishness melted in the pure flame of 
 universal sacrifice," one can hardly regret, despite 
 the bloody cost and the tragic folly of war, that 
 France was called to this Veillee des Armes in a 
 cause that exalts its every defender. If there are 
 tears in her "resigned eyes" they are "shining with 
 light." 
 
 JOHN FINLEY.
 
 TO ARMS!
 
 TO ARMS! 
 
 IT is the 3 1st of July in Paris. A heavy morn- 
 ing, sunny but threatening a storm. 
 The street, situated in a district of the left 
 bank, recalls lithographs made under Louis-Phil- 
 ippe. Quite short, extending above the gardens 
 of an expropriated convent, it leads from a quiet 
 circular Place, to a large populous avenue. Near 
 the Place are small grey or brown houses, pa- 
 vilions with railings and little gardens and a long, 
 low wall, disfigured with advertisements, which 
 passes the bell- tower of a chapel and the heavy 
 green masses of old chestnut trees. The narrow 
 sidewalks, the wide pavement, the little shops, 
 this square with its three trees and its benches, is 
 the Paris of 1840, the Paris of Balzac and of 
 Murger. The wine-shop displaying the sign, "To
 
 2 To Arms! 
 
 the Shell" souvenir of the siege has replaced 
 one of the public houses where Rodolphe and 
 Mimi danced. On the other hand, near the ave- 
 nue, the street is dignified by five new houses 
 higher than the others, and dazzlingly white in 
 the light. They are the advance guard of new 
 Paris: proclaiming their aggressive modernity 
 they dominate the pavilions and the gardens 
 which from year to year are disappearing. 
 
 Tiny fragment of the great city, the little street 
 is self-existent. It has its own physiognomy and 
 special character. The Parisians of L'Etoile or 
 of Pare Monceau ignore it. If they should come 
 to know it, without doubt they would despise it. 
 However, it is part of Paris, by a juster claim 
 than those splendid highways, because it is inhab- 
 ited by bourgeois Parisians, who, from father 
 to son, are faithful to their district, if not 
 to their apartments, and it is not frequented by 
 strangers. Artisans, men of independent means, 
 small officials, tradesmen, they retain the habits 
 and prejudices of their caste. Here, as in the 
 country, life is narrow, economical and petty.
 
 To Arms! 3 
 
 Neighbors know each other at least by name. 
 The carpenter and the locksmith pride themselves 
 on the perfection of their work in wood and iron. 
 They have their professional honor. They are 
 of the race of artisans. A sort of popular elite 
 that does not frequent low taverns in touch with 
 the poor and intelligent class of young artists, 
 of students, and developing unconsciously by the 
 contact. The charming, well-dressed girls seem 
 like ladies compared with their mothers in loose 
 jackets. Yes, it is certainly Paris, although not 
 visited by tourists, nor suspected by the moral- 
 ists of the outside world. Beyond, in the neigh- 
 borhood of the little street are the swarming dis- 
 tricts, the museums, the schools, century-old 
 monuments, the theatres and amusement halls, 
 the splendid parks, the suburbs, bristling with 
 factories. The little street realises all this im- 
 pressive life, existing around its humility. It 
 participates modestly; it receives the current that 
 comes from the centre by the neighboring ave- 
 nue ; it shakes with the passing of trams and auto- 
 buses, and the deep arteries of the underground
 
 4 To Arms! 
 
 railway vibrate in its calcareous soil. Modern 
 activity is encroaching upon it, but something of 
 the past dwells in it, a quiet and pleasant calm, 
 an air of good fellowship and of naivete. 
 
 This morning is like all other mornings and the 
 little street has its usual aspect. On one side the 
 sun warms the downy mists that soon become 
 ragged and melt away, and on the other, a soft 
 ray touches the chalky whiteness of the facades 
 of the tall houses. The doves that live in the bell- 
 tower gently coo, while quantities of sparrows 
 twitter among the thick leaves of the chestnut 
 trees. The masons take a drop at the wine-mer- 
 chant's; Monsieur Gouge, the grocer, opens the 
 blinds of his shop. The creamery is open, also 
 the newsstand and Madame Anselme's stationery 
 store. A porter goes by. Janitors throw streams 
 of water broadcast on the pavement and an- 
 nounce, one to another, that the day will be hot 
 and that there is a storm in the air. 
 
 Some employees and workmen, who hurry to- 
 wards the subway station, stop a minute to look
 
 To Arms! 5 
 
 at the posters displayed on the fences. There are 
 the old ones, left from the elections, which have 
 been disintegrating since the month of May. It 
 is possible to distinguish words in large letters, 
 phrases still readable . . . "militarist reaction 
 . . . electoral reform . . . bourgeois parties . . . 
 income tax . . . monarchical traditions . . . three 
 years' law . . . two years' law . . . substitute sol- 
 diers . . . robber . . . bigot . . . unpatriotic . . . 
 tool of the Lodges." The passers-by cast an ab- 
 sentminded glance on the field of battle of political 
 parties, on this debris of rhetoric, which the sun 
 and showers are slowly destroying. These are 
 the thoughts of yesterday already so old that 
 they die and decompose. 
 
 A new poster, that a hostile hand has more 
 than half torn away, announces a Meeting of 
 Protestation against the War. Two men, a work- 
 er and a bourgeois, read it, looking at each other 
 with a kind of silent defiance and then go on, 
 each to his own work. 
 
 Meanwhile, at the corner of the avenue, the 
 attractive shop "Vert d'eau" of the florist is
 
 6 To Arms! 
 
 opened. A blonde woman, in a violet house- 
 dress, peeps out, as if she were waiting for some 
 one. Madame Anselme, the stationer, busy ar- 
 ranging the illustrated magazines, watches the 
 movements of the aesthetic shopkeeper and shrugs 
 her shoulders with scorn. 
 
 It is a morning like all other mornings. In the 
 rooms of the houses, each human group, couple or 
 family, accomplishes its accustomed rites. Every- 
 where the fire is lighted, the water runs, the cur- 
 tains are raised, the light streams in, the cradle 
 creaks and rocks and the woman smiles to the 
 mirror. Everywhere, the peaceful security, the 
 chain of thoughts and acts and the rhythm of 
 life are renewed, joining yesterday to to-morrow 
 in so regular a way that it all seems unbreakable.
 
 II 
 
 "T TAVE you change for fifty francs, Ma- 
 ll dame?" 
 
 "For three newspapers at one sou? I would 
 rather give you credit." 
 
 "Here then are three sous." 
 
 "Ah!" responds Madame Anselme, smiling. 
 "Exactly the sum . . ." 
 
 The chance customer apologises: 
 
 "It has been difficult since yesterday, to get 
 this wretched change ! There is nothing but gold 
 which is very scarce. One hundred sou pieces 
 have disappeared. . . . But why?" 
 
 "It is the fault of the government," replies 
 Madame Anselme positively. "They should have 
 foreseen it. But it is said that the money will 
 reappear. Don't be afraid." 
 
 "Meanwhile, on the boulevard yesterday, the 
 cafes refused notes of one hundred francs. Yes, 
 Madame, with one hundred francs in one's 
 pocket, it was impossible to dine! . . ," 
 
 7
 
 8 To Arms! 
 
 Madame Anselme, large, blonde, showy, in the 
 full development of forty, does not lose her 
 usual serenity. She slightly shrugs her beautiful 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Yes, but why do you suppose 4 ? Because the 
 newspapers excite the public. Then the people 
 rush to the banks to withdraw their savings and 
 to the grocers to buy provisions. It is all ar- 
 ranged and there are speculators who profit by 
 it ... like this Monsieur Gouge opposite, who 
 has raised the price of tapioca. And you, my 
 little lady, what is it that you wish? Change for 
 one hundred francs'? I haven't it." 
 
 A stenographer, twenty years old, pale and 
 frizzed under a little hat wreathed with tiny 
 green apples, replies straightforwardly, 
 
 "One hundred francs'? Where could I get 
 them? Who has one hundred francs this 3ist 
 of the month before pay day? I shall have a 
 beautiful bank-note this evening, but at seven in 
 the morning I have only 35 sous. Give me the 
 Mode Parisienne. I can pay for that." 
 
 "The edition at two sous, without a pattern?'*
 
 To Arms! 9 
 
 "Oh! I want the pattern." 
 
 "Very well, it is three sous." 
 
 The stenographer takes the journal and before 
 going, looks at the illustrated magazines too 
 costly for her purse, which are the greatest orna- 
 ment of the stock. The colored covers represent 
 ladies with long, thin figures, less clothed than 
 disguised, according to the Russo-Persian fashion 
 of the year 1914. The faces of these persons are 
 formed by a stroke of the pen, making an oval 
 two black spots for the eyes, a round rosy 
 dab for the mouth and they have such small 
 noses that they appear to have none at all. As 
 for theii bodies, they are like dancing serpents 
 and they bend, stomach forward, chest hollowed, 
 for an eternal tango. The egg-plant and the to- 
 mato, the canary and English turf add their 
 stronger colors to the waving scarfs which float 
 on the violet, green or blue locks of the ladies. 
 Parisiennes of music-hall and of cosmopolitan 
 palaces, they give to a simple stranger an incor- 
 rect idea of true Parisiennes. The stenographer, 
 Madame Anselme. and all the readers of maga-
 
 10 To Arms! 
 
 zines who are born between Montrouge and the 
 Batignolles, understand themselves in regard to 
 this matter. . . . They admire the eccentric pic- 
 tures as a fantasie of artists and dressmakers, but 
 they are not deceived by them. 
 
 Under the magazines are some pieces of music, 
 maxixes and tangos, crazes of the past winter, 
 and Viennese waltzes, remarkable for the stupid- 
 ity of the words. Further down are bargain vol- 
 umes, where the ridiculous and sublime are close 
 neighbors. Rocambole and Les Miserable!) Les 
 Nuits du Boulevard and Manon Lescaut, detec- 
 tive novels and the great classics. In the same 
 way, the coarse little comic journals are found 
 among numbers of La Vie Parisienne, Le Rire 
 and the Cri de Paris. Easy sentimentality, rough 
 soldier songs, lyrics, supreme delicacy of irony or 
 emotion, heroism and frivolity, pamphlet and ro- 
 mance, the whole soul of Paris, with its beauty 
 and its blemishes, appears in miniature in this 
 stationer's window on the outskirts of town. 
 
 "VKumanite! . . ." 
 
 "Le Matin . ."
 
 To Arms! n 
 
 "Le Journal . . ." 
 
 "La Guerre Sociale. . . . Have you the 
 change 1 ?" 
 
 "For twenty sous'?" 
 
 "For five francs." 
 
 "There!" 
 
 Clients take the paper they wish from the pile 
 and go, one by one, struggling with the double 
 sheets that startle them. And, although Madame 
 Anselme cannot see their faces, she knows from 
 their slower, heavy gait that a weight has fallen 
 upon them. 
 
 Others stop, so anxious to read that they forget 
 to pay and hold the sou in their hand. Then 
 they seem to rouse themselves, throw the sou on 
 the tray and go in turn, in silence. . . . 
 
 An old man says in a loud voice: 
 
 "My God! Suppose that we should see it 
 again !" 
 
 He goes on, with the thought that makes him 
 almost reel and nearly blinds the weary eyes of 
 the poor devil. . . . Meanwhile, the stenog- 
 rapher, ten steps ahead of him, enjoys her fashion
 
 12 To Arms! 
 
 paper. The children play. Two cats defy each 
 other, spitting, and behind the fence of the lum- 
 ber-yard a mason's assistant eggs them on. ... 
 
 "Kss! Kss! ... the kitty-cats! . . . There 
 is some game for the siege!" 
 
 A mason protests: 
 
 "For what? ... For what? . . . The siege? 
 We are not in '70 and the proletariat is there to 
 act. Must we go into a terrible war for Servia, 
 when we don't even know where it is, Servia? 
 It wouldn't be human. It wouldn't be civilised! 
 It is certain that we are French first of all, and 
 we will not let it bother us, but if the C. G. T. 1 
 holds great meetings in all the cities, in Paris, in 
 London, in Berlin to declare, "The working-man 
 wishes justice; he wants them to explain their 
 difficulties nicely to each other, instead of break- 
 ing their neighbor's jaws. Don't you think 
 that would make tne governments reflect?" 
 
 The chorus of comrades responds with approv- 
 ing grunts or ironic laughter. 
 
 1 Confederation Generale du Travail.
 
 To Arms! 13 
 
 "Meetings! they never did anything but give 
 pleasure to the busy-bodies!" 
 
 "It is for the German Socialists to begin. . . . 
 Listen : is it their government or ours that wishes 
 to play the villain*? It is certainly not 
 ours. . . ." 
 
 "Just hear. It is not ended yet. They will not 
 come forward, the German comrades. . . ." 
 
 "They will come forward!" 
 
 "They will not!" 
 
 "Ask Jaures. . . ." 
 
 "They will not come forward. They are So- 
 cialists, but they are Bodies. ... I have known 
 them, the Boches. . . . We cannot trust them. 
 . . . They are the worst traitors. My good man, 
 they would inform against their own pals, like 
 the monkeys! . . . All spies and impostors! . . . 
 There is nothing more to be done. ... As for 
 me, I have ordered my army shoes. I am in the 
 engineering corps." 
 
 "I am in the artillery. And you, Ernesse?" 
 
 "Infantry soldier of the first class. ... I start 
 on the fourth day. . . ."
 
 14 To Arms! 
 
 Madame Anselme, who hears this dialogue, 
 presses her lips together with a disapproving air. 
 She doesn't like workmen who talk politics with 
 the phrases of the public meeting and words that 
 she does not understand. This paper-seller is an 
 ambitious woman who dreams of raising herself 
 in the social scale. Her trade seems much nobler 
 to her than that of the woman who sells fruit, 
 and because she handles books and journals, she 
 assumes the manners and pretensions of an edu- 
 cated person. A poor widow, Madame Anselme 
 has practised the sharpest economy in order to 
 procure for her child the fine education she 
 wanted for herself, and, born of the people, she 
 has hoped that her son might become a bourgeois. 
 Pierre was a student in college; he entered the 
 highest training school with good standing and 
 he is about to pass the examination for the licen- 
 tiate's degree. At the beginning of October, he 
 will be a professor in the country. Then, Madame 
 Anselme will sell her paper business and grow 
 old near her son, happy, honored and comfort- 
 able like an independent lady.
 
 To Arms! 15 
 
 In order to be worthy of this glorious future, 
 so that her son may never blush on her account, 
 Madame Anselme has cultivated herself; she has 
 become almost distinguished and elegant, with 
 her Parisian capacity for assimilation. Still de- 
 sirable and attractive as ripe fruit, she has ignored 
 the temptations that disturb the autumn of beau- 
 tiful women and has not listened to any proposi- 
 tion of marriage. She is passionately, blindly a 
 mother and in this same hour when a strange dis- 
 quietude troubles the French spirit, Madame An- 
 selme is indifferent to the conflicts of Austria and 
 Servia, incapable of realising the meaning and 
 the consequences, and continues hypnotised by the 
 examination for the licentiate's degree and the 
 probable success of her son. Pierre has said to 
 her: "Be calm." She is calm. The people 
 rushing to Monsieur Gouge for provisions seem 
 to her ridiculous and pitiable and she blames the 
 government that cannot prevent the money panic. 
 
 "Ah ! good morning, Marie ! You want change 
 for one hundred francs'?" 
 
 "If I had one hundred francs at a time,
 
 16 To Arms! 
 
 Madame Anselme, it would be on my savings 
 book! . . ." 
 
 Marie Pourat is from Aveyron, swarthy, very 
 thin, as sharp in business as she is in regard to 
 money, and robust, in spite of her slender waist, 
 her arms like iron wire and her dark little face 
 like a poor insect. She was a servant for a res- 
 taurant keeper of the Avenue du Maine until her 
 twenty-eighth year, then, having amassed a capi- 
 tal of 2000 francs, she married one of her com- 
 patriots, Anthime Pourat, an enormous red-haired 
 plumber, who treats her somewhat roughly and 
 secretly dreads her. They occupy two rooms on 
 the sixth floor in a neighboring street. Marie 
 holds the purse, brings up two little boys with 
 stern solicitude and endures with good grace the 
 presence of her old peasant mother-in-law. Her 
 lordly spouse allows her to govern the menage 
 and invests the money which she saves by scrimp- 
 ing like the ants. Sometimes, having imbibed a 
 little too much, he shouts at the top of his lungs, 
 
 "I am the master! It is for the man to com-
 
 To Arms! 17 
 
 mand! I cannot allow people to say that the 
 wife wears the trousers at Anthime Pourat's." 
 
 Marie does not contradict him, and this asser- 
 tion of authority, wholly theoretic, satisfies the 
 affable tyrant. 
 
 Madame Anselme and Marie are like each 
 other in their intense maternal passion and in the 
 same wish to advance their offspring in the world. 
 One wants to be the mother of a scholar ; the other, 
 uprooted from her own country, hopes to return 
 to her native Aveyron and to cultivate a little 
 place, after having made post office employees or 
 travelling workmen of her children, men of sure 
 pay and certain support for old age. Both have 
 the same terror of risk and improvidence. 
 
 "You look tired, Marie. It is the heat. . . . 
 And then, you do too much. . . . One hour with 
 Monsieur Gouge, scrubbing the stairs. That is 
 not a woman's work! the menage of Madame 
 Davesnes, and Madame Moriceau's and the er- 
 rands and washing days." 
 
 "If one has chicks one must earn money, you 
 poor thing !" replies Marie, who has kept the col-
 
 1 8 To Arms! 
 
 loquialisms of her province and also a slight ac- 
 cent. . . . "Plumbing doesn't get on very well. 
 But if I could do without him, I should not go to 
 Monsieur Gouge any more. He is not just, that 
 man. . . . Since he has seen the fine grocer set- 
 tled on the Avenue, in the beautiful shop where 
 they sell fish and game, his blood is turned with 
 jealousy. . . . Yesterday, Madamoiselle Cou- 
 sance's servant wanted to buy some petrol : 'Not 
 more than a litre,' he said, 'and I shall charge an 
 extra sou. If you are not satisfied, go to your 
 grand place . . . stand in line. . . .' And to 
 me, Madame, who am in his employ, he sold 
 four packages of old macaroni at the price of the 
 extra superfine. ..." 
 
 "You are laying in provisions!" 
 
 "Eh! poor woman, almost all the world is do- 
 ing it! ... Suppose we should begin to lack 
 things. . . ." 
 
 "My son has forbidden me to buy even a kilo 
 of sugar in advance. He says that Paris is sure of 
 plenty of provisions and that the lines before the 
 stores only demoralize the people and excite the
 
 To Arms! 19 
 
 merchants who want to grow richer and richer. 
 . . . Here, Marie, take your papers. . . . Here 
 is your package: Le Journal and Le Figaro for 
 Madame Davesnes, Les Annales and Le Matin for 
 Mademoiselle Cousance, and La Libre Parole for 
 Madame Moriceau. ..." 
 
 "She is a happy person ! Her son arrived yes- 
 terday. . . ." 
 
 "The Abbe Moriceau?' 
 
 "Yes. ... A short blond, quite sweet and so 
 polite! The kind of seminarist that seems like a 
 young lady dressed as a cure. I should never ven- 
 ture to confess to a little young thing like that. 
 . . . What will my Anthime say who does not 
 love a priest !" 
 
 "It didn't prevent your Anthime from being 
 married in the church*?" 
 
 "Certainly not! One does what is necessary, 
 one is not a dog. ... I am not religious, but I 
 respect custom. . . . Moreover, the other day, 
 Monsieur Lepoultre was perfectly astonished be- 
 cause I sent my Eugene to the little catechism 
 class. ... I said to him : If it doesn't do him any
 
 2O To Arms! 
 
 good, it will do him no harm; a little religion is 
 good for children. . . . Never mind whether it 
 lasts. . . . But for a time it may have some in- 
 fluence. . . . And then why not? We are not 
 dogs! . . ." 
 
 "Here are the papers for Monsieur Lepoultre: 
 L? Action, L'Humanite and for the sculptor, La 
 Guerre Soctale." 
 
 "Pourat prefers Le Petit Journal. He explains 
 to me what is in it, because I read the supplement 
 and that satisfies me. . . . Ah! the poor woman 
 tormented by politicians for a long time, my An- 
 thime! . . . 'Much better if it were ended! 
 They will acquit her ! They will not acquit her ! 
 The judges are bought! The husband paid by 
 Germany !' Ah ! Each one puts in his oar. Now 
 it is another song. Pourat called in my ear this 
 morning: 'Hello, Go bring my thick shoes and 
 my flannel belt! . . . Why*? Because I say so. 
 ... In case that there may be war !' . . ." 
 
 The terrible word falls between the two women 
 like a shell which does not explode, but holds con-
 
 To Arms! 21 
 
 cealed powers of destruction. Madame Anselme 
 turns pale. Then she shakes her head. 
 
 "War! My son doesn't believe in it, and he is 
 perfectly competent to understand things, he who 
 prophesied all the results of the elections! . . . 
 Three years ago, in 19.11, people also talked of 
 war, and see, everything is settled. . . ." 
 
 "Monsieur Davesnes believes it. He knows 
 about it too, as he was lieutenant before being 
 aeroplane engineer/' 
 
 "An officer! Naturally, he talks of drawing 
 his broadsword as you do of waxing the stairs. 
 See ! Monsieur Lepoultre v is going out at this 
 hour!" 
 
 Monsieur Lepoultre, professor of political econ- 
 omy, well-known Esperantist and pacifist, is a 
 kind and tired little man. He has a wan face, un- 
 kempt white hair, a pleasant smile and blue eyes 
 that have a vacant expression because of myopia, 
 behind his eye-glasses. 
 
 "Give me the papers, Marie. But take I' Action 
 to Madame Lepoultre who is dying to know the
 
 22 To Arms! 
 
 news . . . especially since our daughter has tele- 
 graphed that she is returning to France." 
 
 Madame Anselme, who reveres the professor, 
 ventures to ask timidly : 
 
 "Madame Delmotte is not in danger*?" 
 
 "Not at all. Her husband took her to Switzer- 
 land and both of them seemed very contented. 
 . . . My son-in-law has decided to return, which 
 annoys us very much, because we expected to join 
 them next week with our two boys. . . . No 
 doubt the lies that are spread around there have 
 bewildered the tourists." 
 
 "The lies!" said Madame Anselme reassured. 
 . . . "You are certain, Monsieur, that they are 
 lies, these stories that we find in the papers?" 
 
 "Not entirely, Madame. We must distinguish. 
 There is evidently a very grave crisis. . . . This 
 declaration of war that Austria made day before 
 yesterday on Servia, and the dissensions that have 
 arisen between Russia and Germany. . . ." 
 
 "Oh ! Heavens ! You think that we shall have 
 war?" 
 
 "Come now, Madame, you are off to the field
 
 To Arms! 23 
 
 of battle. I believe that it would be possible to 
 have war if the governments were not frightened 
 themselves by the disturbance they are causing. 
 . . . But I remain optimistic, in spite of all, and 
 I have confidence in the moral force of opinion, 
 in the wisdom of the people who, throughout the 
 world, I assure you will strongly oppose the 
 troublemakers. . . . War! The conqueror, would 
 be ruined by it, as well as the conquered! I am 
 persuaded that it is materially impossible. The 
 Kaiser and his chancellor are using dishonest 
 means. ... If we stand our ground, you will 
 see, at the last moment the monster will sheathe 
 his big sword. Besides, the progressive parties, 
 the German Social Democrats, will counterbal- 
 ance the military caste. . . . According to the in- 
 formation that I had last evening, the hope of a 
 peaceful solution is not lost. . . . And that is 
 why my son-in-law and my daughter are foolish 
 to return to Paris the 3ist of July." 
 
 "How old are your sons, Monsieur Lepoultre 1 ?" 
 
 "Twenty-two years and nineteen years. The 
 
 oldest is doing his military service as cavalryman
 
 24 To Arms! 
 
 at Luneville. . . . The second is preparing for 
 the Polytechnic school. . . . And you, Madame, 
 you have a student son*?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur. He is about to pass the phi- 
 losophy examination." 
 
 "I wish him success. . . . Come, Madame, 
 don't sow the seeds of panic. Inspire confidence 
 in the people who show exaggerated fear." 
 
 "That is just what my son said. . . . Good- 
 bye, and a thousand pardons for having kept you, 
 Monsieur." 
 
 The professor departed, walking rapidly. In 
 the stone-cutter's yard one of the masons hums in 
 a tremulous and persuasive voice: 
 
 "U Internationale 
 
 Sera le genre humain. . . ." 
 
 Meanwhile a gamin, very dirty and very lively, 
 arriving from no one knows where, like a sparrow 
 on the pavement, draws with a piece of plaster, 
 on the sidewalk, the helmeted and moustached 
 profile of the Emperor William.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE building number 59 is what Marie 
 Pourat calls a "rich man's house." You 
 must realise that the apartments, provided with 
 baths and heating arrangements, are rented at the 
 enormous price of from fifteen hundred to three 
 thousand francs. An architect, charmed with 
 modernity, has designed a rectangular fagade, 
 without carvings of any sort, where the glazed 
 brick, white, conservatively brightened with blue 
 and green motives, takes the place of free-stone. 
 The door reminds one of the entrance to Egyptian 
 palaces. In the interior of the vestibule are the 
 same enamelled bricks, under a high frieze repre- 
 senting lemons and oranges. Opposite the loggia 
 on the right, there is on a large landing, a tele- 
 phone booth, a sofa and a rattan table, and at 
 the back the staircase winds in a high delicate 
 spiral around the cage of the elevator. 
 
 When all of the tenants occupy their respective 
 25,
 
 26 To Arms! 
 
 homes, a score of domestics furnish diversion to 
 Madame Miton, the concierge. The building, 
 number 59, boasts of several chamber-maids, an 
 English nurse, a Fraulein and two valet-chauf- 
 feurs who are quite the fashion in the "big 
 houses." But since the beginning of July, the 
 richest tenants those who are like the plainer 
 people of the district of L'Etoile have gone to 
 the mountains or the sea; only the small fry are 
 left, the households where the one servant is as- 
 sisted by occasional outside women. The motor- 
 coupe of Melinier, the lawyer, and the little auto- 
 mobile of Engineer Watson are no longer in the 
 two coach houses at the back of the court near 
 Sculptor Frechette's studio. Madame Miton 
 doesn't complain of it. This concierge, a woman 
 as modern as the furniture, is half bourgeois, with 
 grey hair; she is fat and rosy, and differs from 
 Madame Pipelet, her grandmother for the type 
 of Parisian concierge has greatly changed since 
 the time of Eugene Sue and of Balzac. This one 
 has mahogany furniture and a chimney ornament 
 of artistic imitation bronze; she practises profes-
 
 To Arms! 27 
 
 sional indiscretion with moderation and detests 
 cooking with onions, so dear to suburban janitors. 
 She never condescends to dirty or menial work. 
 She is content to ring the bell, watch the arrivals, 
 and answer the telephone. 
 
 This morning, after having scolded Marie 
 Pourat who is late, Madame Miton expresses her 
 joy at seeing the house grow empty. "Madame 
 Moriceau and Monsieur, the Abbe, are going soon 
 to Rochefort. Mademoiselle Couzance is going 
 to Auvergne ; Madame Davesnes to Brittany, and 
 Madame Lepoultre to Switzerland. ... If it 
 wasn't for little Monsieur Frechette, who hasn't 
 a cent for travel, I might think of the country 
 myself." 
 
 "Ah!" says Marie, "poor Madame Miton, you 
 do not know then that Monsieur Lepoultre's 
 daughter is coming back, with the three boys who 
 muddy the staircases so dreadfully!" 
 
 "Madame Delmotte is coming back*?" 
 
 "Her father told me when he took his news- 
 papers that she is afraid there will be war!" 
 
 "Heavens! It is possible, then! Every one
 
 28 To Arms! 
 
 has talked of it for two days. . . . Before, they 
 were occupied with the trial of Madame Caillaux. 
 It was exactly like the time of the Dreyfus af- 
 fair. And then, when that is finished, we can't 
 get change, the grocers raise their prices and it is 
 said that the Germans are about to mobilise! 
 . . . Was there any thought of that a week ago 1 ? 
 . . . And my son Gustave is in the reserve ! He 
 goes the first day. . . . Ah ! Marie, I am trying 
 as hard as possible not to believe it, but even the 
 thought of it has affected the nerves of my stom- 
 ach." 
 
 "And my husband, will they take him from 
 me too"? He is in the territorials." 
 
 "If he is not very young, perhaps he will re- 
 main behind." 
 
 "Don't you think so? The married men, the 
 fathers of families, they won't go*? How could 
 we live?" 
 
 "And my Gustave! Such a handsome boy, so 
 strong and earning wages. . . . He thinks of 
 marrying. . . ." 
 
 "Don't cry, Madame Miton. He is not gone
 
 To Arms! 29 
 
 yet, your Gustave. Monsieur Lepoultre who is 
 learned doesn't believe at all in the war. . . . 
 Come take your coffee. It is growing cold. See ! 
 There is the Abbe Moriceau and his Mamma." 
 
 The glass door of the landing opens softly, and 
 an old woman appears, followed by a young 
 priest. Both are slender, dressed in black, and 
 they have the same naive expression, the same 
 blue eyes that observe life without reflecting its 
 shadows. The mother is fresh, under her wrinkles, 
 while study and perhaps austerity have paled the 
 cheeks and faded the eyes of her son. 
 
 Marie Pourat and Madame Miton say a re- 
 spectful good morning to these two black shadows. 
 When the concierge makes a motion to offer the 
 mail, the Abbe refuses, smiling : 
 
 "Thank you, Madame . . . after the 
 mass. . . ." 
 
 No doubt, during the hours of the morning that 
 belong to God, the Abbe does not wish to excite 
 his curiosity with things of earth. He does not 
 want to think of anything but their misery and 
 their worthlessness. What would the newspapers
 
 3O To Arms! 
 
 tell him"? Of folly, the wickedness of men, the 
 strife of brutality against weakness, of injustice 
 against the right, and of possible danger to the 
 country? . . . This is no novelty in the history 
 of the world, and, for several days, it has been a 
 living and agitating reality. . . . The Abbe can 
 very well wait another hour to consider the evil 
 that is taking place. The present hour is entirely 
 for prayer and the priest with the infantile eyes 
 feels himself, to-day more than ever before, a 
 mediary between doubting humanity and Eternal 
 Justice. 
 
 He goes with his silent mother into the street, 
 where the veiled sun commences to warm the new 
 fagades. Some travelling hawkers push along the 
 edge of the side-walk, the carts that housewives 
 always wait for and they announce, with modu- 
 lated cries, fine tender lettuce and new vegetables. 
 This call rouses Madame Miton. 
 
 "Take the mail quickly to the tenants, Marie. 
 I am going to buy some peas." 
 
 At the back of the court is Alexandre Frechette's 
 studio. The serving woman knocks at the door,
 
 To Arms! 31 
 
 without ceremony. She supposes that the sculptor 
 is prolonging the sweetness of his morning nap on 
 the divan that serves him for a bed. One knock, 
 two knocks. . . . Marie calls : 
 
 "M'sieur Frechette!" . . . 
 
 She is afraid of seeing through the door 
 brusquely half-opened, an abominable creature 
 the model up on a table! . . . The memory of 
 such a spectacle, presented to her scandalised eyes 
 one day when she interrupted an hour of posing, 
 still embarrasses Marie Pourat, in her prudery of 
 the working woman. . . . After this adventure 
 she feels great disapproval, mingled with fear, 
 for artists in general, although she retains for 
 Monsieur Frechette, in particular, an involuntary 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Wake up, cocoa! . . . Shall I open the 
 door"? . . . Say, do you want cocoa*?" 
 
 A yawn, some inarticulate words, a laugh, soft 
 cries. "Ah ! leave the cocoa ! . . . This isn't the 
 time. . . ." 
 
 Slippers clatter on the tile floor of the studio. 
 The key turns in the lock ... a pretty hand, a
 
 32 To Arms! 
 
 beautiful arm appear. The groping fingers take 
 the paper and nimbly pick up the bottle of milk 
 from the ground. 
 
 The door is closed. Within the studio Alexan- 
 dre Frechette and his friend noisily argue over 
 the newspaper. Marie Pourat hears an exclama- 
 tion, then a phrase, which seem to her as shocking 
 as they are mysterious : 
 
 "War! . . . Chic, that! They will take the 
 cubists back to the frontier ! . . ." 
 
 "Oh, the artists! . . . What language! . . . 
 And he," thinks Marie, "is not a rascal like so 
 many, with long hair and velvet trousers. . . . 
 He is 'a young man of family.' He should have 
 been a doctor or clerk. And he has chosen this 
 occupation that ruins his hands and spoils the 
 clean rooms! And all the time he changes 
 women! . . ." 
 
 Meanwhile Mademoiselle Julia, Mademoiselle 
 Couzance's servant, is making signs at the window 
 on the third floor. At Madame Lepoultre's, the 
 kitchen blinds are not raised.
 
 To Arms! 33 
 
 "Oh! Mercy!" said Marie Pourat, dreamily, 
 "how I have wasted time this morning! . . . 
 Monsieur Davesnes asked me to bring the papers 
 at seven !"
 
 IV 
 
 THE sunlight flickered in the ecru silk of the 
 curtains, through the partially closed blinds. 
 While FranQois Davesnes still slept, worn by a 
 long, laborious evening, the room quietly awak- 
 ened. A golden atmosphere bathed the hangings 
 of old Jouy, blue and ivory, which had the ex- 
 quisite tone of Rouen porcelain. The rustic fur- 
 niture, cut out of light-brown wood, received faint 
 reflections on its curved mouldings and its glossy 
 leather. And Simone Davesnes, half dressed in 
 her kimono, her blond hair turned back in Chi- 
 nese fashion, smiled at the familiar things that 
 seemed to her to have held her happiness. 
 
 Seated on a stool, she put on her Japanese slip- 
 pers. The narrow mirror, between the windows, 
 reflected her image: Simone resembled women 
 of the i8th century, but of the end of the i8th 
 century. She had clear eyes and an aureole of 
 ash-colored hair, made for a blue band or a 
 
 34
 
 To Arms! 35 
 
 soft hat with a drooping brim. It was not Manon ; 
 it was Fanny de Chenier; it was Lucille Desmou- 
 lins, still happy. One could imagine her in a 
 striped dress, in the park of Ermonville, on the 
 border of the pool which reflects the artificial ruins 
 and the cenotaph of Rousseau. 
 
 This feminine type is full of grace, but its suav- 
 ity is not without monotony. The glance of Si- 
 mone sufficed to brighten all its tame sweetness. 
 It was thoughtful, strangely passionate, and va- 
 riable as water, for it had a thousand moods; it 
 expressed sometimes malice, but more often, naive 
 goodness and the purity of a soul that could not 
 be false. 
 
 Involuntarily Simone contemplated her face in 
 the mirror. 
 
 The beauty of women is the visible radiation 
 of their happiness. Simone had become very 
 beautiful since her marriage to Frangois Davesnes ; 
 and when she looked at herself, she no longer 
 recognised, in the happy woman, the traits of the 
 young girl she had formerly been. 
 
 Her father, Simon Bouvet, captain of colonial
 
 36 To Arms! 
 
 infantry, died in Madagascar when she was quite 
 small. Educated in the Lodge House she knew 
 little of her mother, who seemed to her on visit- 
 ing days like an austere person, always in mourn- 
 ing. Madame Bouvet, enbittered by unhappiness, 
 saw nothing in life but its most sombre aspect 
 and consoled herself for her griefs by foreboding 
 trouble. Her gloomy face subdued all gaiety and 
 crushed all joy and even her friends, who pitied 
 her, somewhat dreaded her and gradually kept 
 away from her. 
 
 As the presence of a child was a care to her 
 during the vacations, Madame Bouvet willingly 
 confided her child to some rich cousins, the Bou- 
 vets of Monderie, who lived in autumn in their 
 chateau of Plessis-l'Etang. They had one 
 daughter a little older than Simone. The two 
 cousins, in spite of the inequality of their worldly 
 conditions, lived together like two sisters who 
 loved each other tenderly. 
 
 When Simone lost her mother and left the 
 Lodge House, Monsieur Bouvet de la Monderie 
 gave her an opportunity for lessons in design and
 
 To Arms! 37 
 
 modelling. He noticed that she possessed deli- 
 cate sensibility and very fine and perfect taste, 
 and hoped that she would become an artist. But 
 first of all, the young girl wanted to acquire ma- 
 terial independence, and she courageously re- 
 signed herself to designing fashion figures, and to 
 creating with wax and stuffs those charming man- 
 nequin-dolls that are almost works of art. 
 
 In this way she passed the long years, all of 
 her first youth. Without jealousy, she saw many 
 of her old companions marry, and her cousin, Nic- 
 olette, become the wife of Jean Raynaud, who 
 was rich and fascinating. The little wax ladies 
 representing successive Parisian fashions Em- 
 pire furs, princess dresses, "hobble" skirts and 
 Oriental tunics acquired a melancholy air un- 
 der the light fingers of Simone. . . . But, in 
 1912, after having bedecked an entire miniature 
 harem with gorgeous coats and pearl-trimmed tur- 
 bans, Mademoiselle Bouvet dressed in white satin 
 a bride who became the last little figure of the col- 
 lection. . . . 
 
 That year, in September, Simone went to stay
 
 38 To Arms! 
 
 for a short time at Plessis-l'Etang, with Nicolette 
 Raynaud and there she met Frangois Davesnes. 
 
 He was at that time a lieutenant of artillery. 
 Jean Raynaud had known him from college days 
 and had a great affection for him. In the slightly 
 cosmopolitan world frequented by Jean and Nico- 
 lette, there were not many men comparable to 
 him. Frangois Davesnes was both serious and 
 light-hearted, a realist and sentimental. His very 
 supple quick mind was balanced by a patient will, 
 without violence and inflexible. 
 
 Military life, which often tends to confine men 
 to the routine of a specialty, did not keep him 
 from being interested in everything, but his heart 
 remained very young. His comrades, his sol- 
 diers, knew that he was good. No one knew how 
 tender he could be. 
 
 Having no longer a family, he had accommo- 
 dated himself, as well as he could, to a solitary 
 existence, because he had been an intense worker, 
 and because he had enriched his intellectual life. 
 At twenty-nine he had an air of precocious matur- 
 ity and a natural dignity, a little distant, which
 
 To Arms! 39 
 
 women took for coldness. Several flattered them- 
 selves that they could attract and carry him off, 
 humble and submissive, in their train. But Lieu- 
 tenant Davesnes did not permit himself to be do- 
 mesticated, not even by a beautiful woman, and 
 more than one fell into the snare that she herself 
 had laid. Others imagining that this officer would 
 marry a woman with a large dowry, plumed them- 
 selves on pushing the matter in society. Nicolette 
 proposed a certain "good match" to him. Fran- 
 gois quickly discouraged this friendly solicitude. 
 He loved his calling, in spite of the small pay and 
 the slowness of advancement, and had not felt 
 any desire to enrich himself especially by the 
 means of marriage. 
 
 Neither Jean, nor even Nicolette had thought 
 of presenting Simone Bouvet to him as a possible 
 fiancee, for the Raynauds, entirely occupied with 
 hunting, dancing, flirting, quarrelling and becom- 
 ing reconciled with each other, could not conceive 
 of marriage without luxury which they said 
 rendered it supportable. Also when chance 
 brought Francois Davesnes and Simone Bouvet
 
 40 To Arms! 
 
 together, neither of them attached any importance 
 to their mutual sympathy, which seemed to them 
 part of a light flirtation. The life of the chateau 
 permitted a delicious liberty. The autumn was 
 mild and golden. Simone enjoyed reading under 
 the reddening elms of the park, and often Francois 
 seated himself near her. They chatted without 
 conventionality, and gaily, of frivolous matters 
 and grave, and thus, without realising it, revealed 
 themselves to each other. . . . The agreement of 
 their ideas and sentiments so charmed them, that 
 they forgot to be surprised. Near Simone, Fran- 
 Qois was overwhelmed with an unknown emotion, 
 but he concealed the homesickness he experienced 
 when he was separated from the young girl for 
 a single day; and Simone, near Francois, had the 
 sensation of being understood and protected. 
 
 One day, in the damp avenue where the leaves 
 had already collected, Frangois took the hand of 
 his friend and asked: 
 
 "May I keep it always? Are you willing that 
 we should go together through life and that this 
 little hand should never leave mine?"
 
 To Arms! 41 
 
 They became engaged, to the surprise and scan- 
 dal of the people around them, who had been so 
 polite over the supposed flirtation. Jean Raynaud 
 was very fond of Simone. He ventured to charge 
 Francois with imprudence. He said to him: 
 
 "You are committing a folly, a very great 
 folly. . . . But how will you live, Simone and 
 you?" 
 
 Frangois responded: 
 
 "A man can always live and take care of his 
 wife, if he is not weak, drunken, or lazy." 
 
 And as he did not allow any interval to elapse 
 between decision and action, he went away, ig- 
 nored the advice of his friends and ended by find- 
 ing a place as engineer in an aviation factory. 
 The salary was modest for a beginning, but in 
 time the situation would become more advanta- 
 geous. 
 
 After two years of marriage, the couple were 
 as ardently in love as in the days of the honey- 
 moon. The material difficulties of their life and 
 their relative solitude in this Paris where they 
 knew few people, strengthened their attachment.
 
 42 To Arms! 
 
 They were friends and comrades, reading the same 
 books, breathing the same intellectual atmos- 
 phere, prolonging their lengthy conversations, and 
 suddenly in a kiss becoming lovers again, for love 
 had given to them all the graces, and the sweet- 
 ness of the days continued unbroken. 
 
 All the memories of these two years and all the 
 disquietude which Simone still wished to keep 
 away from her spirit, caused a deep tenderness as 
 she looked at Frangois. His big masculine form 
 lay like a beautiful fallen tree. Simone admired 
 his forehead, closely capped with brown hair, 
 the straight eye-brows, separated by a wrinkle, the 
 rigid line of the nose, the arched mouth, the firm 
 and pliable chin. Sleep had effaced the marks 
 of time and fatigue on his face, which had as- 
 sumed the purity, the austere nobility and almost 
 the consistence of a bronze statue. 
 
 Simone murmured : 
 
 "My dear love ! . . . My only love. . . ." 
 
 Frangois seemed to tremble in his rest. Then 
 Simone put her hand on his forehead, guarding
 
 To Arms! 43 
 
 the sleep that was slipping away from him like a 
 delicate veil. 
 
 And when he was entirely quiet, she crept away, 
 silently. She closed the door of the room behind 
 her, crossed the vestibule and the passage leading 
 to the bathroom. There she was busy in arrang- 
 ing her husband's toilet articles and clothes before 
 she lighted the tea-kettle. In the dining-room, 
 papered with a gay yellow paper, she went to 
 fetch the plates, the cups, and the rolls for break- 
 fast. It was for her a pleasant custom, a joy 
 renewed each morning, for she knew how to create 
 pleasures out of the tasks imposed upon her by her 
 modest means. There are no common duties that 
 are not capable of becoming genuine rites of love ; 
 there is no woman in love who does not know how 
 to serve the man she adores. But the Parisian 
 women know how to conceal the prudent house- 
 wife and only let the sweetheart and lover be seen; 
 they know how to gloss over their virtue with an 
 elegant frivolity, and they pass off with a jest, 
 the avowal of their devotion. 
 
 The cups were placed on a napkin over the
 
 44 To Arms! 
 
 table-cloth, and the water sang in the kettle, 
 when Simone heard Marie Pourat entering the 
 kitchen. 
 
 She noticed the agitated look of the woman 
 from Aveyron. 
 
 "Are you ill, my good Marie*?" 
 
 The other moaned: 
 
 "Who is happy, to-day*? . . . Madame An- 
 selme is tormented; the concierge weeps; Gouge 
 raises the price of his goods; one cannot get any 
 more change and the daughter of Monsieur Le- 
 poultre is coming back from Switzerland because 
 she fears the Germans. . . . There is nobody 
 that is not upset. But the poor women have a 
 lot of trouble. ..." 
 
 And without transition: 
 
 "Doesn't Madame wish to lay in a stock of 
 provisions'? Every one is doing it." 
 
 "Have you lost your head, out in the neigh- 
 borhood 6 ?" said Simone. "Provisions'? As if 
 for a siege 4 ? . . . That would be droll. ... Go 
 to your work, Marie, and above all, return at ex-
 
 To Arms! 45 
 
 actly ten o'clock, because I want to go out. I am 
 to breakfast with Madame Raynaud. . . ." 
 
 "And for dinner?' 
 
 "Be here at five o'clock. You will find the 
 written orders on the buffet." 
 
 "And for money?" 
 
 "My poor Marie! One would think to hear 
 you that war had already been declared!" 
 
 Relieved of Marie Pourat, Madame Davesnes 
 stopped smiling and unrolled her newspaper. 
 With one look, she took in the titles of the prin- 
 cipal articles, the latest despatches and some 
 phrases with disturbed feeling. . . . 
 
 And suddenly the agony returned which she 
 had experienced the evening before, an agony 
 which the words of her husband and sleep had dis- 
 sipated. . . . 
 
 "Simone*? . . . Where are you, Simone*?" 
 She returned to the bedroom. Francois was 
 up and half dressed and received her with a dis- 
 pleased expression. He had opened the window 
 and raised the blinds.
 
 46 To Arms! 
 
 "It is eight o'clock!" he said. "You promised 
 to waken me and you let me sleep !" 
 
 "You worked so late. . . ." 
 
 "An order is an order. It was your duty to 
 waken me. . . ." 
 
 She begged his pardon and Francois disarmed, 
 kissed her. 
 
 "Give me the paper, dearest. I have not time 
 to read it all. But I will buy others, a large pack- 
 age, to read in the subway. . . . This will be an- 
 other difficult day for me ! It will be impossible 
 to come back for lunch here. You are going to 
 Nicolette*? . . . She will tell you if Jean intends 
 to return. . . . He should leave the Engadine." 
 
 Simone murmured sadly: 
 
 "My poor Francois, what an existence you 
 lead . . . when are we to have a vacation*?" 
 
 "Vacation? ... In Germany, perhaps. . . ." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Read. . . . They are fighting on the Drina. 
 . . . Germany refuses to mediate with Austria." 
 
 Leaning on his shoulder, she read vaguely, her 
 look confused, her throat tightened. They were
 
 To Arms! 47 
 
 near the window and the sun shone on both of 
 them with one ray of light. 
 
 "What do you think of all that?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Nothing that is good. The equivocation, this 
 menace of mobilising if Russia mobilises, conceal 
 a well-determined plan. ... It is best for us, 
 as William says, to keep our powder dry . . . 
 and it is not the time to be leisurely ... I must 
 finish dressing and I shall rejoin you by the tea- 
 pot. . . . Come, come, Madame, don't sulk. I 
 have scolded you a little, but I love you, my dar- 
 ling!" 
 
 He went to the bathroom and soon returned, 
 entirely dressed and ready to go. 
 
 Breakfast was served. He swallowed his tea 
 without tasting it. He hurried Simone: 
 
 "Will you give me my gloves'? . . . And the 
 papers I brought last evening. ... I am not po- 
 lite this morning, but my time does not make it 
 possible. . . . We have equipment to turn over, 
 other things to examine. . . . And if they mob- 
 ilise, our workers will go. . . ."
 
 48 To Arms! 
 
 "Francois, I am afraid !" 
 
 "You were so reasonable yesterday! Mean- 
 while the situation has upset us. . . ." 
 
 "I am frightened!" 
 
 "Evil foreseen, is not inevitable evil. . . . We 
 must become accustomed in future to this idea 
 that our neighbors will perhaps I say, perhaps 
 the war that we do not wish . . . and which 
 we shall be able to accept. . . . The exigency will 
 find us up and ready with an answer. . . ." 
 
 He pressed Simone to his heart and turning to- 
 wards him, she saw his grey eyes moved with a 
 deep tenderness. . . . 
 
 "Listen, my Simone," he said, calmly. "You 
 are sad because I seem less tender to you than 
 usual, more distrait, more nervous. . . . My heart 
 is all love, darling, you know it. But are you 
 able to comprehend what is happening to me, and 
 in what a fever we are living at the factory"? 
 There is one thought that dominates our thoughts, 
 pne duty surpassing all others. Imagine that we 
 are almost all officers on leave, or resigned, and
 
 To Arms! 49 
 
 that the army we have left may recall us tomor- 
 row. . . ." 
 
 "It has already recalled you,'* said Simone. 
 "... I see you changing from day to day. You 
 are becoming again, what you have never ceased 
 to be, in the depths of your soul, a soldier." 
 
 "Then, you must love me as one must love a 
 soldier, without weakness." 
 
 "I will try, Frangois. . . ." 
 
 "You must be calm, tender, hopeful, accepting 
 destiny. ... I shall not be really strong until 
 I feel you strong, behind me. Come, now, until 
 evening, my dearest wife !" 
 
 She followed him to the threshold of the apart- 
 ment and closing the door behind him, returned 
 to the room. There she again picked up the 
 printed sheets and her eyes wandered over them. 
 
 The sun, playing in the silken veil of her loos- 
 ened hair, touched her cheek and fell on the paper 
 with a brilliant ray exactly at the place where 
 she could read: 
 
 "The day now beginning will bring either peace 
 or war"
 
 5O To Arms! 
 
 War ! . . . People had talked of it for a week, 
 as a possible event at some indefinite time which 
 might come shortly. They had talked about it 
 especially, since the sending of the Austrian ulti- 
 matum to Servia. Far-seeing men had given the 
 alarm and diplomatic exchanges had begun. . . . 
 But the historic events taking place in Vienna and 
 at Belgrade still seemed to the idlers of the Boule- 
 vard but new episodes of an old quarrel a con- 
 vulsion in the distant chaos of the Balkans 
 while the smallest incidents of the trial assumed 
 the importance of historic events! In most of 
 the papers, the despatches and comments on the 
 European crisis were relegated to the second place. 
 The words of the trial, demanded eagerly by the 
 public, filled the pages to overflowing. They 
 wagered for or against condemnation. People 
 who knew recited in one's ear extracts from 
 apocryphal letters, and those privileged to at- 
 tend the trial enjoyed as if it were a circus, the 
 contest where feminine heart-burnings were dis- 
 played, where disappointed ambitiom sought their
 
 To Arms! 51 
 
 revenge, where soiled linen was washed, the secrets 
 of the buffoon and secrets of state. 
 
 The trial concealed France from strangers, 
 spectators also: but for the French, it obscured 
 Europe. In the midst of the clamors of the pre- 
 torium and of the street, they did not hear the first 
 rumble of thunder on the horizon. 
 
 Now, Europe appeared to those who had not 
 understood and watched, obscure, full of the un- 
 known, like a heavy cloud descending in a storm. 
 Austria had thrown herself upon Servia the cry 
 of a small people not wishing to die, had moved 
 Russia, mother of the Slavs. Then the real France 
 had shown herself. She held faithful to her tra- 
 ditions, to her agreements, to her ancient honor 
 as a free nation. And by her side, England stood 
 as a friend. Strong in their pacific desire, they 
 proposed an agreement founded on justice. They 
 remembered that the weak have a right to live, 
 that it is the duty of the strong to be just, if not 
 merciful. But she who planned the mischief in 
 the dark, the Germany incased in iron, brutal and 
 cunning, pedantic and voracious, looked at them
 
 52 To Arms! 
 
 behind her spectacles and dismembered them al- 
 ready methodically, in thought. They said to 
 her, "Say a word to your ally, who is also your 
 servant. Peace and war are in your hands." She 
 replied with ambiguous talk, while waiting for 
 the hour, chosen by her, the hour that was coming 
 inexorably, minute by minute. . . . 
 
 And the French felt it coming, this hour ! . . . 
 Forgetting their family quarrels, they held close 
 together, heart to heart, hand in hand, in silence, 
 turning their faces in the same direction. One 
 common thought absorbed forty millions of hu- 
 man beings. In every house throughout the city 
 that morning, were women who thought as Simone 
 Davesnes, "Perhaps to-morrow" . . . and others 
 who wept like Madame Miton, and others who 
 prayed like Madame Moriceau, and others who 
 had a presentiment of the scourge, without under- 
 standing the same, like Madame Anselme, or 
 Marie Pourat. And in the streets the men going 
 to their work, began to turn again into what Fran- 
 c.ois Davesnes had become so quickly: sol- 
 diers.
 
 To Arms! 53 
 
 But it was only thoughts that had changed; 
 the outward appearance of life had not as yet 
 been influenced by the approaching danger. The 
 street which Simone saw through the net curtains, 
 the street with its chestnut trees and its cooing 
 pigeons, its fences covered with varied advertise- 
 ments, its blue and white masons, continued its 
 provincial quiet. A little girl skipped the rope. 
 . . . Abbe Moriceau and his Mamma returned 
 from the mass ... an old chickweed seller, 
 ragged as a tramp and red-bearded like a satyr, 
 passed, bent under a weight of green herbs and 
 starry flowers. . . . How many times, on Sun- 
 day mornings, his little melody of three notes, 
 where the freshest rustic poetry beats its wings 
 like a bird, had wakened Simone and Francois! 
 ... It was in this same room resembling old 
 porcelain bathed in sunlight. . . . Oh ! lingering 
 mornings, delicious idleness ! Marie arrived later 
 than usual; she didn't make any noise in the 
 house. . . . The lunch seemed like a small din- 
 ner. . . . Simone and Francois, very often, 
 rather than mingle with the church-going people,
 
 54 To Arms! 
 
 stayed at home. They read various poems aloud. 
 She sang a few songs. The Raynauds came at 
 five o'clock for tea. . . . Beautiful Sundays, days 
 of leisure extending like a white road to nightfall ! 
 . . . The melody that called "Chickweed for the 
 little birds" was inseparable from these pictures, 
 these memories. . . . And the light-brown furni- 
 ture, the engravings, the glass between the faded 
 gold roses in the old frame, the little clock in its 
 leather case, the fine books on the carved chest of 
 drawers, spoke only to Simone of the love for 
 which they had helped make an abiding place. 
 . . . Without, within the dwelling, nothing re- 
 sponded to the disquietude of the woman who 
 sought everywhere a reflection of her sombre 
 thoughts. Why is there not on the eve of a ter- 
 rible cataclysm, something of the unknown in the 
 tints of the atmosphere, in the sounds, in the si- 
 lence, in the mysterious physiognomy of material 
 objects'? . . . 
 
 Thus Simone dreamed, her spirit wrapped in 
 such a stupor that she remained immovable,
 
 To Arms! 55 
 
 thinking of her daily life, incapable of imagining 
 what might happen on the morrow. The "horrors 
 of war" did not haunt her. She did not make 
 any mental picture of the departure of Frangois. 
 . . . She thought only of her happiness, their 
 happiness, as a precious thing, escaping from her 
 hands, apparently safe and whole, but perhaps to 
 be broken forever.
 
 SHE was not yet dressed when the serving 
 woman returned. 
 
 Simone was forced to listen to her account of 
 the incidents of the morning. Marie was not 
 more talkative or more curious than most of her 
 kind. Secrets of private life, spread in the serv- 
 ants' quarters or at the stores, left her indifferent. 
 But the affairs of France belonged to all the 
 world and every one commented in his own way. 
 Already, some legends had taken form. 
 
 There was one of the Maggi dairies. 
 
 "Madame doesn't doubt it? Well, it is a Ger- 
 man house, quite full of spies. The proprietor 
 left with ten millions in gold in an automobile 
 and was arrested, just as he passed the frontier." 
 
 "Ten millions in gold . . . that would weigh 
 a lot! . . . Who told you that?" 
 
 "Juliette, the servant of Madamoiselle Couz- 
 ance." 
 
 56
 
 To Arms! 57 
 
 "And how did Juliette know it?' 
 
 "A very reliable man said it right before her, 
 at the post office. He said also that if war is 
 declared, the milk will be poisoned by spies, to 
 kill the French children." 
 
 "Don't believe such stupid stories, Marie !" 
 
 "Madame doesn't believe that there are quanti- 
 ties of spies around us*?" 
 
 "There are many, I am sure. . . . But this 
 story of poisoned milk. . . ." 
 
 "Nothing could be more certain. It was a 
 man who told Juliette. . . . And he said besides 
 that they were going to tear from the wall the big 
 enamel plaques, the advertisements of Bouillon 
 K. . . . There was something written upside 
 down and in cipher, in German. . . ." 
 
 Simone did not try to discuss it. Was there 
 any truth in these stories of spies'? The people 
 held them to be absolutely authentic ; they pleased 
 a childish taste for the marvellous and a natural 
 disposition to see traitors everywhere, since their 
 confidence their imprudent, excessive confidence 
 was disturbed.
 
 58 To Arms! 
 
 The woman from Aveyron had also a fixed 
 idea: provisions. Almost all the neighbors had 
 taken precautions, without knowing why. In- 
 stinctive foresight, so much the more bizarre as 
 the Parisian population did not dote on it. They 
 did not have any real fear, nor any reasonable cal- 
 culation, in this somewhat droll excess of precau- 
 tion. It was a complex phenomenon, which came 
 first and foremost from a distant and irresistible 
 association of ideas. War carried with it the 
 possibility of siege. For people who had lived 
 through the winter of 1870 were still very numer- 
 ous. They had brought up two generations on 
 accounts of the horrible food: stewed cats, mice 
 patties and dog cutlets. Also the good Parisians 
 who would accept without faltering a war im- 
 posed by Germany, who would accept with will- 
 ingness to sacrifice and faith in victory, went au- 
 tomatically to get at a very high price old dried 
 beans, prunes, macaroni and petrol. 
 
 Their prudence had other causes. When war 
 was declared, the general mobilisation would mo- 
 nopolise all the rolling stock of the railroad, block
 
 To Arms! 59 
 
 all the roads and how could Paris be provisioned'? 
 They had never been through that experience. In 
 the uncertainty, they wanted to be sure of indis- 
 pensable food, and not to be at the mercy of shop- 
 keepers who raised the price of commodities, with- 
 out shame. Simultaneously, the same prudence 
 which made them put money in chests, created 
 over night a scarcity of money. 
 
 The tac-tac of a motor, in the street, diverted 
 the attention of Simone. She saw an automobile, 
 laden with trunks, stopping before her open win- 
 dow. Monsieur Lepoultre descended, then his 
 son-in-law and his daughter. Also Madame 
 Miton went out on the sidewalk. She took pos- 
 session of the packages that filled the interior of 
 the vehicle and submerged the three little Del- 
 mottes. 
 
 The hope of learning what had happened be- 
 yond the frontier increased the helpfulness of the 
 good woman. . . . 
 
 "Give me the children, Madame Delmotte. 
 How tired they are, the darlings !"
 
 60 To Arms! 
 
 The three boys two years, three years and 
 four years old were pale with fatigue. Their 
 mother, a faded blonde who greatly resembled 
 Monsieur Lepoultre, had red and heavy eyes. 
 
 "We have had a terrible journey," she said, 
 "and we arrived three hours late. . . . Impossi- 
 ble to find anything to eat in the buffets. Im- 
 possible to sleep in the crowded cars. ... All 
 the French are returning to France." 
 
 Monsieur Lepoultre, who acted as if he were 
 guilty, did not wish to excite the masses, in the 
 person of Madame Miton. He exclaimed : 
 
 "Hurry. . . . The chauffeur is leaving the 
 trunks in the vestibule. They must be carried up 
 at once. . . . Gabrielle, take away your ras- 
 cals. . . ." 
 
 Meanwhile, Monsieur Delmotte, a big wretch 
 of an architect with a brown beard, repeated with 
 a triumphant air: 
 
 "I predicted it to you, Father! ... I am not 
 a doctor, not I. ... I am not a sociologist, not 
 I. ... But I have been in Germany! I have 
 seen the work of people who scorn us more than
 
 To Arms! 61 
 
 they hate us. I have met their manufacturers, 
 their bankers, their men of affairs! ... I have 
 no illusions, not I ! . . ." 
 
 "I would point out to you, Edouard. . . ." 
 
 "Simple souls! . . . The French are eas^ 
 marks! . . ." cried the architect, waving an um- 
 brella case. 
 
 "Edouard! Don't excite yourself!" begged 
 Monsieur Lepoultre, desperately. 
 
 He remembered suddenly that Madame Del- 
 motte and her children had preceded him to the 
 family apartment, and without putting down the 
 two valises that burdened his arms, he called : 
 
 "Gabrielle!" 
 
 "Papa?' 
 
 "I beg you to be careful of your mother's 
 nerves. . . . Do not be pessimistic! Don't 
 imagine anything as a fact that is only a men- 
 ace. ... I have had to reassure the poor woman 
 greatly, she trembles already for her sons." 
 
 The chauffeur, a placid old fellow, returned to 
 carry the heaviest of the trunks to the vestibule. 
 He joined in the talk with the liberty of a citizen
 
 62 To Arms! 
 
 who addresses other citizens about a public matter 
 and with a feeling of perfect equality. 
 
 "You have probably come from that very 
 place? Is it true that they are mobilising 1 ?" 
 
 "We were in Switzerland," replied Monsieur 
 Delmotte, counting his money, after looking at 
 the tariff card. . . . "It is certain that the Ger- 
 mans are making military preparations, while 
 their diplomats amuse us. ... They are more 
 crafty than we are. When they are ready, at the 
 moment decided, to-morrow, this evening, they 
 will attack us on the borders." 
 
 The chauffeur climbed back on his seat. 
 
 "And the English, Monsieur*? They are with 
 us, the English*?" 
 
 "No one knows anything about that." 
 
 "They should be with us ! It is to their inter- 
 est, Monsieur. . . What will they do, if Germany 
 devours France? ... I don't want to say that it 
 would be easy to devour. We must be ready for 
 them. Strong or not strong, it's true, isn't it, that 
 we must defend ourselves 4 ? . . . Three, ninety-
 
 To Arms! 63 
 
 five. . . . That's the amount. . . . Thank you, 
 Monsieur." 
 
 He out the money in his pocket-book, and fin- 
 ished : 
 
 "Since the time that the old Sourkrouts pes- 
 tered us, we have wanted to say to them: 'Zut!' 
 They think that we are not men. . . . The 
 French, they say, are all rotten and tuberculous. 
 ... At last it gets to be a nuisance. ... I am 
 the father of a family. I earn my living without 
 bothering any one. If an ill-bred person seeks 
 satisfaction from me, have I got to stand it*? ... 
 Once, twice, I will say nothing, for I am a peace- 
 able man. But if he insists, I shall punch him 
 in the face. ... It is my right. . . . There, 
 Monsieur, is the idea of a French working-man 
 on this matter of the war." 
 
 "It is also the idea of the bourgeois," said Mon- 
 sieur Delmotte. 
 
 The automobile started, Simone, involuntary 
 vvitness of this scene, thought that the good chauf- 
 feur had given a very exact resume of the na- 
 tional feeling.
 
 64 To Arms! 
 
 The care that she was obliged to give to her 
 toilet helped to calm her nerves. The necessity 
 of doing small actions, conforming to daily hab- 
 its, is excellent for restoring moral poise. When 
 Simone had rolled up her blonde hair around her 
 head, put on her white leather shoes, her dark blue 
 serge dress and her hat ornamented with white 
 wings, found her moire bag, her blue umbrella, 
 her gloves, her purse and her keys, she was herself 
 again. 
 
 But before going out, she consulted the memo- 
 randum book, where she had noted the program 
 of the afternoon, the list of small errands gloves, 
 veils, beach shoes with the hour for a fitting at 
 the dressmaker's and the addresses of several vil- 
 las to let. . . . And the futility of all the pur- 
 chases, of all these errands struck her. . . . Why 
 do them*? Why decide"? For what purpose was 
 an etamine dress embroidered with yellow flowers'? 
 . . . Why prefer the Kermarie villa to the villa 
 Kerhostin? . . . Vacations'? . . . Who would 
 have vacations'? Nobody on this last day of July 
 1914 would be able to carry out any project but
 
 To Arms! 65 
 
 the most modest and the most necessary, without 
 subordinating it to this terrible possibility war! 
 . . . More than reading the papers, more than the 
 alarms of the women and the scarcity of money, 
 this necessity of suspending life, of confining 
 herself to the present moment, made Simone ex- 
 perience its first real influence and it was like the 
 first direct contact with the unheard-of thing that 
 was approaching. Already the idea of the war 
 penetrated the spirit of the people and hereafter 
 it began to weigh heavily on every man and every 
 woman, to hinder every action, to abolish every 
 sentiment that did not belong to it. 
 
 To find a taxi-cab, Simone walked up the ave- 
 nue where the warm gentle breeze stirred the 
 leaves of the plane trees, and made flickering spots 
 of sun and shade. The open-air market of fruits 
 and flowers added bright notes of color to the 
 bluish grey of the Parisian landscape. In the 
 carts, arranged in rows along the edge of the side- 
 walks, the baskets were empty because it was the 
 end of July. Women squatted down under the
 
 66 To Arms! 
 
 doorways, and sold red roses in bunches and large 
 rustic bouquets. Passers-by, dressed in light cos- 
 tumes, walked on the street deluged by watering 
 carts, heedless of infrequent carriages. The creak- 
 ing of the trolley announced the yellow street- 
 cars which appeared, coupled together, two-by- 
 two, at the angle of the grand Place. They seemed 
 to disjoint in turning around, then rigid, moved 
 off to the suburbs. 
 
 It was the ordinary Paris of summer, noncha- 
 lant, dusty and blooming, in a misty light. 
 Madame Davesnes, a second time, felt the sen- 
 sation of astonishment that she had experienced 
 at the spectacle of the peaceful street. . . . Was 
 she dreaming now, or had she dreamed a short 
 time before, when she had felt as a reality, the 
 menace and danger 1 ? . . . The gaiety of the ave- 
 nue, its fruits, its roses, its display of abundance 
 expressing the joy of living, brought back to Si- 
 mone's consciousness the thoughts of yester- 
 day. . . . 
 
 The vibrating automobile bore her away. On 
 the way districts as numerous and different as
 
 To Arms! 67 
 
 cities, left their impression upon her, mingling 
 and gathering in her memory and forming a su- 
 preme image, the unique aspect of Paris. . . . 
 Shady avenues of the left bank, hedges and ter- 
 races of the Luxembourg, old Latin countries by 
 the side of a Merovingian hill, sluggish river re- 
 flecting fifteen centuries of glory between the 
 Gothic towers and the young poplars ; gilded spire, 
 venturesome as the desires of a hero, royal ele- 
 gances of the Louvre, modern streets beautiful 
 with life and passionate movement, Paris of sci- 
 ence and of dreams, Paris of will and of action, 
 making a Paris by itself. . . . And on the face 
 of living stone and of living sky, where so much 
 brightness and so many shadows drifted, Simone 
 could see on that morning, by indefinable transi- 
 tions, the smile slowly fading. 
 
 Paris still kept the charm which comes from the 
 air, from the season, the fine tints and the noble 
 architectural lines of an ancient and civilised city. 
 But as a delicate color turns to grey when day 
 declines, the charm of the French capitol waned 
 in seriousness. An appearance of gaiety existed,
 
 68 To Arms! 
 
 perhaps, in the suburbs where the news arrived 
 more slowly, where the simplicity of the people 
 did not give up its illusions so quickly. In the 
 centre of the town, news spreads from mouth to 
 mouth, is commented upon, criticised, understood ; 
 the less educated people adapt themselves rapidly 
 to circumstances, and the union is more prompt 
 and more perceptible between the citizens and the 
 city. 
 
 Simone noticed the gravity of the faces, the 
 silent intensity of emotion, in the crowd throng- 
 ing between the Opera-House and the Saint La- 
 zare station. The people on foot were not exactly 
 sad, but all, without exception, were serious. The 
 tone of conversation was lowered. Even the little 
 dressmakers did not chatter. The coachmen and 
 chauffeurs collided with each other without abuse. 
 Women did not look at the shops; men did not 
 look at the women. . . . Suddenly, running out 
 to the corner of the street a frantic newspaper 
 seller brandished the leaves of a journal, yelling 
 the "latest news." His cry struck the nerves of 
 the startled crowd unendurably, almost like a
 
 To Arms! 69 
 
 spasm. There was a swarming of ants around 
 the man, then an eddy behind his distracted 
 course. And other cries, crossing each other like 
 projectiles, beat against the facades of the build- 
 ings, the railings of the station and the darkening 
 sky. Still other cries reverberated, in a dull roar, 
 to the depths of a thousand breasts.
 
 VI 
 
 THE private mansion of the Raynauds, situ- 
 ated on the Rue du Rocher, not far from 
 the Rue de Rome, had belonged to Nicolette's 
 father, Monsieur Bouvet de la Monderie. This 
 rather ugly building, in the new Renaissance style 
 in favor under Jules Grevy, reminded Simone 
 Davesnes of the melancholy days of her youth. 
 She had spent the Christmas and Easter holidays 
 in this sumptuous, but rather lugubrious house. 
 The faint light, diminished by complicated cur- 
 tains, was diffused like regret over the sombre 
 wainscoting, the Flemish tapestries and the ebony 
 chests. At four o'clock in winter, it was necessary 
 to light the gas. . . . Simone longed for Mon- 
 sieur Bouvet de la Monderie again, her uncle and 
 tutor, with his magistrate's whiskers and his 
 bishop's manner, and Madame Bouvet de la Mon- 
 derie, always ailing on her plush sofa, and Nico- 
 
 70
 
 I 
 
 pTo Arms! 71 
 
 lette, eight years old, wearing an English dress 
 that fell to her feet. . . . 
 
 In crossing the gallery of the first floor, where 
 she had played so often in times past, among the 
 chasubles, the pier-tables, the Sedan chairs and 
 armor, Simone did not recover any of her child- 
 ish impressions. The bric-a-brac was banished to 
 Plessis-l'Etang, and the long gallery, quite light, 
 with the green trellis that imitated porticoes on 
 the white background of the wall, with its carpet 
 that looked like flagging and its lemon trees in 
 boxes, had the pleasing charm of an orangery of 
 the eighteenth century. It ran parallel to the 
 dining-room, hung with tapestries of Rambouillet, 
 to the pale purple salon, to the big yellow salon, 
 and it led to the library smoking-room when Jean 
 Reynaud worked and received his intimate friends. 
 
 The footman conducted the visitor into this 
 sort of oval pagoda, with a concave, gilded ceil- 
 ing, furnished with low bookcases in black wood 
 and with a violet satin divan. The Persian glass 
 windows gave a colored light. The wreathed 
 columns of an ancient altar-screen, loaded with
 
 72 To Arms! 
 
 vines and golden grapes, was bathed in this shim- 
 mering glow of twilight. Round cushions, orna- 
 mented with wool dahlias, were thrown here and 
 there on the carpet. Nicolette Raynaud, seated 
 on one of the cushions, was busy telephoning. 
 
 "UEpoque? Is this the paper, UEpoque? 
 ... I want Monsieur Desmoulins, the political 
 editor. . . . He isn't there? . . . You are sure, 
 Mademoiselle? . ." 
 
 "That's it, find out. . . . Please say that 
 Madame Jean Raynaud is at the telephone. . . . 
 Thank you! .... I shall wait. . . . Don't cut 
 me off! . . ." 
 
 Without putting down the receiver, Nicolette 
 held out her free hand to her cousin. 
 
 "How do you do*? I am so glad to see you. 
 . . . You will forgive me? I am telephoning to 
 our friend Desmoulins to get all the exciting 
 news." 
 
 She smiled, but her black eyes, her sultana eyes, 
 were sad and had dark circles underneath. Rouge
 
 To Arms! 73 
 
 brightened her brown cheeks. Her very dark hair, 
 arranged like a shell, gave her face long lines. 
 She had a slender figure, attractive because of its 
 extreme suppleness, which was draped rather than 
 dressed in green crepe de chine. 
 
 "Sit down, Simone. . . . You are well? . . . 
 And Francois? ... I am a wreck. ... I dined 
 yesterday with the Mongirails and when I re- 
 turned I had to endure three telephone calls from 
 my mother-in-law, little Gardave and from 
 Maxime. . . . Has Jean returned 1 ? . . . Has 
 he sent any neVs of himself? It is to be hoped 
 that he will not be arrested en route! . . . But, 
 because Maxime urged it I telegraphed in the 
 morning to Pontresina. ... I expected a reply 
 the same day. . . . And nothing came! . . . 
 Yes : a letter, which is dated Monday." 
 
 "Did Jean seem to have a presentiment of se- 
 rious events'?" 
 
 Nicolette shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "You understand. He wouldn't go to the 
 trouble of a correspondence for a woman who is 
 his wife. . . . He tells me that the hotel is agree-
 
 74 To Arms! 
 
 able enough, that his walking boots have stretched, 
 that he had made Sunday a little trial ascent. 
 . . . And he did not add what I can imagine 
 without difficulty: 'Don't hurry to arrive with 
 Fraulein and the brats. I can manage to live en 
 gar$on very nicely.' ' 
 
 "Nicolette, you slander him!" 
 
 Madame Raynaud made a gesture signifying: 
 
 "Don't speak! . . ." 
 
 And talking into the instrument: 
 
 "Hello! . . . Hello! ... Is it you, Des- 
 moulins? . . . We are cut off*? . . . It is insuf- 
 ferable, Mademoiselle! Give me 926-31. . . . 
 L'Epoque" 
 
 Simone sat down on the divan. . . . Truly, 
 the smoking-room did not please her; everything 
 seemed animated by a brutal spirit. Even in the 
 silence, one was oppressed instead of being 
 charmed! And this morning, especially, the bar- 
 barity and affectation of this conglomerate deco- 
 ration irritated Simone as much as her cousin's 
 theatrical costume and rouge. 
 
 The latter kept demanding:
 
 To Arms! 75 
 
 "926-31. . . . Hello! ... I am speaking to 
 Monsieur Desmoulins ? ... At last ! . . . Good 
 morning, my friend! ... I am not too indis- 
 creet"? I want to know. ." 
 
 "No, Jean has not returned.' 
 
 "Right in Pontresina. At the urgent request of 
 my brother-in-law, Maxime, I telegraphed him 
 yesterday morning. . . . The answer did not 
 come. ... It vexes me. . . ." 
 
 "He must return at all cost"? . . . Alas! I 
 know it. ... All of our friends are coming. . . . 
 But do you really think that this haste . . ." 
 
 "A little relief this morning? . . . What? 
 Jaures doesn't understand the nervousness of 
 Paris'? . . . He still believes in a pacific solu- 
 tion 1 ? Ah ! if he is only right ! . . . London talks 
 with Berlin. . . . Yes, there is a conference. . . . 
 We can still hope. . . . You hear, Simone*?"
 
 76 To Arms! 
 
 "Fraulein? ... I must send Fraulein back. 
 . . . But she is inoffensive, the poor creature! 
 . . . She doesn't understand anything that is hap- 
 pening! . . ." 
 
 " * 
 
 "I shall say to her that it is for her interest. 
 . . . But she will be terribly sad, and I myself. 
 . . . Still, if the conference of ambassa- 
 dors . . ." 
 
 
 
 "What? German citizens have already gone? 
 . . . Then tney foresaw it. . . ." 
 
 * 
 
 "And England, Desmoulins, will it . . ." 
 
 
 
 "Not over the telephone? ... Ah! Yes! 
 . . . Perfectly. ... I shall follow your advice. 
 . . . You will call me about three o'clock? . . . 
 Thank you. Until later, Desmoulins. . . . Don't 
 forget!" 
 
 She hung up the receiver. 
 
 "You understood, Simone? . . ." 
 
 "Nearly all."
 
 To Arms! 77 
 
 "Desmoulins says that there is a relaxing of ten- 
 sion. . . . From everywhere, they urge Germany 
 to intervene at Vienna. . . . And while the dip- 
 lomats talk, we gain time." 
 
 "Time that Germany will use profitably." 
 
 Simone related the tragicomic return of the 
 Delmotte family. 
 
 "You see that the German preparations are 
 known in Switzerland. Jean, who must have 
 been warned of it before us, has left there with- 
 out delay. . . ." 
 
 "I wish that he were here!" said Nicolette. 
 . . . "Desmoulins has comforted me a little. 
 . . . Meanwhile, he advises me to send the chil- 
 dren's Fraulein back to her native country. . . . 
 That distresses me, Simone. The girl has been so 
 devoted! ... I shall notify her this noon, and 
 I shall arrange that she goes under the best possi- 
 ble conditions. . . . What a grief for her and for 
 the children! . . .Ah! my dear Simone, I have 
 all the cares at once, all!" 
 
 "Why did Jean go without you"? . . ." 
 
 "Jean detests travelling with the entire family
 
 78 To Arms! 
 
 and I realise that the presence of the children and 
 their governess irritates him in the train. . . . He 
 has not a vocation for paternity like his brother 
 Maxime, who, moreover, is a celibate ! And then, 
 we are not inseparable. ... It is a good while 
 since the honeymoon has set ! ... You will see, 
 in some ten years, if you are not able to live one 
 or two weeks alone! No, I do not want to be 
 separated from Jean, but I wish that he would re- 
 turn! . . . 
 
 She resumed the aggressive tone that she af- 
 fected, to hide her melancholy. Her face was 
 drawn and wrinkled, under the paint, and this 
 suffering fatigue of her features made a singular 
 contrast to the sumptuousness of her green dress. 
 
 Simone longed to question her tenderly. . . . 
 She suspected a crisis in the Raynaud menage, be- 
 cause for some time the couple, without acknowl- 
 edging a misunderstanding, had seemed mutually 
 indifferent. Jean led the life of a voluptuous 
 dilettante, as artist of a race lacking the creative 
 gift and a practitioner who lacked title and a coat 
 of arms. He was a mixture of ardor and indif-
 
 To Arms! 79 
 
 ference. He collected books, raised greyhounds, 
 wrote studies on falconry, but he felt that all his 
 opinions were whims, all his activities a series of 
 useless motions, all his life an imitation of the 
 higher life, a magnificent harmony of thought and 
 of action to which he had never attained. . . . 
 Poor, he would have been ambitious; rich, he 
 squandered his energy. Married too young, as- 
 tonished to be a father, to have the charge of a 
 family, he missed his liberty as a celibate. After 
 having treated Nicolette as a mistress, then as a 
 comrade, he did not know exactly what she was 
 to him: an ornament, a burden, a duty 1 ? ... Of 
 a certainty she was not his mate. 
 
 Nicolette, sentimental under an appearance of 
 sharpness which she thought fashionable, an ego- 
 ist and consumed by a secret need of tenderness, 
 maternal, with more of passion than of solicitude, 
 Nicolette, with false pride that tolerated neither 
 criticism nor counsel, suffered from not being 
 guided like a child by a very gentle master who 
 would scold her sometimes and always cherish her. 
 
 Her daughter and her son six years and nine
 
 8o To Arms! 
 
 years old were not enough for her heart ! The 
 men who courted her made no impression on her 
 calm reason and her exacting imagination. Se- 
 cretly, she loved and admired her husband, with a 
 sort of bitterness. To others, she criticised him 
 sharply. 
 
 Never, though a very feminine feeling, had she 
 made detailed confidences to Simone, because Si- 
 mone was too happy, but often she had shown her 
 surprise before this evident and inexplicable hap- 
 piness. Astonishment without any jealousy, for 
 Nicolette wanted to be loved as Simone was loved, 
 and not to live as Simone lived. . . . To live in 
 an apartment on fifteen hundred francs, in an un- 
 fashionable street, travelling in the subway and 
 autobus, to be served by a Marie Pourat, wearing 
 simple dresses and not going to expensive parts 
 of the theatres, how could such a life help being 
 for a pretty woman a continuous punishment"? 
 . . . And meanwhile, Simone accomplished the 
 miracle of remaining a "lady" with her modest in- 
 come, of being attractively dressed, of never seem- 
 ing embarrassed by the housework, which makes a
 
 To Arms! 81 
 
 woman commonplace and is unfavorable to 
 love! . . . 
 
 Madame Davesnes, who knew the susceptibil- 
 ity of her cousin, did not venture to persist in this 
 delicate matter. To change the subject, she be- 
 gan to talk of the children. 
 
 "Pierre is out walking with his Uncle Maxime," 
 said Nicolette. "You will see both of them at 
 breakfast. . . . Marianne is being punished in, 
 her room." 
 
 "What has she done?" 
 
 "She sprang upon her brother to take a cake 
 from him. . . . And she bit his hand not very 
 hard but with quite criminal intentions. ... I 
 was obliged to be severe. . . . Very seriously, I 
 said to Marianne, that she was a savage, and that 
 she must be treated like one, that no one was per- 
 mitted among civilised beings who could not con- 
 trol her temper and who bit the people around 
 her. . . . Marianne is temporarily excluded from 
 civilisation, that is, shut up in her room." 
 
 Nicolette's eyes brightened when she spoke of 
 her children. She did not occupy herself with
 
 82 To Arms! 
 
 them continuously and they did not console her 
 for all her grief, real or imaginary. Her life as a 
 woman of fashion separated her from them, as 
 from her husband; and her lively maternal in- 
 stinct satisfied itself as well as it could with her 
 effusions and sudden anxieties.
 
 VII 
 
 TOWARDS noon, Dr. Raynaud brought 
 back little Pierre. 
 
 He was very fond of this nephew, loved him 
 like a son, and the chances of heredity had made 
 the boy like himself. The man of forty-four 
 years, bald and wearing a grey beard, stunted by 
 a studious life in a close room, was ugly with 
 an agreeable ugliness, which attracted sympathy 
 while the little boy, strengthened by fresh air 
 and cold water, combined French slenderness 
 with animal grace and the brusqueness of an Eng- 
 lish lad. They resembled each other, however, in 
 the forehead with large temples, the smile of 
 slightly heavy lips and the brown eyes that fast- 
 ened upon things slowly, as if penetrating them. 
 The moral personality of the child, still uncertain, 
 began also to reproduce in its essential traits the 
 character of the uncle. 
 
 Maxime Raynaud was ten years older than his 
 83
 
 84 To Arms! 
 
 brother and he had grown up under quite dif- 
 ferent influences. Born among the rich bourgeois, 
 raised by a family attached to all the traditions 
 of respectability and of prudence, he became at 
 college the pride of his parents. It was the time 
 when young men preferred a poem to a football 
 game and a philosopher to a champion boxer. 
 Maxime had said: "I shall be a doctor. . . ." 
 For the parents that meant "I shall be a doctor in 
 a hospital, professor in the faculty, member of the 
 Academy of Medicine, and I shall have a golden 
 practice that my income will permit me to wait 
 for. . . ." Maxime had arranged his life on an- 
 other plan: He wished to be a man of science 
 and a free man. The disappointed family Ray- 
 naud lamented over having nourished in his per- 
 son a hopeless dreamer, and transferred its hopes 
 of glorification to the younger brother, whose cap- 
 tivating qualities were to remain unfruitful. 
 
 Maxime Raynaud, with his inflexible gentle- 
 ness, carried out his projects. He worked with 
 Duclaux and Roux, at the Pasteur Institute, then 
 in a small personal laboratory. Almost all of his
 
 To Arms! 85 
 
 income went to his Grenelle dispensary. At the 
 same time he experienced, like all of his comrades, 
 the attractions of public life. France itself, at 
 that time, was rent over a contest in which it was 
 necessary, in spite of oneself, to take part. Ray- 
 naud worked with Deherme at the University in 
 the Faubourg Saint- An toine ; he wrote also for 
 the Cahiers de la Quinzaine with Peguy, for he 
 believed that France is the greatest living example 
 of justice and reason. He believed also that 
 peace would reign some day, according to the 
 evangelical promise, obliterating all frontiers, for 
 all men of good will. . . . 
 
 The years had passed, and the ideals so dear to 
 Maxime Raynaud were no longer the fashion. 
 The man of forty saw his old companions in the 
 struggle depart, some on the road to Lourdes, and 
 others on the way to the Palais-Bourbon. Of 
 the illusions of youth, the love of the beautiful 
 remained and the desire to do right, a passion for 
 the truth and a respect for science not as a vain 
 idol, but as a means for serving man and develop- 
 ing himself. The study of nature, he affirmed,
 
 86 To Arms! 
 
 had made him more humble, more patient, more 
 disciplined. The dizziness of mysticism did not 
 trouble him. He was gay, because his life was 
 simple and pure. He loved men, not only from 
 pity, but from true fraternity. He was a French- 
 man, son of the eighteenth century, almost cured 
 of his ideals, ceasing to strive after the impossible 
 without ceasing to be generous. 
 
 His parents had not succeeded in marrying him 
 according to their code; he had not been able to 
 marry as his heart dictated, and he beguiled his 
 regret of paternity by occupying himself with his 
 little nephews, especially with Pierre, who prom- 
 ised to be his son by choice. Nicolette and Jean 
 were not jealous of this influence which saved 
 them care and anxiety. 
 
 Little Pierre kissed Simone, then let himself 
 fall, laughing, on the carpet. Leaning against his 
 mother, wrapped in her beautiful green crepe 
 skirt, he began to tell all that he had done and 
 seen, with the pride of a boy who feels himself 
 part of a marvellous adventure.
 
 To Arms! 87 
 
 "Don't you know 1 ? . . . We went on the 
 Boulevards: we saw that there weren't any little 
 tables before the cafes, and notices were posted 
 in the windows: 'Here we do not make change 
 for one hundred francs/ If you want to buy 
 something and you have one hundred francs it is 
 not enough without sous. We went in the 
 streets by the side of the bank; there were a lot 
 of men and women who stood in line for money. 
 There were some who had taken folding chairs; 
 and they sat down; and they ate bread and ham. 
 . . . And we saw cabs full of trunks. And peo- 
 ple said: 'See! there are Prussians going away. 
 . . . We hope that we shall not have the pleasure 
 of seeing you again! . . .' And others said: 
 'Perhaps we shall meet again in Berlin !'"... 
 
 Nicolette caressed her boy's hair: 
 
 "You had a good time, Pierrot 1 ?" 
 
 The lad replied with conviction: 
 
 "Oh! yes! . . ." 
 
 The Doctor, seated near Simone, looked com- 
 placently at his nephew. He said : 
 
 "We two have chatted as men, as citizens.
 
 88 To Arms! 
 
 Pierrot has patriotic feelings that do him credit. 
 He is ready to fight the Germans, but he is chival- 
 rous. He does not wish any harm to ladies or 
 little girls. He refuses to consider his Fraulein 
 as an enemy." 
 
 "You have felt the pulse of Paris, Maxime?" 
 said Simone. "Don't you think that our good 
 city is in perfect health*? A little sad, but calm 
 and without fever." 
 
 Nicolette cried: 
 
 "What can we know of Paris'? ... It is a 
 nervous city, capable of extraordinary sudden 
 changes. ... It is sad to-day, you say? Last 
 evening, without being joyous, it was animated 
 and curious about what was coming. I was able 
 to judge when I was dining at the Italian restau- 
 rant with the Mongirails. We made a bet, they 
 holding for the condemnation of Madame Cail- 
 laux and I for the acquittal. The stake was this 
 dinner. The Mongirails paid the wager. Well, 
 in the dense crowd that we saw through the bow- 
 window, there was much less agitation than on 
 the evening of the verdict. The policeman were
 
 To Arms! 89 
 
 paternal. People applauded the bands that 
 passed, singing the Marseillaise. In the restau- 
 rant were burlesque scenes between clients who 
 offered bank notes in payment and waiters who re- 
 fused to accept them. . . . Oh ! I shall remember 
 this dinner-party, Louise Mongirail who wept in 
 her glass of asti, thinking. . . .- I wager she 
 wasn't thinking of her husband! . . . and Mon- 
 girail who consoled her: 'It will only be an af- 
 fair of three months! Three months' campaign 
 and a year of negotiation.' And the loving 
 couples squeezing close together, excited by the 
 warm night and warlike emotions ! . . . Our dis- 
 quietude was still able to joke and smile around 
 tables loaded with dainties, lighted with pretty 
 lamps, with colored shades. . . . Not one of us 
 had the overwhelming sensation that the war was 
 more than a word, that it was a reality of to-mor- 
 row. . . . And we diverted ourselves by listening 
 to the many Italians who discussed with few 
 words and many gestures. ... A fluent word 
 was on their lips, a word of good omen: Neu- 
 tralital . . neutralital . ."
 
 90 To Arms! 
 
 "Heavens!" said Maxime, "Italy does not ad- 
 mit that her allies have the right to engage in a 
 war for the good pleasure of Austria." 
 
 "Louise Mongirail claims that she will turn 
 against us, that England will not fight and that 
 the Parisian Socialists will refuse to march." 
 
 "Your friend is a silly thing and a neuras- 
 thenic!" 
 
 "You do not fear a revolution, Maxime?" 
 
 "Nicolette, you talk like an agent of Germany. 
 ... I believe in the neutrality of Italy, in the 
 support of England, and I am sure please listen, 
 I am sure! that the Socialists will go to the 
 frontier, with one accord, with all the French." 
 
 Nicolette was not convinced. She did not have 
 exact notions about the Socialists. She pictured 
 them as hairy men, dirty, quite eccentric, born 
 enemies of priests and people of the world, beings 
 who lived at the wine-merchants' and swore in the 
 name of the Lord in the Chamber of Deputies 
 itself. . . . Besides, she did not make any dis- 
 tinction between the revolutionaries and the peo-
 
 To Arms! 91 
 
 pie she totally ignored, for she had never been in 
 contact with any but the "worthy poor." 
 
 It was, between her and Maxime, an eternal 
 subject of controversy. The Doctor did not hesi- 
 tate to tease his aristocratic sister-in-law. 
 
 "To-morrow, if the war breaks out, the people 
 alone will count, Nicolette. It will unite us all 
 in one lump and you will see Joseph your foot- 
 man, subaltern in the reserve, giving orders to 
 Monsieur Mongirail, your elegant tango dancer, 
 and to witty Monsieur Lamoigniere, writer of 
 coarse stories! . . . Joseph will teach them the 
 strict military virtues without speaking in the 
 third person and will show them that an ex-lackey 
 can be a hero." 
 
 Little Pierre said suddenly in his quiet voice : 
 
 "In the subway I saw a lady that was crying. 
 She looked at the tunnel all the time and she 
 cried without wiping her eyes. . . ." 
 
 Nicolette stood up with one movement of her 
 flexible body. She had grown pale under her 
 paint.
 
 92 To Arms! 
 
 "The women have not finished crying," she 
 said dully. 
 
 The footman came to announce that lunch was 
 served. Maxime demanded his niece Marianne. 
 They told him about the crime and the punish- 
 ment. 
 
 "Is she all alone in her room'?" 
 
 "Absolutely alone. . . . No, Fraulein is with 
 her." 
 
 The domestic who served the jellied eggs ven- 
 tured to murmur in a respectful voice. 
 
 "I beg pardon of Madame. . . 'Mademoiselle 
 Fraulein' is not with Mademoiselle Marianne. 
 'Mademoiselle Fraulein' is in the pantry where 
 she became ill. . . ." 
 
 "What?' said Nicolette. . . . "Explain your- 
 self! . . . Lischen is ill?" 
 
 Joseph maintained the officially inexpressive 
 face suitable for a man servant when his employ- 
 ers question him in public. 
 
 "Madame must not be anxious. 'Mademoiselle 
 Fraulein' is better. The cook gave her some medi- 
 cine. She had an attack of dizziness and said that
 
 To Arms! 93 
 
 a workman had told her that they were going to 
 send all the Boches back to their Bocheland. He 
 said it like that, but he did not intend to be spite- 
 ful, because . . ." 
 
 "I forbid you to frighten a poor woman. . . ." 
 
 "Oh! Madame," said Joseph, wounded in his 
 feelings, "we know what is proper to do. The 
 workman did not intend anything wrong." 
 
 And he added with a compassionate air that 
 was not without irony : 
 
 "It is certainly hard enough to be a German! 
 It is not the fault of Mademoiselle that she has 
 such an unhappy origin and that her emperor is 
 a blood-thirsty person. . . ." 
 
 "Tell Lischen to come and speak to me, after 
 breakfast in the smoking-room." 
 
 When the servant had gone, Simone asked: 
 
 "You have confidence in this Lischen? . . . 
 Where does she come from*?" 
 
 "The suburbs of Freiberg in the Breisgau. She 
 is the daughter of a school master; she has had 
 a diploma for teaching and also for the kinder- 
 garten. She has been in the house for five years
 
 94 To Arms! 
 
 and I have congratulated myself on her excellent 
 character and services." 
 
 "What if she should be a spy!" said Simone 
 smiling. 
 
 "Lischen*? . . . What secret of the national 
 defense could she learn while taking care of 
 Pierre and Marianne? You don't want to be like 
 the gossips who see spies everywhere 1 ?" 
 
 Joseph brought the scalloped meat a little 
 burned because of the patriotic emotions of the 
 cook. No one noticed this accident. Besides, 
 neither Maxime nor the two ladies were hungry, 
 but Pierre, who was not watched, took two por- 
 tions. 
 
 The coffee was served in the smoking-room pa- 
 goda where the dim light gave an impression of 
 coolness. Under the influence of an atmosphere 
 charged with electricity, Nicolette became more 
 and more nervous. She waited impatiently for 
 Desmoulins to call her to the telephone, and twice 
 sent out for last editions of papers, cried in the 
 street, which told her absolutely nothing.
 
 To Arms! 95 
 
 "Ah!" she said, with tearful irritation. "It 
 is harder to dread a misfortune than to endure it. 
 ... I should like to string the hours on a thread, 
 bringing nearer those which will deliver us from 
 this anxiety." 
 
 Simone was sad. She longed for her husband 
 whom she had seen so little for several days. An 
 exasperated longing arose in her heart to go and 
 surprise him, and she gave herself up to this temp- 
 tation which distressed her and also gave her 
 pleasure because she was sure of not succumbing 
 to it. 
 
 And minutes succeeded minutes. . . . Maxime, 
 moved by the melancholy of the young women, 
 tried to distract them. He accentuated the op- 
 timistic note, perhaps with sincerity, perhaps to 
 strengthen his own shaken confidence. While 
 smoking cigarettes, and allowing them to go out 
 in his extreme preoccupation, he began the old 
 pacifist themes, which Monsieur Lepoultre had 
 developed so many times in his articles and his 
 conferences. 
 
 But in the course of his talk, Maxime was as-
 
 96 To Arms! 
 
 tonished to hear his own voice uttering vain 
 words, empty words which had just now been 
 living and hereafter would be dead, so dead that 
 they left a taste of ashes on the lips. 
 
 A strange discouragement took possession of 
 him. He rejected the comforting illusions as he 
 had extinguished his cigarette and he murmured : 
 
 "When it comes, France will survive. Of that 
 I am sure. France cannot disappear. . . ." 
 
 He sustained himself with this thought and the 
 clear sound, the powerful note of the truth re- 
 mained in his spirit. 
 
 "Yes, France will continue to live. And if it 
 is attacked, we shall defend it, all, men and 
 women, each in our own way and with one heart 
 and soul." 
 
 The strident ring of the telephone interrupted 
 them. 
 
 He took one of the receivers. Nicolette took 
 the other. . . . 
 
 Then, coming from the invisible and from a 
 distance, a voice said: 
 
 "Hello! . ."
 
 To Arms! 97 
 
 Nicolette responded: 
 
 "It is you, Desmoulins *? I hear . . ." 
 
 "They have brought us despatches which you 
 will read in the five o'clock papers. . . . Ger- 
 many ..." 
 
 The voice was lost in a hubbub. . . . 
 
 "Hello! . . . Desmoulins. . . . Hello! . . . 
 What is the matter? . . . Please answer. . . ." 
 
 The telephone operator called: 
 
 "No one answers any more. . . . The commu- 
 nication is cut. ."
 
 VIII 
 
 A LITTLE hand pushed against the door of 
 the smoking-room and a childish voice en- 
 treated : 
 
 "Mamma, will you please forgive me? ... I 
 will not be a savage any more." 
 
 Nicolette was seated in a dejected attitude. 
 The petition of her daughter made her smile sad- 
 ly. She replied: 
 
 "Come in, Marianne." 
 
 Marianne entered, dragging behind her the 
 panting and groaning Fraulein, whom she had 
 taken as a shield, and both of them stopped, cling- 
 ing to each other. 
 
 "Fraulein cries, Mamma. ... I went and 
 hugged her to comfort her, but that did not com- 
 fort her. She says that she is afraid." 
 
 Marianne had bare arms, bare feet in tiny rib- 
 boned sandals. Her ringlets shone like silk in- 
 terwoven with silver and gold. Her white dress 
 
 98
 
 To Arms! 99 
 
 was embroidered with red apples and green 
 foliage. Frail and dainty, quite a woman at 
 six years, she was the incarnate child of luxury, 
 the latest doll that women of fashion sometimes 
 exhibit in their drawing-rooms or their automo- 
 biles. 
 
 Quite embarrassed in her role, she watched her 
 anxious mother with a distrustful eye and then 
 she turned towards the native of Baden whose 
 large, square body shook with sobs. 
 
 "Come, Fraulein," said Nicolette sweetly, 
 "calm yourself. No one here will do you any 
 harm. ... I have heard that the mechanic 
 teased you a little and I shall scold him severely. 
 He did not intend to offend you. You are a re- 
 spectable woman and you are with me: that is 
 enough to make you sure of being protected. . . . 
 But we must accept the inevitable. War may be 
 declared to-morrow. You must go back to your 
 own country." 
 
 "Ach! I know that Madame is good. ... It 
 has been like my own family. And the children
 
 ioo To Arms! 
 
 are so nice ! I was accustomed to being with you 
 always. . . ." 
 
 "We shall not forget your devotion, Fraulein, 
 but we must part. It is not your fault and it is 
 not ours if the circumstances . . ." 
 
 "My sister has written me, that there is still a 
 fortnight for the return journey. . . . And I do 
 not believe that it will be dangerous to stay in 
 France, as she says. . . ." 
 
 "There is a fortnight?" 
 
 "Ach ! she knew well that we should have war. 
 Every one knew it at Fribourg. . . . But that 
 is not the worst." 
 
 "What more is there, Fraulein?" 
 
 The German had a red face with a small, badly 
 formed nose and a bulging forehead, covered with 
 freckles. 
 
 "I am going. . . . Madame doesn't know? I 
 am going to marry Monsieur Gustave, next Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 "What Monsieur Gustave?" 
 
 "Monsieur the receipt clerk of the Galeries. 
 He is my fiance. He will marry me next Christ-
 
 To Arms! 101 
 
 mas. I do not want to return to Fribourg, be- 
 cause my father is poor. He has too many chil- 
 dren. . . . Nine! Six daughters. . . . My sis- 
 ter Linda is in London ; my sister Rosa is in Brus- 
 sels; the three little ones are at home. My father 
 does not need me. I shall marry Gustave." 
 
 Her tears trickled down on the bib of her 
 apron. 
 
 "Ach! ... it is ended now. . . ." 
 
 Lischen was not pretty in her despair. She 
 abandoned herself to it in the insistent and un- 
 ceremonious way of the Germans, that always car- 
 ries with it a certain element of the ridiculous, 
 but none of the servants wanted to smile. They 
 understood one of the thousand little dramas 
 which become pure classic tragedy if a poet places 
 them in the heart of a king and which pass un- 
 noticed, without beauty, in the poor difficult lives 
 of the humble. 
 
 Lischen had been in France seven years; she 
 had brought up Pierre and Marianne, and the 
 bond attaching her to her home in Fribourg, to 
 her father, to the needy sisters, to the troublesome
 
 102 To Arms! 
 
 brothers, had slowly weakened. The German 
 woman, tame and passive, submissive to the man, 
 becomes denationalised quicker than the German 
 man. For Lischen, her country was the place 
 where she had been well received, well nourished, 
 well treated and well paid, where she had found 
 children to cherish and that idol : Gustave ! . . . 
 How fine he was, Monsieur the cashier of the 
 Galeries; how fine he was, with his little cap, his 
 blue coat with gold buttons, his money bag, his 
 pencil behind his ear! His livery had the 
 martial elegance of a uniform. His flowing 
 moustache expressed all the gallant hardihood of 
 his race! He criticised the government! He 
 knew how to talk to ladies! He kissed beauti- 
 fully! He was economical! . . . He was a 
 Frenchman.. 
 
 "I pity you, Fraulein," said Madame Raynaud. 
 . . . Alas, all the fiancees are weeping here and 
 in your country, and without doubt Monsieur 
 Gustave will suffer greatly. . . . The situation 
 for both of you is very cruel, but you must accept 
 it. We shall part from each other affectionately
 
 To Arms! 103 
 
 and I hope that you will be happy later, when 
 we have the right to be happy." 
 
 In the midst of noisy sobs the Baden woman 
 expressed her desire : 
 
 "I wish to become naturalised right away. 
 Then I shall be French. I shall marry Gustave." 
 
 "What !" said Nicolette scandalised. "You re- 
 nounce your country on the eve of a war"? That 
 would be an ugly thing, Fraulein, and Gustave 
 ,would not marry you. . . . You have brothers 
 in the German army 4 ?" 
 
 "Two," replied Lischen sniffling. . . . "My 
 brother Karl and my brother Wilhelm. But Fritz 
 is too little. . . ." 
 
 "Your Gustave would not like to risk killing 
 his brothers-in-law in a combat! Forget every- 
 thing that is not your country and your family. 
 . . . Reflect, Fraulein, if your fiance had the 
 same idea as you, he would become a Ger- 
 man. . . ." 
 
 "Oh ! that would be lovely, Madame ! If Gus- 
 tave became a German. I should be able to marry 
 him."
 
 IO4 To Arms! 
 
 "What, you would not feel shame and horror 
 for him?' 
 
 But Lischen did not hear these subtleties. She 
 sobbed until she lost her breath, while Madame 
 Raynaud continued her harangue. Little Mari- 
 anne began to cry sympathetically and Nicolette 
 tried vainly to dam up this double deluge, when 
 callers were announced and delivered her from 
 Lischen. The unfortunate sweetheart of Mon- 
 sieur the cashier of the Galeries, went away dis- 
 solved in tears. 
 
 The unexpected arrivals who had put an end to 
 this tragicomic scene were welcomed with af- 
 fectionate exclamations. They were two hand- 
 some young men, sons of an old friend of the 
 Raynauds, who almost belonged to the family. 
 Bertrand and Lucien de Gardave had been cared 
 for by Maxime's parents as Simone had formerly 
 been welcomed by Monsieur Bouvet de la Mon- 
 derie. They had spent their childhood in a little 
 castle in Perigord where their father, an ardent 
 huntsman, and their mother, ignorant and devout, 
 lived as nobles and parsimoniously, according to
 
 To Arms! 105 
 
 the ancient custom of the country gentlemen. One 
 of their sisters was an Ursuline nun : another had 
 married a well-born lieutenant with a small in- 
 come, and consumed with him in a small garri- 
 son, the principal of the customary marriage por- 
 tion. The third sister was always waiting for a 
 husband. When he was fourteen years old, Ber- 
 trand de Gardave went to Paris, loaded with 
 scapulars and lockets by his doting mother and 
 entered Stanislaus College. His young brother 
 joined him several years later; but while Ber- 
 trand showed an exceptional intelligence, more 
 speculative than realistic, and a love of study that 
 drew him to a sedentary life, Lucien cared more 
 for sport than for books. In 1914 Bertrand was 
 doctor of laws, connected with several philan- 
 thropic causes, and principal contributor to a new 
 Catholic review. Lucien prepared for the en- 
 trance examinations at Saint Cyr. He followed 
 the traditions of their family which allowed a 
 Gardave since the Gardaves were almost ruined 
 the choice of liberal careers, the army, the bar 
 and diplomacy, to the exclusion of all the other
 
 io6 To Arms! 
 
 more lucrative ones, but, said Madame de Gar- 
 dave, "sordid and mean." It happened, that in 
 all of the family, no Gardave had ever become 
 rich, except by an advantageous marriage. This 
 way of obtaining fortune did not suit Bertrand. 
 Lucien might consent to it, perhaps, when he 
 achieved epaulettes; but at this time, he thought 
 only of fencing and football. 
 
 They had hardly been ushered in, Bertrand 
 kissing the hands of Nicolette and Simone, when 
 Lucien, who was unrestrained by conventions, 
 cried : 
 
 'Well, we're in for it!" 
 
 "Oh !" said Maxime, "you expect it ! ... The 
 decree of mobilisation has not yet appeared." 
 
 "No, but it will to-morrow or the day after. 
 . . . No one doubts it. ... You know that we 
 were to spend the vacations in England with our 
 friends the Harrisons? I come from telling them 
 that the party is deferred after the victory ! . . . 
 And I have written the same, word for word:
 
 To Arms! 107 
 
 'Dear Harry and Bob, before long we shall 
 meet on the field of battle !' " 
 
 "But in case of war, you will not go, Lucien," 
 said Simone. "You are too young." 
 
 The youth resisted her. 
 
 "I shall be eighteen years old in September. 
 I shall enlist ! and Bob and Harry will enlist too 
 in the English army." 
 
 "If England fights with us." 
 
 "You doubt it?" 
 
 "Sir Edward Grey does not give me his inti- 
 mate confidences. ... I believe that England 
 has the same interest as we in hindering the Ger- 
 man hegemony; I believe that they will lend us 
 the co-operation of their fleet, but as to sending 
 us an army . . ." 
 
 "It is curious! Yes, it is curious and disturb- 
 ing to realise this scepticism of the French," said 
 Lucien. ... "I have been four times to Eng- 
 land for vacations. I know that the English are 
 serious people, very sure, very faithful to their 
 promises! ... Ah! if you knew Harry and 
 Bob! . . . Such boys! . . ."
 
 io8 To Arms! 
 
 Maxime wanted to explain that the English 
 government must consult public opinion before 
 making any important decision, and public opin- 
 ion in England was formed more slowly than in 
 France. . . . No doubt, our friends across the 
 Channel do not yet realise the situation and the 
 possible necessity of Continental military ac- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 But the impetuous young man did not hear. 
 
 "I tell you; Harry and Bob will enlist and I 
 shall, too. That will be a magnificent thing." 
 
 "You," said Bertrand, "will do what Papa 
 wishes." 
 
 Lucien turned purple. 
 
 "Do you take me for a gamin?" 
 
 The idea of war excited him. Passionately de- 
 voted to physical culture, very proud of his 
 muscles, despising intellectual effort and senti- 
 mental complications, he had resolved to conse- 
 crate his life to action, without knowing very well 
 what the action would be for. Turn about, he 
 had dreamed of being Georges Carpentier or Gar- 
 ros; he had pictured himself exploring in the for-
 
 To Arms! 109 
 
 est or manufacturing in a new country. The 
 poetry of the aeroplane and the submarine, of 
 peril and of victory, thrilled the imagination of 
 this youth who read little, who had never loved 
 a woman and who thought himself prosaic and 
 determined. He had decided at last to be an 
 officer in the Colonies, naturally and he im- 
 agined himself as a rival of Barbatier and of 
 Gouraud. 
 
 In spite of his youth he was robust ; but with 
 his full and rosy cheeks, his white teeth, his vel- 
 vet eyes, and his glossy black hair, he looked so 
 fresh and young that it made him very miser- 
 able. He envied the twenty-five years, the heav- 
 ier profile and the short moustache of his 
 brother. . . . 
 
 "You think," he said in a tone of defiance, 
 "that I shall spend the summer in Perigord, be- 
 tween Papa and Mamma, while the others fight? 
 ... I am young, I seem even younger than my 
 age, because" his cheeks flushed "because I am 
 too good-looking. ... I have a baby's expres- 
 sion. That disgusts me, but I am not willing to
 
 no To Arms! 
 
 grow a beard to make me look older . . . and 
 then, is it the face that counts'? What makes a 
 soldier is muscles, endurance, and courage. . . . 
 I have all that! . . . And besides, for a fair 
 comparison, my biceps are different from Ber- 
 trand's! . . . Feel my arms, Madame Daves- 
 nes, feel, I beg you! . . ." 
 
 The older brother exclaimed with annoyance: 
 
 "Do stop, Lucien, you are a nuisance! Ma- 
 dame, excuse this child, excited by the smell of 
 powder in the air." 
 
 "He is a little Gallic cock!" said Simone. 
 
 Lucien protested : 
 
 "Child ! ... I am as good as you ! . . . I am 
 a better walker and a better shot than you. If 
 Papa will allow me to enlist and I shall demand 
 it of him by telegram ! you will see what I can 
 do. ... To have such a wonderful chance, and 
 not to be where they are fighting, where there 
 is danger and glory ! I tell you : I should go mad ! 
 ... At first, there are never enough soldiers. 
 France has need of all the French. Madame Si- 
 mone approves of me; I see that in her eye . . .
 
 To Arms! HI 
 
 and her husband will approve of me, I am sure ! 
 ... I shall go to see him. He will advise me. 
 I shall enlist in the artillery." 
 
 "I, too," cried Pierre, "I want to enlist; 
 Mamma, if I am too little to be an artilleryman, 
 I shall be child of the regiment!" 
 
 During this time, Marianne had climbed on the 
 Doctor's knee. 
 
 "Tell me what you have done 1 ?" said the uncle. 
 "It seems that you have bitten your brother in 
 order to take a cake away from him? Then, you 
 were put out of civilisation. . . . No one speaks 
 to you. . . . You are to have dinner alone?" 
 
 "Quite alone." 
 
 "You were like a little savage or a beast. It 
 is terrible!" 
 
 The little one repeated placidly: 
 
 "Oh, yes! ... It is terrible! . . ." 
 
 "At least, do you know what it is, civilisa- 
 tion?" 
 
 "Oh! Yes! ... I know." 
 
 "What is it, then?"
 
 H2 To Arms! 
 
 Marianne looked at her uncle with affection- 
 ate contempt. 
 
 "Don't you know? . . . Civilisation is . . . 
 is the people who are polite . . . who don't take 
 things that are not theirs . . . who don't bite 
 their brothers." 
 
 She thought a moment. 
 
 "Who don't say bad words. . . ." 
 
 But the definition did not satisfy her. An es- 
 sential expression was lacking. . . . Marianne 
 wriggled a little, put out her tongue and ended 
 by finding what she sought: 
 
 . . . "And behave well at the table . . . you 
 must eat properly. Mamma told me that." 
 
 The child pressed her coaxing head on the 
 bearded face of the doctor and lowered her voice, 
 as if telling a great secret : 
 
 "She is a nice person, Fraulein ! Well, she eats 
 her sausage with her fingers and when she swal- 
 lows she makes a noise. . . ." 
 
 "Little mischief!" said Maxime, smiling. He 
 put Marianne back again, upright on his knee : 
 
 "Run and find Fraulein! . . Comfort her!
 
 To Arms! 113 
 
 To-morrow, you will not see her any more. . . . 
 She will be able to say in her country that we 
 were good to her to the last. . . ." 
 
 Marianne ran away, on the tips of her toes. 
 Lucien de Gardave said thoughtlessly : 
 
 "Why are our French families so foolish as to 
 have foreign nurses^ I learned English and Ger- 
 man when I was twelve years old and I flatter my- 
 self that I speak them pretty well, especially Eng- 
 lish. . . . But my nurse brought me up in 
 French." 
 
 "And also, in Perigord dialect," said Nicolette. 
 
 The young man began to laugh heartily. 
 
 "The Perigord dialect is a poor cousin of 
 French and there are family traits between them. 
 My nurse gave me a touch of accent revealing my 
 origin of which I am proud. But, dear Madame 
 you have told me yourself when your Pierre 
 went to school at nine, they dictated this phrase 
 to him : 'The little boy goes to breakfast.' Pierre, 
 instigated by the memory of his Fraulein, wrote : 
 'The litle boy goes to Friihfast.' At his age, I
 
 H4 To Arms! 
 
 made many mistakes in spelling, but they showed 
 the influence of my own country." 
 
 This discussion of comparative philology an- 
 noyed Nicolette, and Bertrand, who noticed it, 
 created a diversion by speaking of Jean Ray- 
 naud. 
 
 "His mother, whom we have just left, is ex- 
 tremely uneasy. She persuades herself, against 
 all probability, that Jean is no longer at Pontre- 
 sina and that he was obliged to go to the Tyrol. I 
 believe that he did intend to go there. Did he 
 absolutely give up this project*?" 
 
 "Apparently, yes," responded Nicolette. "His 
 letter, dated Monday, does not permit a suspicion 
 of change in his itinerary. But Jean always fol- 
 lows his whims. . . . He went, perhaps, Tues- 
 day or Wednesday, alone or not alone. . . . 
 He meets, sometimes, pleasant fellow travel- 
 lers. . . ." 
 
 "This time, Nicolette, you are the one to say 
 foolish things," said Maxime. 
 
 "Would it be better if I did them 4 ?" 
 
 "My dear little sister, your husband will be
 
 To Arms! 115 
 
 on the firing line to-morrow. Think of that. 
 That will calm your nerves." 
 
 Nicolette bit her lips until they bled. 
 
 "Come with me to our parents," said Maxime. 
 "We shall encourage them to have patience and 
 this day will be less hard for them. Think of the 
 terrible strain that they may have to endure !" 
 
 "You are right, Maxime. . . . Poor old dears ! 
 We must not abandon them. ... I must dress 
 myself right away. We shall take away the 
 children." 
 
 This tender spontaneity of Nicolette compen- 
 sated for her attack of sulks and bad humour. 
 Maxime was moved and thought severely of Jean, 
 that privileged person who foolishly ruined his 
 own happiness. 
 
 Bertrand de Gardave went to sit near Simone, 
 on the violet satin divan. 
 
 "I intended to write you and wish you an 
 agreeable vacation, for I did not hope to see you 
 for several months. All of our projects are sus- 
 pended at present. . . . What are you going to
 
 n6 To Arms! 
 
 do? You will go, no doubt, to Plessis-l'Etang?" 
 
 "Who knows? . . ." 
 
 "You never think about yourself." 
 
 "I think about my husband, of my friends. . . ." 
 
 Bertrand asserted : 
 
 "The aeroplane factory will be taken for the 
 army?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Then, Lieutenant Davesnes will stay near 
 you." 
 
 "All the officers will not be retained at the fac- 
 tory." 
 
 "I hope that they will leave Monsieur Daves- 
 nes at his post for the present. I desire it be- 
 cause of friendship to you, who will suffer too 
 much from his departure." 
 
 Simone said quickly: 
 
 "My husband will be like all the French, ready 
 to obey, and he will accept the post that is given 
 to him at the factory or in a regiment. ..." 
 
 "Oh!" said the young man. "I am a clumsy 
 person. I have agitated you. . . ." 
 
 "I am very calm," responded Simone. "But I
 
 To Arms! 117 
 
 do not wish not yet to ask myself a question 
 meaning : 'The lot is cast. It is war!' . . . Leave 
 me the benefit of the doubt." 
 
 Bertrand de Gardave looked at her, so touch- 
 ing in her anxiety. He admired the ashen gold of 
 her fluffy hair, the delicacy of a blue vein on her 
 temple, the indefinable color of her eyes, this 
 beauty in half-tone, that did not dazzle, but en- 
 chanted. What attraction in this bloom and 
 modesty! Delicate Simone, Princess of Racine 
 descended to the mediocrity of a bourgeois exist- 
 ence and remaining royal through elegance of 
 feeling, and nobility that is a great passion. It 
 was the perfect flower of the race, the rose of 
 France, delicate and perfumed, that has no equal 
 under any other sky. How greatly Bertrand pre- 
 ferred her to the brilliant Nicolette! How he 
 preferred her to all women, to all ! 
 
 He thought sometimes that he would have been 
 happier if she had been less happy, because he 
 could have consoled her, but he could do nothing 
 or almost nothing for a woman so completely 
 loved. He did not consider that Simone might
 
 n8 To Arms! 
 
 have complained because she lived without lux- 
 ury, for he judged her by himself, and he knew 
 that she had chosen the better part. And without 
 analyzing the sentiment she inspired and from 
 which he suffered to a certain extent, he persuaded 
 himself that everything was right as it was, that 
 it pleased him to have Simone just as nature and 
 destiny had made her, fragile and brave, passion- 
 ately faithful and so happy that she discouraged 
 desire. 
 
 At twenty-four, he had never loved any woman, 
 and the mysticism to which he was irresistibly 
 inclined had nearly always saved him from light 
 connections. He was a Catholic and lived his re- 
 ligion, and, while his character was very noble, 
 he did not have that simplicity which makes vir- 
 tue easy to the saints. His excessively scrupu- 
 lous conscience marred all joy for him. Enrolled 
 among the young men who intended to restore the 
 old discipline in France, he blamed those who 
 did not begin with their own lives. 
 
 Now, he felt the storm coming in which he 
 would be swept away, an atom in a whirling dust
 
 To Arms! 119 
 
 of humanity. To-morrow, private lives would be 
 lost in the collective life of the nation and all that 
 gives value to youth, all that men desire to pos- 
 sess before death health, force, fortune, the joys 
 of the spirit, strong friendship and the blessing 
 that contains all the others: love! ... all that 
 had no more worth, had not even any meaning, 
 all that did not amount to anything. 
 
 But for one moment more, these joys existed, 
 that he had recently neglected in order to ac- 
 quire others, less sweet and more grand. . . . 
 Why then did Bertrand regard these treasures of 
 life, forever unattainable, with a sort of retro- 
 spective longing, bitter as the helplessness of an 
 old man*? . . . 
 
 Temptation of the evil spirit, weakness of the 
 heart and flesh! . . . Bertrand de Gardave en- 
 dured the fierce inward assault as he would en- 
 dure to-morrow the attack of the enemy. He 
 looked at a bunch of carnations on the table, the 
 books in the red lacquer case, an exquisite statu- 
 ette and the young woman in her lovely bloom, 
 the personification of love ! . . . . By a powerful
 
 120 To Arms! 
 
 effort of the will, he substituted other images : the 
 study opening toward the starry night, the lamp, 
 the friendly books, the photographs of the Sibyls 
 of Michael Angelo, overlooked by an old Jansen- 
 ist crucifix with raised arms. He recalled the in- 
 structor that he had loved, theologians and philos- 
 ophers, and the glorious conflict of ideas, and this 
 intellectual atmosphere, dry as the air of moun- 
 tain-tops, that he had breathed with giddiness. 
 . . . This recollection soothed him. He thanked 
 God who had permitted him to live a pure and 
 serious youth and to hope at twenty-five years for 
 glory and death like a double crown. . . . 
 
 Nicolette reappeared, dressed in white, and 
 wearing a hat quivering with quantities of oats. 
 She asked: 
 
 "Simone, Lucien, Bertrand, can't I take you on 
 your way? There is room for you in the limou- 
 sine." 
 
 "Leave me then in the Rue de La-Boetie," said 
 Lucien. "I am going to see one of my comrades, 
 the captain of our football team ... a fine type ! 
 Class of 1916, like me!"
 
 To Arms! 121 
 
 Simone said that she wished to walk and that 
 she could take the underground quite easily at 
 some station. 
 
 Bertrand de Gardave offered to go with her.
 
 IX 
 
 FT was already declining, this day which would 
 * bring peace or war. 
 
 It was half-past four. The sun and the fog 
 after struggling since morning faded together in 
 the heavy air. The mists hung low over Paris 
 and their billowy masses, penetrated by diffused 
 light, seemed to absorb the rays in their soft, 
 white depths. 
 
 "Let us go as far as the Boulevard des Ital- 
 iens," proposed Bertrand, "to buy Le Temps as 
 soon as it reaches the kiosques." 
 
 Simone assented. They followed the slope of 
 the Rue de Rome and noticed in the square be- 
 fore the station dozens and dozens of vehicles, 
 hurrying from the converging streets. The rush 
 was caused by the exodus of strangers and of 
 country people. The young man amused him- 
 self by recognising, from their appearance, the 
 disappointed tourists, the "cowards" haunted by 
 
 122
 
 To Arms! 123 
 
 fear of revolutions, and also the good people with 
 dull brains, who had not seen, understood or im- 
 agined anything, going simply to spend their 
 vacations in some "cheap little hole." 
 
 On the Boulevard, the enormous crowd, dense, 
 slow, covered the sidewalks, reached the road- 
 way, and its surging tide surrounded the auto- 
 mobiles, autobusses and the groups of police. A 
 patrol of the Garde Republicaine passed. The 
 splendid mien of the cavalry, the flash of the hel- 
 mets and the waving of horse hair, recalled vague- 
 ly to their minds pictures of the Roman troops. 
 Applause resounded. A cry arose: "Hurrah for 
 the army !" The police officers raised their white 
 sticks to block the autobusses. The human surge 
 slipped through the openings. When they could 
 not see the guards any longer, the space closed and 
 the silent crowd moved on, almost colorless, in 
 spite of its summer garments, between the high 
 banks of houses, gay with flags. 
 
 There were as many people as on a fete day or 
 in time of riots, but never had joy or rage brought 
 about this harmony of feeling which gave to the
 
 124 To Arms! 
 
 French of all ages and all ranks, one spirit and 
 almost one aspect. Because all of them had the 
 same thought, all had the same expression. The 
 faces, so various in our race, lost their individual 
 character and revealed an indefinable "family re- 
 semblance." An implied cordiality sprang up, 
 in the jostling without rudeness, in the im- 
 promptu dialogue, in the exchange of glances be- 
 tween women thinking of their children, between 
 men thinking of their country. The shops ex- 
 posed articles of luxury for sale. The Morris 
 columns announced plays, sketches with ballets 
 and light songs. It seemed very far away already. 
 Some little tables had reappeared on the terraces 
 of cafes, but the people seated before their slowly 
 warming beer forgot to drink. 
 
 Above the grey roofs and the parched plane 
 trees, the sky piled its white, billowy clouds more 
 heavily. Uncertain as life, after the alternation 
 of sun and shade, brooded the gathering storm, 
 the breaking of which would be almost a relief 
 to the trees withering from thirst, to the people 
 trembling with exhausting agony.
 
 To Arms! 125 
 
 The rumbling of trucks, the buzzing of auto- 
 mobiles, increasing and diminishing, the trumpet 
 signals, the ringing of bells and the murmur of 
 innumerable voices and footsteps, all the uproar 
 of Paris, now failed to reach the senses of those 
 beings who continued to exist in a sort of calm 
 hallucination. They had the sensation of a si- 
 lence like that which announces great cosmic 
 phenomena. When there is to be an earthquake, 
 the wind dies down, the animals are dumb, and 
 the immobility of death precedes the first shock. 
 So, waiting for the moment of the convulsion, 
 the people viewed life as suspended about them. 
 What movement still continued seemed an effect 
 of acquired force, the play of mechanism still 
 acting an instant after the cessation of its cen- 
 tral motor power. And the confidence created 
 by habit and adaptation, the confidence of the so- 
 lidity and the stability of a certain known order 
 of things, the security given by laws, customs, re- 
 ligions, the walls of the city, the protecting army, 
 solemn agreements between peoples, suddenly 
 gave place to the idea of the ephemeral and of
 
 
 126 To Arms! 
 
 the provisional. . . . The entire nation was 
 about to enter the unknown. 
 
 Bertrand de Gardave guided Simone. She fol- 
 lowed him docilely . . . protected by him 
 against the surging of the crowds. He said to 
 her: 
 
 "Let us cross." 
 
 She crossed the street behind him, starting when 
 he pushed away the head of a horse which touched 
 her. He said to her: 
 
 "Stay here, the news-boys will pass here 
 first. . . ." 
 
 She waited near him, before the window of a 
 provision shop. In front was a newspaper 
 kiosque. On the sidewalk opposite was the 
 fagade of the Credit Lyonnais, rich with heavy 
 sculpture. The clock showed that it was now 
 five. 
 
 Suddenly the waiting people were moved. A 
 current carried them on the same side, towards 
 the corner of the boulevard, and of the street 
 where Le Temps had its office. The news-boys 
 loaded with damp, unfolded papers, ran silently
 
 
 To Arms! 127 
 
 in the direction of the kiosque. The crowd sur- 
 rounded them. Trembling hands held out sous 
 and carried off papers like booty. Simone moved 
 back, but Bertrand, springing forward among the 
 first, returned with a paper, while other carriers 
 at last reached the besieged kiosque, threw their 
 packages at the dealer and disappeared in all di- 
 rections. 
 
 Bertrand rumpled the paper as he touched it. 
 His fingers shook. He looked for the latest des- 
 patches on the bottom of the sixteenth page. Si- 
 mone had taken his arm which she pressed un- 
 consciously. An old woman tried to read over 
 their shoulders. . . . They heard Bertrand's 
 voice. 
 
 He read: 
 
 State of war in Germany. 
 
 Berlin, July 31. 
 
 A special edition of the Berliner Tageblatt an- 
 nounces that this morning the Emperor, by virtue 
 of article 68 of the constitution of the empire, 
 has decreed that because of information of the
 
 128 To Arms! 
 
 menacing military preparations of Russia, Ger- 
 many is in a "state of war" (Kriegszustand}. 
 
 This measure is not exactly the same as mobili- 
 sation^ but it places the entire Empire under mili- 
 tary authority. 
 
 Mobilisation will probably be announced this 
 evening. 
 
 The Emperor returns to Berlin this afternoon. 
 
 Some one said : 
 
 "I do not understand, Monsieur. . . . Will 
 you allow me to see. . . . Thank you. . . . 
 That will do ... it says: Preparations for 
 war. . . . Thank you, Monsieur." 
 
 Another voice: 
 
 "Here . . . look. . . . They have sent: The 
 threatening notes to London and to Paris. . . ." 
 
 Another voice: 
 
 "And we? . . . and we? . . . What can we 
 do?" 
 
 These words emerged from the indistinct 
 clamor: "Their Emperor . . . England . . . 
 a premeditated coup. . . . The Alliance. . . .
 
 To Arms! 129 
 
 They have known it for three days. . . . France 
 will remain. . . . France has no fear. . . . 
 France . . . France . . . France. . . ." 
 
 The sacred name was on all lips. They did 
 not cry it out. They did not realise that they 
 spoke it. It came like a mother's name to the 
 lips of soldiers who are about to die. . . . Then 
 silence fell again.
 
 BERTRAND and Simone continued through 
 the silent crowd. They no longer noticed 
 the amusing and banal decorations of the Parisian 
 boulevard. Like all of the French, they had not 
 been able to estimate the slow encroachment of 
 the shadow, which had increased for three days 
 and was now at its zenith. A dark cloud brooded 
 over France and from its gloomy and cruel mass 
 appeared the anticipated spectre : war. 
 
 Paris looked at it steadily, without consterna- 
 tion, with a remnant of stupor and a vague feel- 
 ing of deliverance. The people realised more and 
 more distinctly that the nightmare of waiting had 
 been the severest trial. Now, they would awaken 
 in a new France; they began to know, to under- 
 stand, to act and to suffer, instead of keeping the 
 ears strained and the heart beating. The transition 
 would be short between the bad dream and the 
 heroic awakening. One moment more to shake 
 
 130
 
 To Arms! 131 
 
 off the old chains, to allow the life of yesterday to 
 drop behind ; a moment more of thought and emo- 
 tion. . . . Then would come the rising en masse, 
 enthusiasm, and all spirits, relieved because the 
 sacrifice was accomplished, would march towards 
 destiny to the song of the Marseillaises. 
 
 Bertrand de Gardave said: 
 
 "I should prefer . . ." 
 
 Simone could not help whispering : 
 
 "Oh! Say that we shall be victorious!" 
 
 He responded aloud: 
 
 "We will be!" 
 
 His strong voice resounded in the silence and 
 passers-by who heard it turned around. He re- 
 peated : 
 
 "We will be victorious by the force of right 
 and the force of arms. I am not afraid." 
 
 On his clear-cut, dark face the traces of anxiety 
 were effaced. His youth bloomed in a lovely 
 smile of certitude. He looked straight before 
 him, instead of looking at the blonde woman, the 
 dear friend whose presence, an hour earlier, had 
 shown him more than he wished the charm of
 
 132 To Arms! 
 
 living. He was already freed. Already he had 
 started on the high-road where chanting victory 
 would lead, by thousands, the young men of 
 France. From the lover and the mystic the sol- 
 dier emerged. 
 
 He asked: 
 
 "Where will you go now, Madame*?" 
 
 Simone wished to go home as quickly as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 "I will call a taxicab," said Bertrand, "and 
 you will forgive me if I do not go with you. I 
 must write my parents and put certain affairs in 
 order. ... I suppose that the decree of mobilisa- 
 tion will be published to-morrow. I hope so. 
 . . . Le Temps says that we have not imitated 
 the example of Germany it is not necessary for 
 a defensive military measure to be interpreted as 
 a provocation but this measure, they say, may 
 cause an immediate clash. . . . Every French- 
 man must hold himself in readiness." 
 
 "You voluntarily anticipate the call to arms, 
 my dear Bertrand! . . ."
 
 To Arms! 133 
 
 "At least, I should respond to it among the 
 first." 
 
 "And your father, your mother*? . . . What 
 courage they will need!" 
 
 "Yes, for them, it will be hard. . . ." 
 
 The brows of the young man, his expressive 
 mouth, became anxious. 
 
 "Very hard. . . . But they are good French 
 people and good Christians. . . . And then, they 
 will have my sisters. . . . Jeanne, when her hus- 
 band leaves, will return home with her children; 
 Madeleine, the poor girl! who hoped to marry 
 one of our cousins, will forget her suffering in 
 filial tenderness. . . . They will combine with 
 the others, as all families will do. . . ." 
 
 They waited a quarter of an hour, at the cor- 
 ner of the Faubourg Montmartre and of the 
 Boulevard. Not a free automobile passed. No 
 doubt they avoided the crowded spots, and the 
 few that were to be seen were going to the sta- 
 tions. 
 
 "I shall go to the Bourse Station," said 
 Madame Davesnes. "Don't come with me
 
 134 To Arms! 
 
 any farther, my friend, your time is limited." 
 
 She held out her hand to Bertrand: 
 
 "Don't go without seeing us again." 
 
 "No, certainly not. . . ." 
 
 "Until to-morrow, perhaps!" 
 
 "To-morrow, surely. Be brave." 
 
 She smiled sadly and departed. The young 
 man saw her lovely silhouette, her blue dress, her 
 little hat trimmed with white wings, disappear- 
 ing in the crowd and he thought : 
 
 "May she be spared misfortune!" 
 
 Then he went his way. 
 
 Like the crowds in the streets, the crowds 
 massed in the cars of the subway were stupefied 
 and silent. They spoke in low voices; they read 
 the papers eagerly. On the faces of the women 
 the startled grief was tearless. Those who spoke, 
 men with white beards, decorated with the ribbon 
 of the Legion of Honor, well dressed, were list- 
 ened to with a respectful interest. Some of them 
 carried leather portfolios. They were such men 
 as the crowd imagines to be bankers and lawyers.
 
 To Arms! 135 
 
 In grave and modulated tones they regretted that 
 Russia had not finished its strategic railway ; they 
 estimated the respective armies of the allied na- 
 tions and compared the English fleet with the Ger- 
 man fleet. Habitually well-bred and discreet, 
 they said nothing of their personal emotions. The 
 passengers of another social rank, more impulsive, 
 when they were squeezed between their neigh- 
 bors for the distance of three stations, confessed 
 naively their anxiety as husbands and fathers. 
 
 One heard: 
 
 "The mobilisation will be posted this evening." 
 
 "No, to-morrow." 
 
 "Italy?" 
 
 "Against us?" 
 
 "Never. . . . Against Austria." 
 
 "The alliance is defensive. The casus foederis 
 does not hold." 
 
 "Mr. Asquith should have made a declaration 
 to-day to the House of Commons." 
 
 "I tell you that Italy will leave us to pull the 
 chestnuts out of the fire. . . ,"
 
 136 To Arms! 
 
 And they always reverted anxiously to Eng- 
 land, the prudent and reticent friend. 
 
 The Chatelet. The white-haired men left. 
 A talkative woman climbed in, burdened with a 
 basket, then a group of very young men. The 
 spirit of the populace entering with them, brought 
 a little vivacious chatter. Continuing a talk, be- 
 gun without doubt on the quay, the big woman 
 began to say: 
 
 "They want us to go and we will." 
 
 "Not you, huh!" 
 
 "When there aren't any more men, my boy, 
 of course the women will go." 
 
 The young fellows turned around, and striking 
 their chests, affirmed that they would gladly take 
 the women. 
 
 "It would be gayer." 
 
 "If we can choose, I prefer the young ones." 
 
 A man in a jacket, without a collar, and wear- 
 ing a dirty hat, protested. 
 
 He growled like a fox-terrier that was being 
 teased. 
 
 "Women*? . . You don't want them! .
 
 To Arms! 137 
 
 Such a good chance to be a little comfortable 
 among men. . . ." 
 
 The young men laughed : 
 
 "Oh! La! La! Monsieur is sick of it all! 
 He hasn't any luck with his sweetheart. A little, 
 well-behaved hen in our quarters would be jolly, 
 just the same!" 
 
 "There are some women just as good as men !" 
 said the crone. . . . "For instance, Joan of Arc! 
 You understand that I, with a gun, am not afraid 
 of a Prussian." 
 
 She rolled back her sleeves, and showed her 
 arms, hardened by work and reddened by wash- 
 ing powders. Her glance called her audience to 
 witness. . . . The young men expressed their 
 sympathy in forcible language. The disagreeable 
 man had retired to the extreme corner of his seat. 
 He grumbled: 
 
 "Go and nurse your babies and take care of 
 your little children." 
 
 "Children. ... I have them all right! and I 
 am quite able to take care of them, what's more,"
 
 138 To Arms! 
 
 smartly replied the rival of Madame Angot. 1 . . . 
 If that didn't make you tired ! . . . Cheese face ! 
 Magot! Reformed rake! He doesn't like me, 
 the old wreck! ... I tell you that a Prussian 
 wouldn't make me afraid, any more than my dead 
 father ; he belonged to the National Guard in '70, 
 his feet frozen on the ramparts, and he had the 
 medal of the old combatants. ... I am only a 
 woman, but I tell you over the ashes of my father, 
 that I am sorry enough to be one. . . . But I 
 have a husband who will go to represent the 
 Boujiron family. And my oldest boy will go 
 with the class '15 if it is called out." 
 
 "What does your husband do 1 ?" 
 
 "He is a corporal, Monsieur. . . . He is mar- 
 ket porter, Boujiron, and you understand, a husky 
 one. . . . Here's Saint Michel ! I must get out. 
 . . . Good-bye to you all." 
 
 A jovial man shouted : 
 
 "Compliments to Boujiron!" 
 
 With the woman, the feeble attempts at gaiety 
 
 1 Mme. Angot, a popular type taken from a musical comedy 
 "La Fille de Mme. Angot" by Ch. Lecoq (1872), proverbially 
 
 coarse and unrefined.
 
 To Arms! 139 
 
 and a sort of big plebeian optimism, not without 
 its influence on depressed spirits, disappeared. 
 Conversations were whispered. Women looked 
 at each other. Their staring eyes expressed: 
 "My son! ... My husband! . . ." 
 And the eyes of strangers, filled with tears, re- 
 sponded : 
 
 "My husband! . . . My son! . . ." 
 When Madame Davesnes found herself again 
 on the Avenue, the cries of newspaper men as- 
 sailed her. Their barking of distorted words 
 broke the silence which hovered over the Fau- 
 bourg, as it did in the centre of the city. 
 
 A young couple hurried along in front of Si- 
 mone: She recognised Alexandre Frechette and 
 his little friend. They walked close together, 
 shoulder to shoulder. The sculptor had put his 
 arm under the arm of his model. He said to her : 
 "You will give me one sitting to-morrow morn- 
 ing. . . . And then, finished or not finished, the 
 good woman will stay as she is. ... They will 
 say it is done by Rodin, especially if I break a 
 hand and if I smash her nose. ."
 
 140 To Arms! 
 
 "Don't do that, Alexandra !" 
 
 "It is to make you laugh. Laugh at once. . . . 
 Make a nice smile for monsieur. . . . Say that 
 if I am not able to concern myself with it, you 
 will go to the moulder. . . . You will superin- 
 tend the moulding finely. . . He knows you!" 
 
 "Alexandre." 
 
 "Wipe your little nose. . . . You can cry all 
 alone at home. . . That will keep my clay 
 from drying." 
 
 Simone stopped before Madame Anselme's 
 shop to buy the last edition of the papers, appear- 
 ing at six o'clock. 
 
 The stationer, a ripe Ceres in a garnet dress, 
 was sewing lace on the collar of a blouse. Her 
 face was fresh and tranquil. 
 
 "Since I have the pleasure of seeing you, 
 Madame Davesnes, I shall beg a favor from you. 
 ... I asked Marie Pourat to speak to you about 
 it, but that very reasonable woman is not like 
 herself any more, her brain has been so empty 
 since morning. ... It is about the little Teys- 
 sedre girls, the twins of a printer who lives in my
 
 To Arms! 141 
 
 house. ... A man who is everything that is 
 good. ... It is too bad that he may die with 
 consumption! ... A lady took the little ones 
 in her educational settlement, and they were going 
 the 4th of August near Pont-a-Mousson. . . . 
 Then the mother came to see me this morning to 
 say: 'I don't care to have the children go there. 
 ... It isn't a safe place. . . .' And why? On 
 account of the war. ... I argued with her a lit- 
 tle about it, this person, but they all have their 
 own ideas. Isn't it so"? Then at noon, I saw 
 Marie Pourat who said to me : 'Perhaps Madame 
 Davesnes can place the children. She knows la- 
 dies who are busy with this sort of thing.' ' 
 
 "I understand," said Simone, "that I am to 
 give you some information." 
 
 She remembered that a farmer of Plessis- 
 1'Etang had taken in a dozen little Parisians at 
 the expense of the "CEuvre des Colonies" 
 
 "It is not urgent, Madame. . . . Thank you. 
 All the same, as I said, the air of the Vosges is 
 better."
 
 142 To Arms! 
 
 Simone surveyed the peaceful paper seller, 
 among the journals which told of the worst fears. 
 
 "But, Madame Anselme, the Vosges is the fron- 
 tier." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "If the Germans cross it?" 
 
 Madame Anselme said gently: 
 
 "Don't believe what the papers say. Monsieur 
 Lepoultre has explained to me that it is all false 
 news and not later than two o'clock, I sold a box 
 of paper to another client who is in affairs, who 
 said to me : 'It is all little intrigues of the Jews.' 
 Madame, I sell papers, but I don't read them 
 any more. It makes my blood run cold, especially 
 because I am worried about my son and the ex- 
 amination he is to pass to-morrow : in philosophy. 
 Monsieur Brunschwig will examine him at the 
 Sorbonne. . . . Ah ! if my son succeeds as he de- 
 serves, I shall pay for a trip to Normandy as I 
 have reached my age without ever having seen the 
 ocean! . ."
 
 XI 
 
 THE street was almost deserted. Before the 
 Gouge grocery, the housekeepers no longer 
 stood in line and the boy placed as a sentinel be- 
 fore the vegetables and the boxes of fruit, stuck 
 his melancholy nose in I'Intransigeant. The flor- 
 ist, Mademoiselle Florence, who gossiping tongues 
 said had a liaison with a very rich young man, was 
 not seen on the threshold of her attractive shop, 
 surrounded by roses in pots and ferns like a Ma- 
 donna of May. Mademoiselle Florence was visi- 
 ble inside, where leaning on a counter, she wrote a 
 letter with ink quite diluted with tears, for this un- 
 virtuous creature had a sentimental little heart. 
 Since four o'clock, the manager of the Maggi 
 Dairy had closed her shop, because a stone had 
 grazed its blue painted front. The masons still 
 worked in the woodyard, but they did not whistle 
 now. 
 
 Meanwhile, some boys hopping on one foot, 
 143
 
 144 To Arms! 
 
 played hopscotch with pebbles, and three little 
 girls in black aprons, with red or green ribbon 
 belts designating the various classes of the pri- 
 mary school, jumped rope, singing. Two of them 
 held the ends of the rope which they turned grand- 
 ly, and their playmate, very serious, jumped in 
 one spot, feet together and arms stretched out. 
 Her little braid, plaited in one strand, hitting 
 against her apron, seemed to mark the time. 
 
 Madame Miton had cried since morning, in an 
 arm-chair. She roused herself to return to Si- 
 mone the catalogue of a large store which sold 
 "articles for travelling" at a bargain. The young 
 woman was moved by the sad face, that looked 
 discolored and almost parboiled from crying. 
 
 "Be brave, Madame Miton," she said. "Per- 
 haps something unexpected will happen to-mor- 
 row. ..." 
 
 "Oh ! Madame, even Monsieur Lepoultre hasn't 
 any more hope. He is very much depressed. And 
 his wife has gone to bed. . . . Monsieur Melinier 
 has just returned. His automobile is still in the 
 court. He said to me as he passed: 'They will
 
 To Arms! 145 
 
 mobilise to-morrow.' He knows many things. 
 Monsieur Melinier: he knows all the ministers. 
 . . . There must be a reason: we did not want 
 war; we have an easy conscience, as Monsieur 
 Lepoultre says, but we can't become Prussians. 
 France is France. Each one must do what he can. 
 . . . Only, it is hard, Madame, it is hard for the 
 mothers." 
 
 "It is hard for all the women." 
 
 "It is heart-rending. It isn't because we are 
 cowards, Madame Davesnes, but when we have 
 brought a child into the world and when we have 
 nourished it and when we have brought it up by 
 hard work just until it was a man, and when they 
 say to you: 'Now, give him so that he may be 
 killed, and you are perhaps to be all alone in your 
 old age, there is nothing left for you. . . .' It 
 is too much to bear. It is worse for you than to 
 die yourself. ... Ah! Blessed Saviour! If 
 there were women in the government, war would 
 be ended! It is the soldiers who make the bat- 
 tles, but it is the women who make the soldiers. 
 . . . Between you and me, we always think about
 
 146 To Arms! 
 
 saving our children. I cannot think that a Ger- 
 man mother has a different heart from mine! 
 There are not two ways of bringing a child into 
 the world, and not two ways for him to leave it, 
 and not two ways of suffering when we lose him. 
 Nature is everywhere the same. . . ." 
 
 The cry of distracted maternity, of naked and 
 savage instinct, resounded through Simone's 
 whole being. The old concierge with grey hair, 
 in the rooms furnished with mahogany, seemed 
 to her a symbolic figure of the Mater Dolorosa. 
 No doubt, at this moment, despatches running on 
 the telegraph wires, or sent on air waves, were 
 carrying the same news to France, Germany, and 
 Russia. Everywhere, the women who had not 
 wished to believe in the catastrophe so incompre- 
 hensible to their simple minds, were brutally 
 crushed before the reality. . . . Everywhere. 
 And the women of the Russian huts, primitive 
 souls who knew nothing of the universe, and the 
 prolific German women who lived in subjection 
 to men, and the French women passionately de- 
 voted to their sons, all, submitting to the law,
 
 To Arms! 147 
 
 faithful to their duty but equally tortured, ut- 
 tered the same cry, the unavailing cry of the moth- 
 ers which, from the time of Hecuba and Rachel, 
 resounds eternally from age to age. 
 
 Madame Miton wiped her eyes a long time. 
 She sighed as she listened to Simone's sympathetic 
 words, and to excuse herself, she stammered out: 
 
 "One loses one's head when one suffers! . . . 
 One says things, without thinking, because it is 
 a relief! . . . But, it is certain, Madame Daves- 
 nes, that we do not want to become Prussians." 
 
 Fighting against further tears, she recovered 
 her sense of professional duty. 
 
 "Ah ! Madame, you are so good, and you under- 
 stand so well how to cheer me that I could stay 
 here an hour talking to you ! And I forgot to tell 
 you that Monsieur Davesnes telephoned from the 
 factory. He asked if you had returned. I said 
 that you had not." 
 
 Simone ran to the telephone booth, a sort of 
 dark box which occupied an angle of the stair- 
 case, near the elevator. It took ten long minutes 
 to get the connection. From the factory, they
 
 148 To Arms! 
 
 replied that Monsieur Davesnes was in the work- 
 shop and that they would bring him. 
 
 The sound of the bell called Simone at last. 
 
 Francois spoke: 
 
 "It is you, my dear? I called you half an 
 hour ago. I wanted to know how the afternoon 
 had gone, and if you had read the evening pa- 
 per. . . ." 
 
 "I know the news." 
 
 "Germany is in a state of war." 
 
 "I know it. . . ." 
 
 "France will mobilise." 
 
 "And you, you, tell me, where are you going? 
 Do you know what will become of you? I 
 thought that you would remain there, that you 
 wanted to inform me. . . ." 
 
 "No, Simone, I don't know anything. . . . 
 The manager would like to have me stay . . 
 but there are too many here and in my case . . ." 
 
 "You prefer to go?" 
 
 "It is not a question of preference. . . . They 
 do not consult me, my dearie. That is set- 
 tled! . ."
 
 To Arms! 149 
 
 He found difficulty in speaking. His voice 
 which had been lowered so that he could not be 
 heard in neighboring offices, was weakened still 
 more by defective apparatus and she lost the force 
 and the resonance of a living voice. It seemed to 
 come from far away, from another world. In 
 the booth which was dark as a tomb, this feeling 
 of infinite distance and unreality completed Si- 
 mone's misery. It seemed to her that her husband 
 was leaving her, and each word of his beloved 
 voice, instead of making her strong, grieved her. 
 Deafened by the wild beating of her heart, she 
 almost cried out with distress. 
 
 Frangois questioned her: 
 
 "You are well? You have good courage?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I was uneasy about you and yet, Heaven 
 knows that I have been preoccupied enough to- 
 day in many ways !" 
 
 "My Frangois, you thought of me, in spite of 
 all." 
 
 "Does that surprise you, naughty child? . , , 
 I must say eood-bye. Some one wants me,"
 
 ISO To Arms! 
 
 The voice died away in the almost impercepti- 
 ble buzz of the vibrations, Simone hung up the 
 receiver. A distress which had taken hold of her 
 persisted and yet she was happy because her hus- 
 band, on a day like this, had retained his thought 
 for her, the same loving and protecting solicitude 
 with which he had watched over her for two 
 years. 
 
 Marie Pourat had set the table in the tiny din- 
 ing-room. 
 
 "Madame," she said, on seeing Simone, "I put 
 everything on the cloth, the dinner and the des- 
 sert. There are radishes, butter, a pate, cold 
 meat, vegetable salad and a cherry cream. I 
 should be glad if Madame would permit me not 
 to serve it this evening and allow me to go." 
 
 "Why, Marie?" 
 
 "My husband expects me." 
 
 "Ah! Yes!" said Simone. ... "I under- 
 stand. You may go." 
 
 The woman with thin arms and the ant's face 
 did not cry. An indomitable will animated her 
 wiry frame and her spirit was mastered to con-
 
 To Arms! 151 
 
 trol her grief. Marie Pourat was one of those 
 who know how to suffer hunger, cold, fatigue, soli- 
 tude, and deception ; who bear their children with- 
 out cries, bringing up their sons hardily, supplying 
 the place of the absent father and die painfully, 
 in silence. 
 
 So rough and large-hearted, she misunderstood 
 affected and delicate ladies, but she loved Simone, 
 and the extreme weariness of the young woman 
 made her sympathetic: 
 
 "If I could, I should stay. I am sorry to leave 
 Madame. Poor little thing. I shall wait until 
 Monsieur returns." 
 
 Simone refused. 
 
 "Go, Marie. This evening we need to be with 
 our families." 
 
 "Ah! Madame understands all! ... To-day, 
 they told me that Germany had mobilised. . . . 
 Then I went to the plumber's. ... It was a no- 
 tion I had. I wanted to see my husband. I 
 could not believe the truth until he told me with 
 his own mouth. . . . Madame Anselme, who was 
 so afraid, this morning, made fun of me. ... I
 
 152 To Arms! 
 
 let her talk. I went, I walked into the workshop. 
 ... Ah! What kind of a song do you think I 
 heard*? All the men who were there talked about 
 nothing but cannon and machine guns, and they 
 chattered about manoeuvres, and ranks and gen- 
 erals and aeroplanes! And one who had served 
 his term in the navy explained about submarines. 
 . . . Anthime saw me. He said to me: 'What 
 do you want? Is the grease on fire, or is Poincare 
 expecting me?' I didn't say anything. He looked 
 at me. . . . 'Go!' he said. 'This is no place for 
 you. Each one has his work. We don't want 
 whining women around! That upsets the men. 
 We are talking about the army. You wouldn't 
 understand.' I left. He ran after me and said 
 very gently : 'Cheer up, my Marie, and ask your 
 mistress to let you off. Keep the children with 
 you. I'll go home instead of going to the wine- 
 shop. I swear it. . . .' And then he said besides : 
 'Stop at the shoemaker's. . . .' It wasn't a joke. 
 He had ordered his army shoes! It is all just 
 like my Anthime, Madame !"
 
 To Arms! 153 
 
 She untied the strings of her apron and folded 
 it carefully. 
 
 "I paid the washerwoman's bill. She gave me 
 a new five-franc bill for change. The coarse salt 
 is almost out. I bought three kilos ahead. . . . 
 Until to-morrow, Madame! If Madame could 
 force herself to eat a little; this is not the time 
 to be sick. Women will have to work when the 
 men are gone. It is wrong to cry. That weak- 
 ens the nerves. We mustn't discourage the men. 
 They know very well that we are suffering! 
 They must revenge us on the Prussians !"
 
 XII 
 
 A FTER six o'clock the street belonged to the 
 * * children. 
 
 The agony which enfolded the city still spared 
 their buoyant spirits. No more concierges were 
 sitting on the door-steps of their houses as if they 
 were benevolent onlookers; no more tradesmen 
 too anxious to drive away wandering boys and 
 intrusive dogs by threats and invectives. A mys- 
 terious power divided the grown people from 
 the children who lived by themselves with their 
 little joys and little griefs. Free, the boys hop- 
 ping with one foot on the hop-scotch squares en- 
 larged their kingdom. They shoved their quoits of 
 round flint from house number 32 to the first 
 boxes of the Gouge grocery. Farther on, the lit- 
 tle girls turned their rope, singing. On one of the 
 benches of the circular Place in the distance, two 
 young people Daphnis and Chloe of the suburbs 
 
 154
 
 To Arms! 155 
 
 sat close together talking softly, a tableau of 
 the eternal idyll. 
 
 At half-past six the rascals gathered their 
 quoits and, for sport, hit the fence covered with 
 notices. The manifesto of the Socialist candidate 
 received the largest number of missiles, but that 
 of the Radical candidate, of which there were still 
 some scraps, served as a trophy for the assailants. 
 The discolored paper was torn away in tatters 
 and rolled into balls. These they threw into the 
 stone-cutter's yard, to excite the fury of the ma- 
 sons, a fury which the little brats waited for with 
 delicious terror. But the workmen were not an- 
 noyed. Dragging their shoes, white with plaster, 
 they emerged without noticing the hurried flight 
 and fear of the scattering gamins. They were 
 thoughtful and spoke seriously, and the strong 
 wine of the phrases of the demagogue did not 
 seem to mount to their brains any longer. 
 
 The oldest, son of one who had made the com- 
 mune (of 1871), told about the war, the siege, 
 the insurrection, Trochu, Thiers and the men of 
 Versailles, as seen by his childish eyes.
 
 156 To Arms! 
 
 He said : 
 
 "No, it's not the same time any more nor the 
 same thing. The Empire wanted the war, but 
 to-day, who wishes it"? ... Neither you nor I, 
 nor any of the French. . . . You speak of the 
 capitalists'? . . . They must ascertain if it is for 
 their interest, now. ... In Germany, yes, they 
 go with the militarist Prussians. They are re- 
 sponsible to the international proletariat. But in 
 France, this time, they were all agreed in wishing 
 to remain at peace. . . ." 
 
 "On the condition that they should not be wor- 
 ried every two or three years," said one of the 
 younger men. . . . 
 
 The man who had called for the intervention of 
 Jaures, in the morning, returned to his idea. He 
 still hoped that the voice of the great French 
 leader would find an echo in Berlin, and he im- 
 agined enormous meetings in the industrial towns 
 of Germany, the "Social Democrats" uniting all 
 the pacific forces of labor against military force. 
 He saw the chiefs of the German Socialist party 
 braving imprisonment to affirm their fidelity to its
 
 To Arms! 157 
 
 principles; Liebknecht and Rosa Luxembourg, on 
 the other side of the frontier, extending their fra- 
 ternal hands to Jean Jaures. Also, the German 
 people rising in revolt and the Hohenzollern 
 dynasty falling in the terrible onset of revolu- 
 tion, like the Bourbons in France in 1792. 
 
 These dreams, rambling in nothingness, did 
 not hold the attention of the workmen any more. 
 They were not certain that the German comrades 
 had said their last word; they expected some- 
 thing more from them : a manifestation, a decisive 
 step. . . . Perhaps they were not all "Judases 
 and unclean toad-eaters. . . ." Perhaps also 
 they were not free to talk and act ! But, already, 
 the French no longer counted on their fraternal 
 support, for before being proletarian, before be- 
 ing Socialists, these people were Germans and 
 gloried in being so. ... 
 
 "And we're, first of all, French." 
 
 That was all simple. Each one resumed his 
 place in order. 
 
 There was no more discussion or disagreement 
 possible. The Germans, here; the French, there.
 
 158 To Arms! 
 
 And then, they demanded why the government 
 allowed William leisure to prepare his army. . . . 
 State of war, call of reservists, requisitions, forti- 
 fying of places, routes to the frontier barred, that 
 was mobilisation, that thing with the difficult 
 name Kriegeszustand that the evening jour- 
 nals announced. . . . 
 
 "No," said the old man, "that is not exactly 
 mobilisation. . . ." 
 
 The others protested. They were not blind nor 
 idiotic. ... In the government's place, they 
 would have mobilised that very day. . . . 
 
 "Patience!" repeated the old workman. . . . 
 "Patience! ... It will be to-morrow or day 
 after to-morrow, the great departure. . . . You 
 are in a great hurry! . . . War is not yet de- 
 clared. . . ." 
 
 "What must happen to make you believe it*? 
 The Uhlans at Luneville?" 
 
 "A Zeppelin over Paris?" 
 
 The group in blouses and workingmen's coats, 
 the color of blue sandstone and cement, divided 
 on the corner of the Place. Then the little girls
 
 To Arms! 159 
 
 became mistresses of the street, and they in- 
 stalled themselves in the middle of the roadway, 
 those who turned the rope and those who jumped, 
 intent and breathless. All three sang the lines 
 which accompany, according to rite, the swinging 
 and retarding of the rope. There was a singular 
 sadness in the contrast between the shrill voices 
 and the solemn and drawling song: 
 
 Ah! la salade! 
 Quand elle poussera, 
 On la cueillera 
 On la manger a! 
 
 In one of the small houses a window opened. 
 An old woman in a cap leaned out : 
 
 "Be quiet, children! This is no time to sing 
 . . . and you, Lucie, come up! The soup is 
 ready." 
 
 Lucie dropped the red wooden handle of the 
 rope she was holding and began to run, clapping 
 her hands for the sole joy of exercising her slim 
 body and making a noise. 
 
 She cried:
 
 160 To Arms! 
 
 "Yes, Grandmother! . . . Yes, Grandmoth- 
 
 er!" 
 
 The two other children, vexed, watched their 
 companion as she ran . . . Regretfully, they 
 rolled the rope as they walked, very well behaved, 
 very much alike in spite of their unequal height, 
 with their braids which hung on their narrow 
 shoulders, their school-girl aprons and their legs 
 in black stockings. A porter passed them. Ma- 
 dame Moriceau, returning from church, smiled 
 at them. A flower-seller, carrying a basket con- 
 taining full-blown fading roses, went the length 
 of the street, seeking a last customer. Then a 
 bell rang. The birds called to each other in the 
 thick dark branches. And the little street passed 
 into twilight. 
 
 Now, the fires were lighted in the houses foi 
 family dinner, as they had been lighted in the 
 morning, for the first meal. The people returned, 
 in an opposite direction, by the same route which 
 they had taken with different thoughts, and one 
 by one, Madame Miton saw the Abbe Moriceau,
 
 To Arms! 161 
 
 and Monsieur Lepoultre and Alexandre Frechette 
 and his friend come back. The shops closed one 
 after another. The men had finished their usual 
 work; the women had completed their household 
 and maternal tasks ; the children had played ; and 
 this Friday which ended in a gloomy twilight had 
 been for the little street and its inhabitants a 
 day almost like other days in appearance. Pro- 
 logue to a great drama, it still left to separate 
 lives, a rhythm that was scarcely changed. Each 
 of these interminable hours had increased the 
 anxious emotions in all spirits, the emotion which 
 Simone Davesnes had seen 'in the solemn silence 
 and the stupor of the afternoon and which was 
 expressed afterwards in discreet words and tears. 
 But it was only emotion, passive and sorrowful, 
 because it was still mixed with uncertainty, and 
 which, in the face of the accomplished fact, would 
 change its nature and pass into action. 
 
 As on other evenings, Simone waited for Fran- 
 gois in the grey wood salon where the presence 
 that she loved was always before her eyes. If the 
 room, like delicate porcelain, spoke entirely of
 
 162 To Arms! 
 
 Simone, the salon, transformed into a working 
 den, represented Frangois. Feminine care was re- 
 vealed in it in certain details; a bouquet in a 
 grey-blue vase, a square of damask on a round 
 table, a large shade of tea-rose silk veiled with 
 lace and the little round arm-chair, with its tapes- 
 try of ribbons and embroidered flowers, near a 
 work-box of mahogany. But the feminine ele- 
 ment was secondary. It all revealed, primarily, 
 the character, the thoughts and the work of the 
 man. 
 
 Two open bookcases flanked the mantelpiece 
 which had for its sole ornaments a beautiful cast 
 of Colleone and old Dutch candelabra. A mas- 
 sive pier-table between the windows held piles of 
 magazines, some books and some ancient weapons. 
 A writing table loaded with papers and pam- 
 phlets, occupied the centre of the room. Near the 
 little electric lamp shaded with green silk, there 
 was a small reproduction of the Pompeian Vic- 
 tory. Frangois loved this statuette, upright on 
 the globe which it touched with one foot, and 
 slender, with its robe spread out like a green
 
 To Arms! 163 
 
 bronze sail. Divine butterfly of the Greek world, 
 Psyche of battles ! It reminded him of the lovely 
 aeroplanes which would perhaps depart with her 
 some day, in the invisible wake of her flight. 
 
 On the wall there were no affected little pic- 
 tures; but engravings of the l8th century, two 
 beautiful photographs representing The Marseil- 
 laise on the Barricades, by Delacroix and Saint 
 Genevieve Watching Over Paris> by Puvis de 
 Chavannes. Finally, in the place of honor, were 
 portraits of the great-grandparents of Davesnes, 
 conscientious but mediocre pastels which must 
 have been very good likenesses. Major Davesnes, 
 a retired officer, still young, wearing in the but- 
 tonhole of his frock coat the rosette of the Legion 
 of Honor, had all the features of Frangois, but 
 more of roughness and melancholy. Theresine 
 Davesnes, his wife, twenty-eight years old, was 
 blonde, quite pretty, wearing a white dress, a red 
 fichu and a cap with barbes of Alengon lace. 
 These two honest faces, which the artist had made 
 slightly formal and dignified, gave to the Parisian 
 apartment, an old-time fragrance of the country.
 
 1 64 To Arms! 
 
 Underneath, yellowing photographs and minia- 
 tures framed in black wood formed a little mu- 
 seum of souvenirs where the parents of Simone 
 and of Frangois fraternised. And on the pier- 
 table, and the round table, were other inscribed 
 likenesses, comrades of Frangois, and Simone's 
 father Captain Bouvet in his Colonial uni- 
 form. Francois Davesnes's study would have 
 seemed modest and almost poor, compared to the 
 Raynauds' luxurious quarters, but its simplicity 
 was not without elegance and nothing seemed ar- 
 tificial. Everything was solid and real, and was 
 all in accordance with the real taste of those who 
 lived there and not in a style dictated by fashion. 
 Everything was pleasing through a sort of in- 
 trepid honesty which made no pretence of daz- 
 zling any one and which was like Frangois in his 
 ideas and acts, making a material frame for his 
 daily life. This eager and serious man, an ex- 
 treme realist in the best sense of the word, had 
 never been duped by glittering show and he was 
 irritated by all that seemed bluff, pretension, dis- 
 simulation and falsehood. Frangois Davesnes
 
 To Arms! 165 
 
 never gave big names to little things. No man 
 cared more than he for the esteem of his friends, 
 no one less for the admiration of the world in gen- 
 eral. The guiding rules of his life were simple: 
 to be himself, to know what he ought to do, to 
 will with an untiring energy and to enrich the 
 humblest work with a desire for perfection which 
 gives it beauty. This was the man in his so- 
 cial and moral life, in his sentiments and affec- 
 tions. This is what he was in his love. The wom- 
 an whom he had chosen could see into the depths 
 of his eyes as into the depths of his thoughts; 
 all was clear and pure there. She could lean on 
 an arm that never tired, and sleep in peace on a 
 heart faithful to its last throb. 
 
 Simone relived the evenings she had passed in 
 this same room, under the lamp, when she never 
 wearied of questioning Francois about every kind 
 of thing, and listening with the nai've attention of 
 a woman in love who longs to absorb the soul of 
 her lover and not to think of anything that does 
 not concern him. Truly he had been her teacher
 
 166 To Arms! 
 
 and inspirer. He had enlarged her intellectual hori- 
 zon and stimulated in her the noble curiosity which 
 so many gracious feminine spirits lack; he had 
 shared his thoughts and his projects with her; 
 he had saved her from the routine and the apathy 
 which sometimes blight the happiness of mar- 
 riage. 
 
 She said to herself: 
 
 "Since I owe everything to him, since I am his 
 work, and as God himself desired it, the bone of 
 his bone, and the flesh of his flesh, he must recog- 
 nize his most profound thoughts in me, his living 
 conscience; his soul must feel before mine as be- 
 fore a mirror; my courage must equal his and he 
 must feel that I am one with him, as I have never 
 been, even in the moment which separates us." 
 
 She said this to herself, in order not to be un- 
 expectedly overwhelmed by her weakness; and, 
 alone in the salon where the night was gathering 
 about her, she forced herself to imagine, to accept 
 the terrible anguish. But she wrung her hands 
 as they lay upon her knee, and at times a dull 
 cry rose to her lips.
 
 XIII 
 
 clock struck half-past eight. The win- 
 dows were no more than bluish rectangles in 
 the misty darkness where the furniture was dimly 
 outlined. Simone, exhausted, stretched herself out 
 on a sofa covered with yellow velvet, which occu- 
 pied the largest panel of the salon. Lost among 
 the cushions, she cried a long time, and ended by 
 falling asleep, her cheek on her little wet hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 An indefinable sensation slowly mingled with 
 the torpor of sleep. Something very sweet, 
 which Simone did not experience by material con- 
 tact, passed over her, lighter than the gentlest 
 kiss, more distant than an impalpable caress, 
 something as vague as a thought of love become 
 perceptible to the senses. The young woman 
 turned her head; her lips parted, and, through 
 her opening eyelids she saw, she divined rather, 
 
 that FranQois was sitting close to her. 
 
 167
 
 168 Jo Arms! 
 
 She whispered: 
 
 "Oh ! you were here ! . . . You have been here 
 a long time ! . . . I think that I have been asleep. 
 ... It is not my fault. ... I was tired. . . . 
 It was so sad, so sad to wait for you. . . . Why 
 didn't you waken me at once*? . . ." 
 
 "I was watching you, dearest." 
 
 "I felt your eyes plainly." 
 
 She raised herself and threw her arms around 
 his neck: 
 
 "You are here! . . . You are here! . . ." 
 
 She repeated these words, as if to persuade her- 
 self that she was not asleep, that she was not 
 dreaming, that her arms were around the one she 
 loved, clinging to him and kissing him with all 
 her might: 
 
 "You were here!" 
 
 "My Simone ! You can touch me and cling to 
 me! ... I am here, living and loving. -. . . 
 But what is the matter?" 
 
 With a smile which she forced to seem gay, 
 she said, as she sometimes did, in their loving dia- 
 logues, jokingly:
 
 To Arms! 169 
 
 "The matter is that I have you." 
 
 He put his arms around her and kissed her. 
 Then, she feared that she was about to cry again, 
 but she controlled herself. 
 
 "I came in without noise a short time ago. You 
 were resting, stretched out, and I could hardly 
 see you because of the cushions. What a little, 
 little thing you were! I touched your cheek; I 
 found your handkerchief, still wet, and I under- 
 stood that you had not been a very reasonable 
 woman. . . . But there was no way that I could 
 be angry, was there? . . . Well, I sat down by 
 your side. I watched for you to waken while I 
 gazed at you, thinking about ourselves, about our 
 love, of the happiness you have given me. . . . 
 You slept. You did not see me. ... It was 
 sweet." 
 
 Their lips met. Simone thought: 
 
 "He, too, he is agitated. He too has had his 
 moment of weakness, when I couldn't see 
 him. . . ." 
 
 She realised suddenly that it was after nine 
 o'clock.
 
 170 To Arms! 
 
 "You poor dear, you must be dying with hun- 
 ger, and I have such a light dinner to offer you! 
 Marie left me to be with her Anthime. . . . We 
 must serve ourselves. To the war in war fash- 
 ion! . . ." 
 
 "It is surely the time to say so." 
 
 She rose, dizzy from poor sleep. Her white 
 waist was rumpled. With an uncertain move- 
 ment, she fastened the shell pins in the silken dis- 
 order of her hair. 
 
 FranQois preceded her and lighted the hanging 
 lamp in the dining-room. The orange silk of the 
 centre globe, suspended by a chain, coloured the 
 light underneath. On the table the cold repast 
 was ready. The couple sat opposite facing one 
 another, and Simone began to rehearse her visit 
 to the Raynauds and her return by the Boulevards 
 with Bertrand de Gardave. 
 
 "It is curious !" said Frangois, "the news which 
 has excited Paris, in the way you have told me, 
 has left us quite calm. However, we understand 
 its seriousness ; but each one thinks of his task and 
 works furiously over it. ... The atmosphere o/
 
 To Arms! 171 
 
 the factory was already like barracks oran arsenal, 
 and even the relation between engineers and 
 workers had changed its character. There was 
 more tacit cordiality and more discipline. This 
 difference, noticeable yesterday, was marked to- 
 day. . . . But what is the matter, Simone; you 
 are not eating anything*?" 
 
 He ate, without apology, for he had the tem- 
 perament of men who keep, in difficult hours, the 
 equilibrium of all their functions and faculties. 
 He was one of those men who are able, at will, 
 to go without sleep or nourishment and continue 
 their work, but who dine with appetite in bom- 
 barded houses, and sleep peacefully, wrapped in 
 their coats or on the bare earth, while the bullets 
 whistle around them. 
 
 "How ill you look, Simone ! . . . Are you suf- 
 fering? ... Ah! little heart, too tender, little 
 head, terrified by a word! How much reason I 
 have to be angry with you, to-day! Come, Si- 
 mone, cheer up! Don't think of calamities that 
 are the secret of the future. The present hour is 
 ours; it is solemn and beautiful. Let us live it
 
 172 To Arms! 
 
 fully. I have worked hard and my work, in its 
 modest way, has been of service to the country. 
 I have seen brave men, ready to do their duty. I 
 have not heard a discordant word. I believe that 
 all of our people are courageous and ready on the 
 eve of war. . . . And here I am again for a night 
 at home, with you. Why should I be sad"? I am 
 not. I feel a strange sort of happiness, without 
 joy, and without gaiety, but profound, intense, 
 like an extension of life. . . ." 
 
 Simone responded: 
 
 "It is a man's feeling, Frangois. I do not ex- 
 perience it. It is with difficulty that I am able to 
 understand it. This word: War! has not the 
 same meaning in our minds and you do not want 
 me to tremble when I hear it. The essential thing 
 is that you do not tremble." 
 
 "You need not be afraid about that. I am re- 
 liable as far as that goes," he said, smiling. 
 
 She was hurt because he smiled. And why? 
 When she forced herself to comprehend his feel- 
 ing of happiness which he admitted, boldly, did
 
 To Arms! 173 
 
 he not understand her grief and her impotence 
 as a woman? 
 
 But she recalled suddenly that he had passed 
 a long moment watching her, sleeping, and that 
 he had waited, all alone, in the twilight . . . and 
 she was consoled. 
 
 He left the dining-room, because an unex- 
 pected visitor rang the bell. It was Maxime Ray- 
 naud. 
 
 He excused himself for arriving in this way. 
 
 "I am bringing pieces of news, one of which 
 will surprise you, at least," he said, as he entered 
 the salon where Simone was lighting the lamps. 
 "First, Nicolette received, about seven o'clock, a 
 despatch from Jean, sent on his journey. My 
 brother will be in Paris to-morrow. Nicolette 
 asks you both to dine with her en famille. She 
 has invited the Gardaves too. It will perhaps 
 be our last reunion, in 1914." 
 
 Frangois accepted : 
 
 "I should be free to-morrow afternoon, since 
 we have an 'English week,' with a holiday on 
 Saturday, but doubtless I shall be obliged to re-
 
 174 To Arms! 
 
 turn to the factory during the day. In any case, 
 count on us for dinner. I shall be delighted to 
 see your parents again and to take the hand of 
 my old friend. Now, sit down and tell us the 
 rest." 
 
 Maxime wiped his forehead, moist with per- 
 spiration. 
 
 "My friend, a frightful thing has just hap- 
 pened. . . . Jaures has been assassinated." 
 
 "Jaures ?' 
 
 "Scarcely an hour ago." 
 
 "Are you sure that it is not a false rumor*? 
 Day before yesterday it was announced in Paris 
 that Caillaux was assassinated ! . . ." 
 
 The scepticism of Francois irritated Maxime. 
 
 "I tell you that Jaures has been assassinated, 
 this evening, in a cafe of the Rue du Croissant. 
 ... I heard it from people who came to the 
 Boulevard Montmartre. They gave the details: 
 Jaures was sitting in the cafe, with his back to 
 the window, which some one had left open be* 
 cause of the heat. He had around him his 
 friends, editors of I'Humanite. The murderer ap-
 
 To Arms! 175 
 
 preached the window and he was ab'le to push 
 aside a little blind and to fire, point-blank, two 
 shots of his revolver. Jaures received two bul- 
 lets in the neck. Ten minutes later he was dead. 
 . . . This is what the conversations of passers-by 
 have told me, brutally. I wanted to run to the 
 bureau of I'Humanite to get precise information, 
 but I preferred to come here first because I had ' 
 promised Nicolette. It is already very late. 
 After ten o'clock. You will excuse me?" 
 
 "I thank you for coming, Maxime, and I share 
 your emotion. I know how you loved Jaures. 
 . . . But what was the cause of this stupid and 
 atrocious crime? . . . What do you think? . . . 
 What do you suspect? . . . Has the assassin 
 been arrested? . . ." 
 
 "They have locked him up. The crowd threw 
 itself upon him. ... I do not know any more. 
 ... I am cruelly affected by this death, my dear 
 Francois, and my mind is filled with grief. . . . 
 Whether the criminal is a political enemy or a 
 madman makes little difference at this moment! 
 To-morrow the inquest will inform us. This
 
 176 To Arms! 
 
 evening my thoughts are filled with him who 
 formerly honored me with his friendship, 
 whose noble heart no longer beats, whose great 
 voice is gone. Even his adversaries, who esteemed 
 him as they opposed him, weep with us. What 
 sorrow for his friends ! What a loss for France ! 
 He hated war; he had done everything to divert 
 or retard it, even at price of severe personal loss 
 and abominable calumnies. People did not al- 
 ways understand his intentions. He himself was 
 sometimes mistaken through excess of generosity. 
 But at this moment I know he accepted, as we 
 do, the terrible necessity of defence by arms. This 
 pacific man would have been to-morrow a mar- 
 vellous influence, the living clarion of the nation. 
 He is dead. Who will replace him'?" 
 
 Maxime Raynaud had spoken these words with 
 such vehemence that his emotion affected Simone 
 and Frangois. All three remained speechless an 
 instant, filled with horror, as if they had seen be- 
 fore them the great tribune all bleeding, the first 
 victim fallen on the threshold of the war. 
 
 But while the woman was moved to pity over
 
 To Arms! 177 
 
 a noble life cut short, and Maxime pictured the 
 robust and heavy man, with strong hands, with 
 such young blue eyes set in a heavy face, Frangois 
 no longer saw the powerful individuality of the 
 dead man. Jaures, the assassination of Jaures, 
 the personality of the murderer, the motives, the 
 circumstances, the effect of the crime he consid- 
 ered them simply as a preliminary episode to the 
 drama which had for actors not only men, nor 
 even great men, but nations. 
 
 He asked, as if speaking to himself: 
 "The causes'? It is impossible to determine 
 them. . . . What political enemy had Jaures, 
 unless he were mad, who would have dared to 
 commit this act, useless to his party, odious to 
 all the world and calculated to serve the German 
 interests by provoking more strife among the 
 French*? . . The more I reflect, the more I am 
 persuaded that it is the act of an isolated mad- 
 man, or perhaps . . . Find out who could profit 
 by the crime! . . . But we lack the necessary 
 facts to judge. We must wait for the inquest." 
 "Certainly," said Maxime. "We have lived
 
 178 To Arms! 
 
 for several days in a state of nervous tension that 
 the mentally unbalanced could not endure with- 
 out accident. 
 
 Simone feared the passions of the mob, riots, , 
 or some kind of revolution. Frangois protested 
 that he had confidence in the underlying good 
 sense of the people. 
 
 "See!" he said. "Wasn't Paris seething day 
 before yesterday? The people were rioting on the 
 Boulevard. The Royalists and the Syndicalists 
 insulted each other like the warriors of Homer be- 
 fore coming to blows. In forty-eight hours quiet 
 has come. Who thinks about the Caillaux affair? 
 The French, instead of being hypnotised by the 
 Palais de Justice and the Palais-Bourbon, turn 
 their eyes towards the east. There are no more 
 Royalists or Syndicalists; there are only French 
 soldiers. Instead of abusing each other, the par- 
 ties will become reconciled over the coffin of 
 Jaures." 
 
 "It will be the last service he will render to 
 the country," said Maxime. 
 
 "And the greatest."
 
 To Arms! i?9 
 
 "He would have done much more. He could 
 have spoken to the heart of France and the na- 
 tion would have followed him wholly." 
 
 "France should not follow any one. She will 
 go where it is her duty to go and with no other 
 leader but the Commander-in-Chief. The poli- 
 ticians have gabbled enough. When our diplo- 
 mats have had their final conversation the can- 
 non will be the orator, the fine '75; a friend of 
 mine whose acquaintance I shall be charmed to 
 renew." 
 
 The Doctor tried to prove that the politicians 
 were a torment, but that one could not get along 
 without them. He recalled the Convention and 
 the representatives of the people in the armies. 
 In his heart, he had remnants of prejudices which 
 made him fear the predominance of the military 
 men, as the military men dreaded the predomi- 
 nance of lawyers and professors. And that made 
 Frangois smile. 
 
 "My friend," he said, "we sha'n't quarrel as 
 we did during the elections in May when I ar- 
 gued against you for the three years' law. My
 
 i8o To Arms! 
 
 military profession makes it necessary for me to 
 keep aloof from politics, but I have my own opin- 
 ions as well as you. . . . You have thought 
 sometimes that I was a reactionary, while certain 
 of my comrades have reproached me because I 
 had 'advanced' ideas. The truth is that I am 
 equally indifferent to the church and to Social- 
 ism, as impartial as possible, a friend of law and 
 order, tolerant by nature and if one may asso- 
 ciate the words : passionately moderate. But first 
 of all I am French, and in front of the enemy 
 every man of my race who goes to fight with me 
 is my brother, and I do not ask how he has voted, 
 whether he received the sacrament at Easter, 
 whether he is affiliated with a red syndicate or 
 if he aspires to restore the monarchy. Let us 
 unite to stop the Germans on our frontiers and 
 re-establish peace in Europe. Let us keep them 
 from burning our ancestral home, and later, the 
 fire extinguished, we can talk about the way of 
 regulating it all. . . . It would be easy, perhaps, 
 this evening, to find disagreeable truths to tell 
 about such and such friends of yours, to prove
 
 To Arms! 181 
 
 the insufficiency of our military preparations and 
 to accuse the men responsible for it. It is neither 
 my role nor my desire. Events will prove 
 whether certain criticisms were well founded, and 
 I hope that the lessons of experience will be im- 
 mediately useful. But first, let us unite in a 
 general right desire to do, each one, without vain 
 words, his particular task. To-morrow, you will 
 wear the uniform of Assistant-Surgeon and I shall 
 become Lieutenant Davesnes again. Around us 
 will be the cultivated and ignorant, infidels and 
 bigots, scholars, artists and even members of par- 
 liament. In fighting side by side, we shall learn 
 to know each other, which will help us to under- 
 stand each other, and this will not be the smallest 
 benefit of the war which the arming of the nation 
 is preparing for the future, a united nation." 
 
 "I agree with you," said Maxime, "and Simone 
 will bear witness that I expressed to-day, to my 
 sister-in-law, a feeling similar to yours. And 
 young Gardave himself, if he had been there, 
 would not have contradicted anything, wholly 
 Catholic and Royalist as he is. ... We feel al-
 
 1 82 To Arms! 
 
 ready throughout the country the fraternity of 
 the race. This is what will surprise and deceive 
 the Germans." 
 
 "They have made an error in psychology and 
 it will not be the last. They are all ready to 
 find bad conditions in Paris; in French literature, 
 improper books; in the French woman, the little 
 cocotte of the comic papers ; in the French family, 
 the only son, corrupt from early debauches, alco- 
 holic and tuberculous; in the French army, the 
 anti-militarists." 
 
 "And yet," said Maxime, "in spite of our 
 grudges, we have loyally tried to understand 
 Germany. We have welcomed Wagner in our 
 theatres in spite of the claque, and inferior Mu- 
 nich painters have taken a place in our salons 
 disproportionate to their merit. Also German 
 methods at the Sorbonne. . . . We have been 
 poisoned by Teutonism, as a compensation for 
 that which you call 'our effort loyally to under- 
 stand Germany.' It seems as if the humiliations 
 we have undergone had forced a commonplace, 
 inelegant feeling, reserved for simpletons who
 
 To Arms! 183 
 
 joke on the old themes of beer and sourkrout! 
 . . . But intellectual France, weary of hatred, 
 went to the school of the conquerors. What good 
 did it do them*? . . . Our admiration appeared 
 to them a sign of our weakness which recognised 
 their superiority. In the main, we have nothing 
 but avowed or secret detractors in all Germany, 
 while Germany has with us some detractors, no 
 friends, but many admirers. 
 
 "The Germans do not make fine distinctions. 
 They are not able to understand us, even those 
 who want to love us. There are only a few, but 
 there are some. I have met them. Their praise 
 rings false and also their assurances of affection, 
 and their finest sentiments end in clumsiness. I 
 remember an excellent man, with whom I spent 
 several months in Bavaria while I was studying 
 German. Because of friendship for me, he tried 
 to find something to praise in my degenerate 
 country, and he always came around to our wines, 
 our comediennes and our dressmakers. I cited, in 
 vain, certain phrases of Goethe, who admired and 
 loved the France of the Revolution. Such de-
 
 184 To Arms! 
 
 pravity in a great genius upset him. He did not 
 dwell on this subject but began talking of the 
 Moulin-Rouge. Poor Monsieur Hermann! I 
 cannot despise his memory, for he was not bad. 
 He had some traits of the 'old Germany' that 
 has disappeared. Peace to his ashes! Since his 
 death, at various intervals, I have seen his three 
 sons. The oldest is an engineer in Frankfort, the 
 second in business in Berlin and the youngest, 
 professor at Bonn. They are modern Germans. 
 They dream only of material power, riches and 
 domination. They despise everything that is not 
 German. I felt in them this strange mysticism, 
 this worship of force, almost lyric in its expres- 
 sion, which has become a mental disease, the meg- 
 alomania which has seized all the race." 
 
 Francois had .risen. He walked the length of 
 the room to quiet his excitement, and suddenly he 
 exclaimed joyously: 
 
 "They are more numerous than we and more 
 formidable, but perhaps less formidable than they 
 think. Their pride contains the germ of their 
 deception. There is a flaw in their steel. They
 
 To Arms! 185 
 
 do not know with what vigor we shall all arise 
 against them. Ah! Maxime, what a noble and 
 beautiful war this will be ! Hurrah for the days 
 that are coming, hurrah for the fight, the test and 
 victory; putting one's foot on a fallen enemy, 
 what Is death in the face of such an opportunity? 
 Our children will envy us!" 
 
 He stopped in the luminous circle made by the 
 lamp and Simone noticed his extraordinary re- 
 semblance to the portrait of his great-grandfather. 
 The highest emotion that could move a man in all 
 the fibres of his being, made the essential charac- 
 teristics of his race apparent in his expression, and 
 brought to his spirit the hereditary instinct of his 
 fighting ancestors. He did not look at his wife; 
 he spoke spontaneously to his friend, because he 
 was a citizen and a soldier, like himself, and for 
 both of them the words had the same meaning. 
 But Simone was won by the enthusiasm that 
 Frangois usually so reticent and sparing in his 
 words and gestures irradiated from his whole 
 person, as a hearth irradiates light and heat. And 
 she thought of the other Davesnes, soldier of the
 
 i86 To Arms! 
 
 Republic and of the Empire, who, in a frame of 
 dull gold, contemplated his great-grandson. She 
 saw him as he had been revealed in naive me- 
 moirs, kept in the family. He had not received 
 the scientific education which had formed the 
 mind of Francois ; he had been a man of his time, 
 a "patriotic and sensible soldier," brought up on 
 Plutarch and Rousseau. Son of a farmer of Sen- 
 lis, instructed more or less by a cure, his god- 
 father, he had secretly read Le Contrat social and 
 Helo'ise. Burning with a great desire to liberate 
 the people and overthrow tyrants, he was enrolled 
 in 1792 at the call of an imperilled country. No 
 doubt, on the eve of his departure for Argonne, 
 where he was to rejoin the army of Dumouriez, 
 the little sixteen-year-old soldier must have lived 
 through hours analogous to those in which his 
 descendant was living and his proud young face 
 must have glowed with the same flame that 
 burned in the eyes of Francois. Then, as to-day, 
 after an interval of more than a century, the 
 people of Paris thought that they heard the Ger- 
 manic hordes marching in the Rhine valley; then,
 
 To Arms! 187 
 
 as to-day, there was among the people a Davesnes 
 ready to give his blood to France and for the 
 ideal she represents in the universe. 
 
 The black eyes of the portrait seemed to watch 
 every movement of Simone and to read in her 
 mind the thoughts still sad and troubled which 
 she had known how to hide from Francois. For- 
 gotten by the two men who were imagining com- 
 ing battles, the woman felt a mysterious encour- 
 agement in that gaze from out of the past. The 
 look said : "Our wives do not cry when they fas- 
 ten the tri-colored cockade to our hats. The 
 tears of a beloved one are heavier and tire us 
 more than the knapsack and gun. Victory loves 
 those who follow her with a light step. Be brave ! 
 Do not cry." 
 
 And Simone, pressing her heart with both 
 hands, heard in the shadow.
 
 XIV 
 
 THE first day of August dawns, scorching 
 and cloudy, on a Europe in arms. 
 And it is morning again in the little street, a 
 morning which already was not like any in the 
 past. The same light, the same bird-notes, the 
 same familiar sounds, the saw in the stone-cut- 
 ter's yard, passing carts, the cries of the vegetable 
 sellers and the flic-flac of water on the pavements. 
 . . . Meanwhile, in the midst of these noises is 
 perceptible, at intervals, a strange silence. . . . 
 No one speaks; no one smiles. Housewives are 
 absorbed in restless waiting; the masons do not 
 comment out loud on the appeal of Viviani to the 
 Parisian people, which has just been posted. . . . 
 
 Citizens, an abominable crime has just been 
 committed. . . . 
 
 The president of the Council announces the as- 
 sassination of Jaures. He honors him who, in 
 
 188
 
 To Arms! 189 
 
 trying days, "upheld with his authority the action 
 of the government, in the interest of peace." He 
 asks for the patriotism of the working classes and 
 that all the population should "maintain quiet 
 and not bring disorder into the capital by inop- 
 portune agitation." 
 
 The passers-by read without saying a word. 
 Some smile sardonically and emphasize this 
 phrase: "The assassin is arrested. He will be 
 funished." Has the recent trial shaken their con- 
 fidence in the just severity of the courts? . . . 
 But the exhortation to be quiet seems useless. . . . 
 Who thinks of fomenting any disturbance in 
 Paris, on this day when the first reservists called 
 are leaving their families'? 
 
 They know of some, in the district, who have 
 received their summons and directions and even 
 in the little street itself, there are Gustave Mi- 
 ton, and Auguste, the boy at the Gouge grocery. 
 The first went entirely alone, swaggering, having 
 refused the company of his mother and his fian- 
 cee. The other, without any family in Paris, re- 
 ceived a bag of linen and provisions from Ma-
 
 190 To Arms! 
 
 dame Gouge. He wanted to kiss all the women 
 present when he left and promise them "Wil- 
 liam's moustache." 
 
 Madame Anselme's shop is open. Meanwhile 
 an accommodating neighbor has taken the place 
 of the beautiful stationer at the counter. She 
 confides to Marie Pourat that the proprietress is 
 very ill. . . . Last evening when Monsieur 
 Pierre told her about the assassination of Jaures 
 she had had a kind of dizziness in her head, and 
 now she is in bed. Monsieur Pierre could not 
 take care of her on account of his examination. 
 The neighbors offered to help. 
 
 "Of course we must help, in times like these ! 
 Poor dear woman ! It is apoplexy." 
 
 "Give her a mustard poultice," advises Marie 
 Pourat. 
 
 "Monsieur Pierre went to the doctor's house." 
 
 "The main thing is for her not to know the 
 news, poor dear woman!" 
 
 The news! Brought by the papers, it goes 
 from mouth to mouth. It causes words between 
 Monsieur Lepoultre and Monsieur Delmotte, one
 
 To Arms! 191 
 
 holding the murderer of Jaures to be mad, the 
 other for an agent of Germany. It makes sweet 
 Madame Moriceau and Alexandre Frechette's 
 young friend cry. It upsets Simone Davesnes, 
 dressing in her blue room. . . . 
 
 For it is known now that Germany ever since 
 the 25th of July has been arming her Western 
 fortresses and concentrating her troops on our 
 frontiers. It is known that French locomotives 
 are being kept in Lorraine; that communications 
 are interrupted; that Austria-Hungary has de- 
 creed general mobilisation, and that Belgium, 
 fearing for her safety, calls all of her reserves 
 to arms. It is also known that an ultimatum has 
 come addressed by Germany to Russia and 
 France. . . . 
 
 This does not prevent the diplomats from par- 
 leying, and Herr von Schoen 1 pronounces the 
 conversations reassuring. He declares that the 
 public is wrong in being alarmed, "because of 
 simple preventive measures which will not cause 
 any aggravation of the international situation." 
 
 *von Schoen was the German ambassador at Paris.
 
 192 To Arms! 
 
 One knows all that and one waits. . . . 
 
 Simone Davesnes, when she went out at about 
 eleven o'clock found no traces of the gaiety still 
 persisting in the city the preceding morning. The 
 clouds, still low and greyish white, dimmed the 
 light and spread over Paris a still breeze, like a 
 breath from a furnace. The young woman took 
 the subway and transferred at its terminus to a 
 tramway for the suburbs. She wanted to meet 
 Francois at the factory entrance and lunch with 
 him in a little restaurant. Perhaps they would 
 return together, for, according to the English cus- 
 tom, Francois was always free Saturday after- 
 noon. But this week-end was .full of the un- 
 known and all habits might be changed. 
 
 In the train all the people were reading the 
 papers. They chatted with, their neighbors, 
 courteously, on the same subjects and felt a se- 
 cret pleasure in noticing the unanimity of feeling 
 and opinion, a pleasure quite new for a people 
 devoted to argument and contradiction. The fact 
 that they were among French people created ties
 
 To Arms! 193 
 
 and strengthened their confidence. They said, 
 "We . . . with us. . . ." as if they had never 
 spoken these words with their full meaning. And 
 already the desire to be polite was touchingly 
 evident in men and women of the humblest class, 
 who usually did not voluntarily offer their seats 
 and liked to elbow well-dressed people whom they 
 considered rich. 
 
 At the barrier Simone found the tramway. It 
 ran between the crowded houses of the suburban 
 district, then on the roadways black with coal- 
 dust and planted with sickly trees. The land- 
 scape stretched out, disfigured and soiled by in- 
 dustries, and yet acquiring from them a kind of 
 sombre grandeur, a gloomy, powerful vitality. A 
 canal sparkled, reflecting red and black boats. 
 Zinc roofs shone dully above the brick wall. Im- 
 mense chimneys belched volumes of soot-col- 
 ored smoke against the low-hanging clouds. On 
 the yellowish fagades of the working-men's tene- 
 ments could be seen geraniums on window-sills, 
 under a decoration of washing, and the interiors 
 with wardrobes with glass doors, mattresses on
 
 194 To Arms! 
 
 the floor and women in loose jackets, busy with 
 the Saturday house-cleaning. 
 
 As the tram passed over the railroad bridge, a 
 station building guarded by Zouaves could be 
 seen far below. The men lifted their hats to sa- 
 lute the soldiers, and in the Turkish caps and the 
 baggy trousers and the bayonets glittering at the 
 ends of their guns, Simone had the first concrete 
 vision of the great thing she had imagined in an 
 ensemble of large and confused pictures and emo- 
 tions. 
 
 The tramway penetrated into a region of fac- 
 tories, stores, warehouses and working-men's 
 homes. Young men passed, going in an opposite 
 direction, near the station. Each one carried a 
 bag, a knapsack, or a package tied in a handker- 
 chief; some were carrying big shoes over their 
 shoulders, peasant fashion. Almost always two 
 women accompanied them, an old and a young 
 one ; the mother, with the wife or a fiancee. Some- 
 times the young woman led a child by the hand. 
 Some were evidently expectant mothers, and 
 blighting grief had aged their wan faces.
 
 To Arms! 195 
 
 But none of these women cried. Their re- 
 signed sorrow made them humble in comparison 
 with the calm pride of the man. 
 
 Before the principal entrance of the factory 
 Simone left the tramway.
 
 XV 
 
 THE clouds, pale and leaden, spread their 
 filmy ragged edges. The sun penetrated 
 them in spots and was reflected by the windows 
 and the zinc roofs of the factory where its bril- 
 liant rays touched them. 
 
 The grilled gateway was large and opened on 
 a court. At the back were the smoky brick build- 
 ings, the workshops, running the entire length, 
 and the offices indicated by black signs. The 
 grass, blackened by coal dust, formed green trails 
 on the trampled earth and the pavements. Some 
 poplars extended above a roof. Near the main 
 office several military automobiles waited, pant- 
 ing. The hurried throb of their motors seemed 
 to urge on the hidden life of the machinery 
 operating behind the walls. The throbbings said : 
 "Quicker! Quicker!" as if the pliant vehicles 
 that skim the earth would like to allure away 
 
 above them, in the same flight, the beautiful aero- 
 
 196
 
 To Arms! 197 
 
 planes about to be born. Quicker ! Quicker ! let 
 the forges blaze, the electricity pass on the net- 
 work of wires, the machines fashion the metal, 
 wood and cloth, so that the birds of war may 
 finally leave their nests ! Faster ! Faster ! 
 
 No other sounds were heard in the vast court, 
 nothing but this impatient palpitation! 
 
 Before the pay offices were many laborers 
 in working clothes. They were reservists whom 
 the order of departure had not reached at their 
 homes in the morning. Their wives were come 
 in haste to bring the papers left by the police. 
 They dropped their work immediately; they had 
 gathered in a little package the small personal 
 possessions that they always kept in a corner of 
 the shop, and had gone, for the last time, to draw 
 their wages. 
 
 Outside of the gates their wives watched for 
 their coming and other women arrived holding 
 the summons in their trembling fingers and drag- 
 ging along the children who clung to their skirts. 
 They talked to the concierges, then stood to one 
 side, docilely. Some of them bit their lips or
 
 198 To Arms! 
 
 blinked their eyes to keep back the starting tears 
 and that gave them a haggard expression. As 
 soon as a man had passed the door, a woman sep- 
 arated herself from the group and went to him. 
 They faced each other without a word, linked 
 arms, and walked away. . . . 
 
 Simone Davesnes watched for the silhouette of 
 Frangois in the court. She saw him with two en- 
 gineers. They passed through the gate and stood 
 in the midst of the crowd. The workmen already 
 outside saluted them. 
 
 As Simone approached him, she heard Francois 
 say: 
 
 "It is a sign of the times ! Yesterday, our ex- 
 cellent Syndicalists would not have saluted us 
 outside of the factory." 
 
 He finally discovered Simone and introduced 
 his friends to her; Leclercq, Lieutenant of Artil- 
 lery, and Rochebelle, a naval officer. Madame 
 Davesnes knew Leclercq, having met him once at 
 a little station restaurant where she had some- 
 times lunched with her husband. 
 
 Though the presence of the engineers would
 
 To Arms! 199 
 
 have been agreeable under other circumstances, 
 it was now distressing to Simone, for she had 
 hoped to be alone with Frangois. In spite of the 
 notice, she sat beside him, on the leather bench of 
 the restaurant, opposite Rochebelle. 
 
 Leclercq, a thin and refined young man with 
 fiery black eyes, was radiant. He had just re- 
 ceived his summons and although he was married 
 and a father, he did not think of his family. . . . 
 He said: 
 
 "We shall march, go into action, destroy and 
 create! What an opportunity! . . . We are 
 privileged to live at this time!" 
 
 The marine chimed in chorus: 
 
 "Yes, it is a good thing! We might have been 
 too young or too old, whereas we are just the 
 right age, strong, stout-hearted and in good shape. 
 And what a fine spirit our workers have! I 
 should not have believed it. ... I distrusted 
 them. . . . They are brave, that sort." 
 
 "You saw," said FranQois, "how they saluted 
 you?" 
 
 All three took pleasure in praising this sugges-
 
 200 To Arms! 
 
 tion of discipline among the men they would 
 shortly command and they enjoyed talking of ar- 
 tillery stores and aviation in technical language 
 that Simone did not understand in the least. It 
 did not occur to them to excuse themselves to the 
 young woman absorbed in the same interest for 
 speaking seriously and in a manly way instead of 
 trying to divert her with agreeable talk. 
 
 Occasionally, Rochebelle turned to her to ex- 
 plain a word that she had not understood. He 
 was young, blond, with gentle eyes. Simone 
 asked him: 
 
 "Are you going to embark, Monsieur?" 
 
 He didn't know at all. He would go where 
 his superiors sent him after having joined his ship 
 in the appointed harbor. 
 
 They began to compare naval warfare with 
 war on land and Frangois asserted that a field 
 battery in action was a marvellous thing. 
 
 "And don't you think that a submarine may 
 prove to be a marvellous thing 4 ?" said Rochebelle. 
 
 "Yes, that would be interesting to navigate. 
 But I should prefer a good aeroplane. Ah ! I re-
 
 To Arms! 201 
 
 gret not having my pilot's license ! It is true that 
 one could always be an observer." 
 
 "I," said Leclercq, "like cannon. I am in the 
 artillery because of a real vocation." 
 
 They spoke of engines of war with a proud in- 
 terest and a kind of affection. And they also 
 mentioned their pleasure at being able to follow 
 their profession at last and play the part they 
 had prepared for since their youth. The aero- 
 planes already constructed would not be used for 
 imitation war during the autumn manoeuvres; 
 they would soon fly over real battle-fields, pur- 
 sued by real shrapnel, and with death, glorious 
 death, sitting by the side of the pilot and the wind 
 of victory in their wings. 
 
 "And what would you say, gentlemen," asked 
 Simone, "if the Ministry kept you at the fac- 
 tory?" 
 
 Rochebelle declared that he would be heart- 
 broken, and that he would do everything in the 
 world to play a more active role than that of an 
 engineer in a factory. There were enough mature
 
 202 To Arms! 
 
 men fitted for such work, but the young dreamed 
 of other things. 
 
 "When they spoke to you of remaining, Da- 
 vesnes, it didn't seem to please you. Then, you 
 are going to Besangon?" 
 
 "Probably," replied Frangois, who felt his wife 
 quiver beside him. 
 
 "My regiment is in the East," said Leclercq. 
 "I shall not have time to see my little family 
 again. They are installed at the other end of 
 France for the summer. . . But it is perhaps 
 better so. When a man goes where I am going, 
 it is better not to look behind him. . . . Ah! 
 Rochebelle, you are lucky to be free and alone!" 
 
 "Is one ever free and alone*?" said the marine 
 as his eyes grew sober. 
 
 Simone divined his thought and she said to him, 
 sweetly : 
 
 "Those who remain behind must be pitied a 
 little. In war, you see only action, glorious dan- 
 ger and also the exercise of your profession. I 
 admire your fine courage, but I cannot speak of 
 war, as you do, with serenity. The unheard of
 
 To Arms! 203 
 
 suffering I foresee makes me wretched in advance, 
 and I feel myself tortured with all the wounded 
 and with all the women whose hearts will ache, 
 o . To sacrifice oneself! Ah! That would be 
 easy and deserving of little praise. Each one of 
 us would be glad to die for the country . but 
 to sacrifice those whom we love ! . . ." 
 
 Her voice faltered, choked by a nervous con- 
 traction in her throat. She did not dare to look 
 at Frangois. 
 
 "I pity the women," Rochebelle replied, "but 
 Leclercq is right: when one is going where we 
 must go, he must not turn to look back. Exces- 
 sive emotion over dear ones and too vivid a real- 
 ization of their sufferings weakens us, while we 
 shall increase our strength tenfold if we are able 
 to forget and consider ourselves, from now on, as 
 dead." 
 
 "Oh!" she said, revolted. "You are hard- 
 hearted !" 
 
 "But, Madame, I have not said that I was able 
 to practise stoicism to this degree."
 
 204 To Arms! 
 
 Leclercq said that the duty of women was 
 simple. 
 
 "They must keep quiet, first of all ! . . . I beg 
 your pardon, Madame, for this brutal frankness. 
 . . . No manifestations from the suffragettes! 
 The part of women, in time of war 9 consists in 
 governing the house, raising the children, and 
 nursing the wounded. We shall attend to the 
 rest." 
 
 "You are severe on us," said Simone. "It 
 seems to me that if all the men go, the women 
 must preserve the life of the country in many 
 ways which we ourselves cannot foresee. Very 
 modestly and with dignity, they will be, like you, 
 at the service of France. . . . And don't be 
 afraid! They will hide their tears." 
 
 She spoke without looking at Francois, but she 
 was really addressing herself to him alone and 
 waited for his warm approbation. 
 
 He only said: 
 
 "Trust the French women. They have known 
 how to do their duty in the past and we have
 
 To Arms! 205 
 
 not needed to give them lessons. This discussion 
 is quite useless." 
 
 He was not willing, before strangers, to pro- 
 long a discussion which indirectly concerned Si- 
 mone, and without transition, he returned to the 
 war and politics. Then the young woman was 
 silent. She felt wretched and unhappy among 
 these men, separated even from the one she adored 
 by feelings she could not communicate. Could 
 it be true that in the moral order values were 
 changed to such a degree that tenderness and com- 
 passion had become weakness, almost feminine 
 faults, snares that the masculine will must avoid 
 in order to keep itself intact? 
 
 Simone said to herself that patriotism is not 
 the same thing for a woman that it is for a man. 
 It has not the brutality of an instinct nor the 
 austerity of an idea. It is a feeling that does not 
 attach itself to abstraction and does not under- 
 stand the bloody intoxication of battle. The 
 woman's France is first the home, husband, child, 
 then the Church, the peaceful country-side, fam- 
 ily traditions and the graves of the dead. The
 
 206 To Arms! 
 
 man's France is all that, but it is also the tilled 
 field, workshop, factory, laboratory, library and 
 regiment. The woman's France is made of love; 
 that is what is defended. The France of man is 
 love and action together: it is that which fights. 
 
 And as the night before, Simone had said to 
 Frangois, this word "War" did not create the 
 same pictures in their minds. The men saw noth- 
 ing but the insulter, the enemy. All their energy 
 was strained by the attack and the repulse, and 
 they were not unhappy, because they were certain 
 that they were doing their duty. In war, women 
 see the other side. For centuries, men have 
 slaughtered for just and unjust causes, but the 
 causes are their own, and the menace of death has 
 never come from those who nurse the wounded 
 and renew the race. While flags wave and trum- 
 pets resound, the women having given their own 
 flesh and blood to their country, do not complain ; 
 but they all think of the soldiers abandoned in 
 the trenches and agonising on hospital cots, of 
 burning villages, of wandering orphans, and of 
 all the mothers of all nations who have given
 
 To Arms! 207 
 
 birth in anguish, endured fatigue, fed, nursed 
 and brought up for twenty years the fine young 
 men devoted to death. 
 
 Simone was reflecting in this way when, sud- 
 denly, she felt the hand of Frangois seeking hers, 
 under the table, and pressing it secretly, lovingly 
 until it hurt her. Pent-up emotion filled his eyes 
 with tears. 
 
 How she longed to be alone with Francois! 
 How she wanted to lean against his shoulder, 
 saying to him: "Love me! Love me! I suffer. 
 You know it, and neither you nor I would say 
 anything. . . But silently, to help me to be 
 strong, without fear of being weakened by me, 
 love me, love me, my beloved." And here she 
 was obliged to control herself for the sake of con- 
 vention. The hours were passing, the last hours 
 that love claimed sorrowfully and which every- 
 thing Francois's profession, Francois's friends 
 snatched from her. 
 
 Lunch ended and the men expressed the inten- 
 tion of taking Madame Davesnes to the tramway
 
 208 To Arms! 
 
 before returning to the factory. Rochebelle and 
 Leclercq discreetly went ahead. 
 
 Simone and Francois walked side by side. He 
 said to her: 
 
 "I should not have let you come here. . . . 
 
 She reproached him for lack of frankness. 
 
 "They offered you a position at the factory and 
 you have refused it. Why did you hide it from 
 me?" 
 
 He defended himself vigorously. "At first, he 
 had nothing to refuse, because no one had offered 
 him anything. In speaking with his directors 
 about possibilities still vague, he had, like every 
 one else, expressed his desire to go to the front. 
 What could be more natural"? He was not an 
 invalid nor a greybeard. He was not even one 
 of those specialists whose services are more val- 
 uable behind the army than on the first lines. 
 He had not asked for war, but if it broke out 
 he still spoke as if it were not inevitable he in- 
 tended to take his part fully." 
 
 "Do not hope that they will keep me here ! I 
 should be desperate. I should be ill. ... If you
 
 To Arms! 209 
 
 are capable of wishing such a thing you should 
 not have married an officer. . . ." 
 
 She quieted him with a word. 
 
 "My husband, you belong to France before 
 you do to me. I know it. That is why you must 
 tell me all without reservation,," 
 
 He whispered: 
 
 "I am a little nervous, Simone. Waiting for 
 coming events over-excites every one. We are 
 violent without reason. Forgive me. I adore 
 you, dearest, and I feel all your suffering. Go 
 home now and try to occupy yourself until even- 
 ing. We shall meet at Nicolette's, and to-mor- 
 row, if events do not move too quickly, we shall 
 have one more day together. . . ." 
 
 The tram stopped. Frangois helped Simone in- 
 to the car. She hardly had time to bow to Le- 
 clercq and Rochebelle.
 
 XVI 
 
 THE long car was almost empty. An old 
 man read in a low voice, making comments, 
 the letters of condolence addressed to Madame 
 Jaures and published in the latest edition of the 
 paper. Two women listened. The letter of the 
 President of the Republic seemed to them very 
 acceptable, but they were surprised that Maurice 
 Barres and Marcel Habert had written in a sym- 
 pathetic way. They did not consider then that 
 Jaures was a disloyal Frenchman. 
 
 "Hadn't he opposed the three-years' law; what 
 should we have done to-day?" 
 
 The old man explained that certain errors in 
 judgment did not imply intellectual disloyalty 
 and lack of patriotism. But the women did not 
 make these distinctions. They were convinced 
 that the Anarchists would stop the mobilisation 
 if they were not put in prison, as quickly as pos- 
 sible, beginning with Gustave Herve. 
 
 2IO
 
 To Arms! 211 
 
 "But Herve is not an Anarchist! He has be- 
 come patriotic and he is preaching a crusade 
 against Prussian militarism, 35 said the old man. 
 
 And he flourished a number of the Guerre So- 
 ciale with a wide black border. 
 
 On the platform, a laboring man chatted with 
 the conductor. He had deposited at his feet a 
 canvas sack filled with bunches of garlic and he 
 held under his left arm a fagot of laurel twigs 
 with glossy, dark leaves, 
 
 "It looks as if we were going to have it!" he 
 said. 
 
 "My goodness!" replied the conductor. "It 
 certainly does." 
 
 "There are still persons who don't think so." 
 
 "People have talked so much about war and it 
 hasn't come ! . . . That's why they hold to that 
 idea." 
 
 "As for me," said the man with the laurel, "I 
 saw right away that the affair would end badly. 
 Well, I have taken my precaution, and I am not 
 excited."
 
 212 To Arms! 
 
 He drew a small record book out of his pocket 
 and winked with one eye. 
 
 "Get out, you big rascal !" said the conductor. 
 "He is scared and has taken his money out of the 
 savings bank." 
 
 "Savings! You want to make fun of me 1 ? In 
 my trade, we don't have any savings. I sell gar- 
 lic and laurel. The profit is not large. No, what 
 I asked for was my military book, not my savings 
 book. The quartermaster had forgotten to write 
 my order of mobilisation in it. Also, last Mon- 
 day, I took it to the Town Hall to have it writ- 
 ten up, and just now, they have returned it to 
 me. ... I go the second day." 
 
 He replaced his book in his pocket and arrang- 
 ing his odoriferous branches, remarked: 
 
 "I work with machine guns. They are splen- 
 did. It is worth while to work with anything like 
 that." 
 
 The tram crossed the city limit. Simone rose. 
 Before her, the honest man, burdened with his 
 sack and fagot, left at the first stop. He had a 
 farewell smile for the conductor:
 
 To Arms! 213 
 
 "Good-bye, perhaps! We can easily see what 
 is coming. While we are waiting, we must live ! 
 I am going to sell my garlic and laurel." 
 
 Simone admired the practical philosophy of 
 the poor men, and the teaching they gave in their 
 candor, to those who knew how to listen. How 
 quickly they resigned themselves and how easily 
 they adapted themselves to circumstances! The 
 war would trample on their interests and affec- 
 tions. But they bent their backs under this bur- 
 den, without losing time and seeking for the 
 causes of the trouble. War, oh, yes! it is ter- 
 rible! but, as Madame Miton said, in the midst 
 of her tears, "We cannot become Prussians, and 
 as we must endure the scourge, we must resign 
 ourselves to it, as we would to illness, deaths in 
 the family and everything that comes to us in life. 
 So much the better for those who survive ! The 
 Others,, we pity and honor, but we think: 'It was 
 their destinyo 3 " 
 
 Besides, if one must die, a bullet in the chest 
 is less painful than a cancer and cleaner. But 
 as long as we are alive, we must not worry our
 
 214 To Arms! 
 
 heads finding reasons for everything and thinking 
 gloomy thoughts. The wise man clings to his 
 usual habits to the very last moment, carries on 
 his little business, enjoys himself properly with 
 his family or his sweetheart, and says, as he drinks 
 his last glass, the "stirrup-cup": 
 "Here's one less for the Prussians.' 3 
 It is a classic joke by no means new, but real- 
 ity makes it more piquant and it always amuses 
 a good Frenchman! 
 
 Simone felt herself as remote from this popu- 
 lar philosophy as she did from the cheerful cour- 
 age of a Rochebelle, or a Leclercq. Her resig- 
 nation was not a passive assent to inevitable mis- 
 fortune, as with the plain people. It was the 
 result of a painful effort of her will and reason. 
 The young woman knew her duty and fulfilled it. 
 A daughter of Racine and not of Corneille, she 
 acknowledged herself incapable of heroism with- 
 out special strength which she drew, humbly, 
 from the example of the poor, from the memory 
 of her ancestors, from the sweetness of her im- 
 perilled country, and even from her love, desiring
 
 To Arms! 215 
 
 it to be worthy of Francois. She said to herself 
 that Marie Pourat was more self-sacrificing than 
 she, but she was tempted to ask herself: 
 
 "What is Anthime Pourat compared with Fran- 
 c.ois Davesnes 1 ?" 
 
 This thought made her ashamed. She sup- 
 pressed it with all her might. Still, is it not 
 true that equality of misfortune does not involve 
 equality of suffering*? Many widows console 
 themselves by a second marriage; the hearts of 
 others grow apathetic in dull forgetf ulness ; oth- 
 ers satisfy their need of love with their children. 
 Perpetual mourners are rare and the law of life 
 intends that it shall be so. But the more sensi- 
 tive and finely wrought the being, the more great 
 shocks destroy in him the delicate cells and the 
 fine tissues that are so slow in rebuilding. An 
 oak, struck by lightning, becomes green again. A 
 blooming rose-bush withers,, if it is broken. 
 
 There was nothing abnormal in the little street 
 when Simone reached it, or, rather, the first in- 
 dication of the coming catastrophe had become,
 
 216 To Arms! 
 
 in twenty-four hours, part of its normal aspect. 
 One was no longer surprised to see a line of house- 
 wives before the Gouge grocery. The vegetable 
 and fruit markets were offering string-beans,, to- 
 matoes and perishable food for almost nothing, 
 and the fish-seller behind her stall, sadly contem- 
 plated the despised soles and lobsters spoiling in 
 the thundery weather. People paused, loaded 
 with provisions; one carrying two cans of petrol, 
 another a can of wood-alcohol ; one had dry vege- 
 tables in a yellow paper bag and another a bo;\ 
 of prunes and packages of macaroni. This un- 
 necessary laying in of provisions amused the Par- 
 isians as a fine trick, played beforehand, on the 
 greedy merchants, and a few shops where prices 
 had been raised at once were already hearing the 
 rumbling of popular discontent. 
 
 Mademoiselle Florence was embroidering 
 among the fuchsias in pots and the larkspurs 
 that bloom in the beautiful month of August. 
 But few customers interrupted her work and 
 dreams. By contrast, Madame Anselme's shop 
 was doing a good business. Special pamphlets
 
 To Arms! 217 
 
 about the war had been added since morning to 
 the women's fashion magazines and novels. 
 France Victorious in the Coming War. . . The 
 Partition of France (Translated from the Ger- 
 man), with its counterpart: The Partition of Ger- 
 many. The kind neighbor was installed at the 
 counter. She gave moving details of the hand- 
 some stationer's illness to the customers and the 
 women lowered their voices in sympathy More 
 and more timid, the manager of the dairy kept 
 the metal curtain half lowered in front of the 
 building. The surly groups, among whom were 
 some very young Apaches s were come to prowl on 
 the sidewalk in the hope of pouring out a stream 
 of poisoned milko The agent was not sure wheth- 
 er the mysterious Maggi was German, Austrian, 
 or Swiss, but she was very sure that his milk was 
 good, no matter what it was, and that it came 
 from peaceable French animals. In her indig- 
 nant soul, she blamed the stupid crowd and re- 
 called the scenes of the Revolution she had seen 
 in moving pictures. 
 
 Why couldn't she imitate the little locksmith
 
 218 To Arms! 
 
 and lampmakei-j on the corner of the Place oppo- 
 site the cleaners'? This man, an Alsatian, had 
 taken care to prevent possible ill-intentioned at- 
 tacks, and had written on his door, in chalk: 
 
 A FRENCH SHOP 
 
 The proprietor is mobilised in the Tenth 
 Artillery 
 
 LONG LIVE FRANCE! 
 
 At the sight of this inscription the rascals play- 
 ing hopscotch were seized with great patriotic 
 zeal and in the squares, drawn on the sidewalk, 
 they replaced the words "Heaven" and "Hell" 
 with "France" and "Germany." 
 
 Their play took on a warlike character, a stra- 
 tegical interest, to impress the little girls who did 
 not jump rope any more. The oldest, the clean- 
 er's daughter, was burdened with a large baby, 
 swaddled in tight sausage-like clothes. The 
 youngest watched the living plaything with long- 
 ing eyes. From time to time, she murmured: 
 
 "Jeanne, let me hold your little brother."
 
 To Arms! 219 
 
 Jeanne was looking at the game and did not 
 listen or else she replied: 
 
 "You wouldn't know how. . . ." 
 
 The little one yielding at last to her desire, 
 tickled the child's chin and excited it with shrill 
 cries. Finally, she pulled her playmate's apron. 
 
 "Jeanne! Lend me your little brother! I'll 
 give you a sou." 
 
 "Truly?' 
 
 "Yes! Here is the sou!" 
 
 "Well, take him, then." 
 
 The hoarse voices of men selling papers called 
 unintelligible words, far away, on the avenue. 
 The grinding of the saw rose from the woodcut- 
 ter's yard. There was a smothered oath and a 
 heavy concussion of stones being dumped on a 
 cart, but the workmen no longer whistled and 
 only spoke when it was necessary. 
 
 They have sent an apprentice to get the last 
 edition of the paper. The boy returned running. 
 
 "Nothing new*?" 
 
 "Just the same things. There are details 
 about the lunatic who killed Jaures."
 
 22O To Arms! 
 
 "Oh! the lunatic! We ought to know about 
 it! . . ." said the old workman whose father 
 had been through the Commune., 
 
 He was sad, because he had had faith in Jau- 
 res's influence, in the good-will of the German 
 comrades, in the reign of brotherhood and justice. 
 All of 'his illusions were falling to pieces. He 
 recalled public gatherings when the voice never to 
 speak again had carried the audience over wide 
 billows of soothing phrases, towards the shore of 
 the future, towards the Promised Land, which 
 was to include the entire world, pacific and at 
 peace. And he thought of his twenty-year-old 
 son, of his daughter, married three weeks ago, 
 and his brave and worn-out wife. From the 
 depths of his soul, he cursed Germany,, and in 
 spite of his approaching sixtieth birthday his 
 hands trembled with longing to carry a gun too. 
 
 Work consumed their strength and somewhat 
 obscured the one thought that weighed on their 
 spirits. Stones fell into the wagon and the saw 
 ground away. 
 
 The white clouds turned to a leaden grey. The
 
 To Arms! 221 
 
 enervated cats, howling at the coming storm, 
 stretched out on the warm ground. In the thick 
 verdure of the chestnut trees, the loving "coulou 
 coulou" of the doves, died away languidly. 
 
 The coolness of the white vestibule enfolded 
 Simone Davesnes like a subtle perfume. In pass- 
 ing, she had a glimpse of the lodge full of women 
 neighbors come to console Madame Miton. 
 
 It was incredible the women, seated or stand- 
 ing, were silent. Each had brought her own anx- 
 iety and had added it, piled up, to the cares of 
 the others. Together, they remembered the uni- 
 versal grief. They no longer asked anxiously: 
 "Will there be war*? . . ." They inquired: 
 "When 1 ? To-morrow or this evening, or at 
 once*?" The fact that Gustave Miton had gone, 
 that one mother had begun her sacrifice, affected 
 the others as a crude colored picture influences 
 the illiterate. Spoken or printed words do not 
 convey a sufficiently vivid impression of truth to 
 nai've minds to cause conviction. These women 
 knew, now, by a visible example, the fate of 
 them all. Some of them had grumbled :
 
 222 To Arms! 
 
 "What shall we do? . . . How can we live? 
 ... On what? . . ." 
 
 Questions without answers. 
 
 Madame Miton had vanished in the depths of 
 an armchair. A little blonde, with a pretty bare 
 neck, her arms crossed on a sewing-machine table, 
 wept quietly. It was Gustave Miton's fiancee. 
 
 Marie Pourat opened the door for Simone. She 
 had arrived later than usual in order to be free 
 after six o'clock, since Monsieur and Madame 
 were to dine in the city. 
 
 "Madame doesn't know anything new?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 "No, Marie, nothing." 
 
 "I have drawn my money out of the bank. If 
 my husband goes, I shall not need any help." 
 
 Marie Pourat was a capitalist! The fortune 
 of France is made by millions of these ants who 
 heap up the sous and silver and gold pieces like 
 grains in savings banks and trust companies. 
 
 Proud in her own fashion, expecting nothing 
 of any one, Marie foresaw hard times and, in giv-
 
 To Arms! 223 
 
 ing her Anthime to the country, she found it quite 
 natural to put her money where it would be safe. 
 This thought made Simone almost smile as she 
 tore open her letter in the salon. The Davesnes 
 were perhaps poorer than their housemaid; they 
 had lived from day to day, since their marriage, 
 protected by the contract binding the engineer to 
 his factory. For the first time, Simone realised 
 that her material existence would be changed. 
 Formerly, she had earned her living by making 
 small figures of wax and fabric, with her deft 
 fingers, but the trades dealing in artistic luxuries 
 would be ended by the war. She shrugged her 
 shoulders. ... In truth, economic difficulties, 
 even poverty, did not frighten her. The two let- 
 ters, read at a glance, made her certain that she 
 would know how to adapt herself to the unknown 
 conditions of her future life. One came from 
 Brittany and demanded immediate answer in re- 
 gard to the Kermarie and Kerhostin Villas; the 
 other reminded her of the hour arranged for a 
 fitting, and both seemed absurd, laughable, many 
 things: a villa, a beach costume, useless super-
 
 224 To Arms! 
 
 fluities! Three days had made a profound sep- 
 aration between the times when these things 
 counted, when it was possible to enjoy liberty, 
 leisure, the beauty of the world, the sweetness 
 of living and a sense of long life ahead, and the 
 time when every life was unbalanced to the ex- 
 tent that one could not even conceive of the pos- 
 sibility of happiness and it seemed a privilege 
 to possess a roof and bread. 
 
 Simone surveyed the salon, the furniture she 
 had chosen, all that she had cared for with a fem- 
 inine sense of possession. To her great astonish- 
 ment, she felt herself quite detached from all 
 these things, incapable of being moved by their 
 possible loss. What had happened to her un- 
 consciously? By what process of evolution had 
 she arrived, without knowing it, at such a state 
 of mind? She could imagine, without terror, the 
 misery and uprooting, which would kill the weak 
 and aged ! She had therefore enough latent force 
 to bear all these material sufferings and not die? 
 . . . Would she ever have the strength to en-
 
 To Arms! 225 
 
 dure the strain of solitude and perhaps the su- 
 preme trial of bereavement? 
 
 Her heart and flesh rebelled. No, no, not that ! 
 She could not endure that and live! She could 
 not consent in advance to the loss of Francois and 
 say: "Even this is right! . . " 
 
 The mere threat of war had almost killed Ma- 
 dame Anselme, smitten in her maternity and too 
 weak to readjust under the shock. In how many 
 poor women's souls had the same blow brought 
 already the same secret wound, a death stab, by 
 which life would be ended 1 ? How many mothers 
 and wives for whom the future was not arranged, 
 in this hour of horrible uncertainty, were crying 
 to Heaven: "No! No! . . . May it never 
 come! . . ." 
 
 Again, Simone experienced a mental struggle. 
 Again she trembled all over with the great shock 
 of her grief. Again, she wrung her hands and 
 wept blinding tears. Then she stopped shudder- 
 ing and crying. Her eyes were closed and burn- 
 ing and she became oblivious to everything 
 around her, a stranger to herself. . . .
 
 226 To Arms! 
 
 Suddenly Marie Pourat came in without knock- 
 ing: 
 
 "Madame!" 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "Madame . . . there is something the matter 
 . . . everybody is running. ..." 
 
 Simone went to the open window. In the street 
 the disturbance increased, spreading like a ripple 
 over the face of the water. People ran hastily 
 out of the houses, looking in every direction, ques- 
 tioning with voice and gesture. A man passed 
 the stoneyard hurriedly; he cried a phrase that 
 Simone and Marie did not understand. 
 
 Inside of the house a door banged, shaking the 
 reverberating staircase around the mounting ele- 
 vator. On the landing of the ground floor, a tel- 
 ephone rattled. Madame Miton did not respond 
 to its call. She was outside, like all other neigh- 
 bors, including the grocer boys, the proprietor 
 himself, also Madame Anselme's substitute and 
 Mademoiselle Florence. . . . Outside were Mon- 
 sieur Lepoultre and Alexandre Frechette, looking 
 in his blue smock like the masons he questioned :
 
 To Arms! 227 
 
 "Ho, down there, comrades! What has hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 The grinding of the saw was stopped. Outside 
 of the fence, the masons mingled with the passers- 
 by. Wild with curiosity, the gamins jostled the 
 older people, while a group of anxious women 
 breathed out disconnected words, broken sighs, 
 and a plaintive question : 
 
 "What has happened? . . . What has hap- 
 pened? . . ." 
 
 A young workman explained: 
 
 "He called it out as he ran by. ... It is post- 
 ed at the Town Hall. . . ." 
 
 "You are sure?" 
 
 "I haven't seen anything, myself. It was the 
 people going by." 
 
 Two men came out to the corner of the Place 
 carrying their bill-posters' material and a pack- 
 age of white placards. They were surrounded, 
 followed and almost hustled along. 
 
 Simone said to Marie Pourat: 
 
 "Shut the window." 
 
 She put on her hat and took her jacket and
 
 228 To Arms! 
 
 gloves. She too wanted to see. In the vestibule, 
 she stumbled against Abbe Moriceau and Fre- 
 chette's model. The street seemed to breathe peo- 
 ple who came out of the houses, some in working 
 clothes and bare-headed. 
 
 The bill-posters chose the spot, in the middle 
 of the fence. Their trembling hands tore away 
 the last shreds of the old hand-bills and this sim- 
 ple gesture was full of symbolic grandeur. 
 
 Now, it was done. Artisans, bourgeois, work- 
 men, the professor, the artist, the priest, young 
 women and old mothers, bright-faced girls and 
 astonished children, all, citizens of France, 
 watched the square white paper, so clean on the 
 soiled background with fading letters. 1'he pla- 
 card, with its crossed flags and black letters, be- 
 came a sign-post at the cross-roads of two epochs. 
 It pointed to the blood-stained road of the future, 
 and all eyes and thoughts turned towards this 
 fragile thing that men saluted as if it were a flag. 
 
 No one spoke, or was able to speak. They had 
 foreseen this moment. They had waited, for two 
 days, but between what they imagined and what
 
 To Arms! 229 
 
 they experienced, between moral certainty and the 
 actual event, what an abyss ! 
 
 War! 
 
 The placard did not contain this word, but all 
 of its words formed one only, sinister and start- 
 ling. 
 
 War! 
 
 The dull tocsin of agony rang to the rhythm 
 of blood in the minds and the souls of the people. 
 One of the little girls said, very low: 
 
 "Is it true that it is war?' 
 
 The older one replied: 
 
 "Yes. . . . We must go along!" 
 
 She dragged the chubby little girl from her 
 playmate and squeezed her as if to protect her. 
 Then an outburst of lamentations arose: 
 
 "Jean! My little Jean!" 
 
 An old woman was groaning in the group of 
 women. Neighbors surrounded her. Frechette's 
 little mistress sobbed violently and ran towards 
 the studio. The sculptor, before following her, 
 said to the Abbe who was near him : 
 
 "We shall do beautiful, great things for
 
 230 To Arms! 
 
 France, won't we, Monsieur? You, too, in your 
 way. . . ." 
 
 The priest answered gently: 
 
 "In the same way as you, Monsieur. I am a 
 soldier. I shall go to-morrow." 
 
 The old mason raised his clenched fist and 
 brought it down as if he were trying to kill a 
 harmful beast. A little pale, the young people 
 tried to joke. The Alsatian locksmith, biting his 
 brown moustache, declared: 
 
 "If my poor father could have seen this or 
 known that it was coming, he would have died 
 more happily. He is buried quite alone, in his 
 own country." 
 
 "With the Bodies'?" asked a mason. 
 
 "Not with the Bodies, in his own country, I 
 tell you," answered the Alsatian, offended. . . . 
 "At home, in Colmar." 
 
 "Well, old man, what your father did not 
 know, you will have a chance to go and tell 
 him.
 
 XVII 
 
 SIMON E escaped from the house and the soli- 
 tude where the misery of her own heart spoke 
 too loudly. She crossed Paris on foot. Scenes 
 on the way repeated everywhere, and faces which 
 similar feelings marked with identical expression, 
 were to remain with her as a strange memory, un- 
 certain, like a memory of a world seen in the light 
 of a nightmare. In the Place de 1'Opera a human 
 flood pushed her up on the steps of the theatre. 
 The sky was livid, the air overheated and the 
 houses grey and dull as on the previous evening. 
 However, it was not the suffocating atmosphere 
 of Friday. The crowd was still affected by the 
 measure of stupor that follows a great shock, but 
 there was also a sense of relief. There was no 
 outward enthusiasm, no cries, nor songs, but also 
 no sadness and at times the agitation of spirit 
 was evident which is a forerunner of hope. 
 
 The windows of the building surrounding the 
 231
 
 232 To Arms! 
 
 square, the balconies of the Cerde Militaire were 
 black with people, pushing and leaning over them. 
 Opposing eddies disturbed the surface of the 
 crowd. The police tried paternally to direct the 
 currents. The people applauded the procession 
 spontaneously formed to march and salute the 
 statue of Strasbourg, draped in black. They 
 cheered the Garde Republicaine. They even 
 cheered the autobuses as the conductors cried: 
 
 "It's our last trip; to-morrow the autobuses 
 are going to war! Step lively, ladies and gen- 
 tlemen ! Hurry !" 
 
 A gamin called: 
 
 "Montsouris-Opera-Berlin! . . " 
 
 In cabs and taxis, reservists who feared crowd- 
 ed trains went by to the stations. Others, carry- 
 ing a knapsack or valise, waited for a vehicle. 
 The public assisted, hailing chauffeurs, and even 
 asking travellers to give up their places. The 
 soldiers thanked them with a smile. Women of- 
 fered them roses. One of the men gallantly 
 kissed a beautiful girl, who returned his kiss. 
 The crowd wished them good courage and good
 
 To Arms! 233 
 
 luck. Grey-bearded men, of the campaign of 
 1870, said to them: "Fight hard. Avenge us. 
 . . . Bring back Alsace and Lorraine! . . ." 
 And the names of lost provinces, spoken so often, 
 had a new sound and echoed profoundly in the 
 memories of the French. 
 
 Simone saw flags flying in the distance. The 
 national colors mingled with the colors of 
 friendly nations. Several groups came in from 
 the Place de la Concorde and she could distin- 
 guish, above the moving mass of heads, the tra- 
 ditional students' caps. Some of the young men 
 were carried on the shoulders of their comrades. 
 Their young faces beamed. A cheer went up. 
 They said : 
 
 "It is a demonstration of the students and their 
 foreign comrades are with them." 
 
 Simone remembered Pierre Anselme and had a 
 pitying thought for the poor mother, so naively 
 proud. . . . But she was moved by tenderness 
 and was thrilled, and she understood that at this 
 moment, individual love was being merged into 
 one great affection. It stirred, this love r in the
 
 234 To Arms! 
 
 hearts of beings united by race, tongue and the 
 common heritage of an ancient glorious history, 
 more closely united by the German menace and 
 the defiance hurled at the enemy massed on the 
 frontiers. Now, the forty millions of France 
 formed one French family. Selfishness melted in 
 the pure flame of universal sacrifice. Those re- 
 maining saw in those who went brothers and 
 sons; and the tears in resigned eyes were shining 
 with light. 
 
 Simone thought no more of Pierre Anselme and 
 his mother; she did not even think of Frangois. 
 She became a tiny particle of France and felt a 
 great longing to resist and endure. The desire 
 for victory became at last part of the nature of 
 the woman. She applauded with the crowd the 
 unknown young men who marched by. How she 
 wanted to press their hands, embrace them like a 
 sister, and say to them: "Go joyously, you who 
 die that France may live! This day is not sad. 
 No day, since we were born, has dawned in great- 
 er beauty. The sky is grey, but behind the clouds, 
 the sun shines. ."
 
 To Arms! 235 
 
 She still applauded and did not know that she 
 was crying. 
 
 Quietly and with solemnity a hymn was sung: 
 
 La Victoire, en chantant, nous ouvre la barriere. 
 
 La Liberte guide nos pas, 
 Et, du nord au midi, la trompette guerriere 
 
 A sonne Vheure des combats. . . . 
 
 Pictures flashed through their minds : The Rev- 
 olution, the young volunteers, the army of Du- 
 mouriez in sabots, then, the poignant reality of 
 the hour that the "trumpet of war" was blowing 
 to the four corners of the French sky: The reap- 
 ers leaving the August wheat, workmen leaving 
 the factory, the marines rejoining the men of war, 
 the leave-taking with sobs and kisses, the councils 
 of the old, the courageous gayety of the young 
 men, the last look behind at the village and the 
 home. . . . 
 
 La Republique nous appelle. . . . 
 
 For almost all, the Republic, for all, France! 
 How plainly they heard it, the voice of the na-
 
 236 To Arms! 
 
 tion, as they listened to the words of the revolu- 
 tionary song ! And they heard the bells in all the 
 bell- towers clanging to the sky; the drums of in- 
 numerable villages, the rumbling of cannon, foot- 
 steps on the roads, the clash of arms, the beating 
 of hearts in unison, all the uproar made by an 
 aroused people who did not want to die. Besides 
 those who had gone at dawn, others would go 
 during the night and still others would be going 
 every instant for days and days. Hussars in uni- 
 forms blue as the flowers, dragoons with lances, 
 active chasseurs, Alpines, colonials, artillerymen 
 driving cannon like beasts of battle, red and blue 
 infantry whose ranks waved on the march like 
 living wheat; and the most like warriors of heroic 
 ages, great cuirassiers clad in iron, with iron hel- 
 mets under scarlet or red horsehair plumes, sit- 
 ting stiffly on their heavy horses, sabres at their 
 side, reins in hand, their young faces pressed by 
 the chin-straps, riding, a compact and sonorous 
 mass towards the rising sun. . . . 
 
 Regiment after regiment, all leaving, crowding 
 the roads, filling the interminable trains, going
 
 To Arms! 237 
 
 to form the first rampart of men to check the first 
 shock of the enemy's attack. A tide of soldiers 
 would soon overflow the country, extending 
 northeast, without stop. Already, the first waves 
 had advanced. 
 
 Simone found Jean Reynaud in the Rue du Ro- 
 cher, in the white gallery with the green lattice- 
 work. He went towards her with outstretched 
 hands. . . . 
 
 "Good-morning, wisest of women! All the 
 family is expecting you. Come and show Nico- 
 lette the face of a French woman who does not 
 cry. . . ." 
 
 Very tall, very thin, with long legs, his hair 
 brushed flat on his forehead, he had the aristo- 
 cratic insolence of thoroughbred animals. He 
 himself was proud of being "as thin and dis- 
 dainful as a greyhound." 
 
 "I am not the wisest of women, but you are 
 the most foolish of men. What kept you at Pon- 
 tresina 4 ?" 
 
 "No telegram reached me. I left, with all the
 
 238 To Arms! 
 
 other French people, when the newspapers gave 
 us the alarm, and I had a strange journey. Mon- 
 day, I shall rejoin my regiment of dragoons, at 
 Versailles. I am enraptured." 
 
 "That is easy to see. And Nicolette ?" 
 
 "Ah! Nicolette! . . . Before her, I put out 
 my torches and muffle my flourish of trumpets. 
 You will find her in the grey salon, with Maxime 
 and my parents. My mother is admirable. Not 
 a complaint! A Catholic and Parisian Cornelia. 
 I am very proud of her and I think that she will 
 be proud of her sons. Papa is more affected. It 
 is true that Mamma has just returned from 
 Notre-Dame-des-Victoires where two candles are 
 burning now, one for Maxime, the other for me. 
 Do you believe in the virtue of candles, Simone?" 
 
 "I believe in the goodness of your mother and 
 in her great love which is worthy of being heard 
 by God. I do not have candles burned, but I 
 love the little lights that comfort sad hearts." 
 
 "Mamma is about to convert Nicolette, or 
 rather to lead her back to religion, and you will 
 see that after I go, they will forgive their mutual
 
 To Arms! 239 
 
 grievances and go to the churches together. . . . 
 Papa will oppose it. ... As for Maxime, he has 
 canonised Jaures. Each one serves the God that 
 speaks to his heart." 
 
 He had taken Simone's arm familiarly and both 
 went down the long gallery, with the black-and- 
 white pavement. Simone thought of the inaug- 
 uration fete, given in the month of April of this 
 same year, of which the illustrated papers had 
 published colored photographs. She recalled the 
 bright oranges hanging in the trimmed shrubbery, 
 the amber and gold grapes, with reddened leaves, 
 festooning the arches of the trellis, and the yellow 
 and grey salon, a little odd, and amusing as the 
 decorations of the Theatre of Arts. The orna- 
 mental designs in the new style, the round roses 
 and the baskets of fruit, were repeated in the fab- 
 rics, on the backs of the seats and on the light 
 frieze of the ceiling. A concealed orchestra 
 played a jerky and languid dance. The couples 
 drew nearer, arms stretched out, following the 
 music. Young men with very smooth hair and 
 young women bare under soft draperies and pre-
 
 240 To Arms! 
 
 clous stones, crowned with aigrettes and more 
 brilliant than birds of paradise, represented Pari- 
 sian society, the scandal of moralists, charming in 
 its corruption; in love with luxury and pleasure, 
 artistic and fastidious even in the unbridled ex- 
 travagances of its sensuality. They were dancing 
 "over the volcano" the famous volcano sup- 
 posed to be extinct since 1870! . . . Simone 
 thought of this picture, now almost belonging to 
 the past. In a few years it would be an inter- 
 esting historical memory; Paris "before the 
 war." . . . 
 
 "How many of the slender young men who 
 danced the tango would ever come here again*? 
 How many of the women would be wrapped in 
 crepe " 
 
 She looked at Jean and a feeling of apprehen- 
 sion like a dark presentiment seized her. Why, 
 in great danger, do certain people seem fated in 
 advance? She pressed lightly on the arm that 
 held her own. 
 
 "Jean, you will be very brave, I know. Prom-
 
 To Arms! 241 
 
 ise that you will not be foolhardy*? You are 
 over-excited, imaginative. . . ." 
 
 "Thank you for your compliments, cousin! 
 ... I realize that you are moved by a solicitude 
 that does me honor, but please do not spoil my 
 pleasure. Mamma has already proposed miracu- 
 lous medals to me and bullet-proof woolen vests. 
 My brother offers me litres of tincture of iodine 
 and opium pills. . . . Enough! Enough! I 
 prefer death to ridicule." 
 
 In the grey salon, the maid brought a tray of 
 tea. Nicolette rehearsed to her mother-in-law 
 the pathetic adieus of the good German. 
 
 "Yes," said Jean, "the children have lost their 
 'guardian angel.' The spy has gone. . . ." 
 
 Maxime and Nicolette protested. They be- 
 lieved in Fraulein's honesty and would not allow 
 themselves to be disturbed, they said, by romances 
 and silly stories. Jean declared : 
 
 "All the Germans are spies. I believe in every- 
 thing; in the fake advertisements, in the false 
 Swiss, in treacherous governesses, in engineer 
 spies. If fortune fails us, we shall see the broth-
 
 242 To Arms! 
 
 ers of this good Lischen coming. They will know 
 the contents of the cellar and of your jewel-box, 
 Nicolette, and they will sleep in our beds." 
 
 Monsieur Louis Raynaud, an old man with 
 bright eyes and forcible speech, wore in his but- 
 tonhole the green and black ribbon of the com- 
 batants of 1870. His emotion spent itself in 
 nervous agitation and he blamed the government 
 for permitting the Germans to invade France in 
 the midst of peace. Then, Madame Raynaud, 
 seated on a sofa between Pierre and Marianne, 
 recalled that she had prophesied all these misfor- 
 tunes. 
 
 "In my time, we did not confide our children 
 to strangers, we watched our servants, we . . ." 
 
 She realised that she was offending her daugh- 
 ter-in-law and in a kinder tone, without finishing 
 the sentence, she added: 
 
 "I know very well that customs change with 
 the years. It is excusable to be influenced by 
 this." 
 
 The old lady, intelligent, energetic and very 
 pious, had all the virtues of the bourgeoisie, but
 
 To Arms! 243 
 
 also the prejudices. Of her faded beauty she 
 kept a majestic carriage, and in her pale plump 
 face the eyes still liquid were not always con- 
 siderate. She hated innovations of every kind 
 and jeered at them with an animosity often cruel. 
 Loving the husband who adored her, she pre- 
 ferred her sons to him and Jean to Maxime. Her 
 real affection for the little children justified to 
 her conscience the harshness she showed towards 
 her son's wife. Nicolette bore it with an impa- 
 tient, praiseworthy deference. There had been 
 many strains between them and there had been 
 friction between the sons and the father. The 
 Raynaud family lived, like most modern families, 
 in a state of "armed peace." The same spirit of 
 independence made the children oppose the par- 
 ents, the husband his wife, and even affected the 
 brothers, although Maxime was, of all the Ray- 
 nauds, the most conciliatory. 
 
 But on this evening of August the first, the dis- 
 cussion was only a means of escaping tenderness, 
 of diverting the current of emotion, of "saving 
 their face." Monsieur Louis Raynaud deplored
 
 244 To Arms! 
 
 the dismantling of the fortresses in the north and 
 feared an invasion of Belgium; the doctor esti- 
 mated the strength of the reserves; Jean dreamed 
 of a successful offensive; Nicolette wanted a po- 
 sition as nurse in a hospital ; Madame Louis Ray- 
 naud was sure that irreligious France would be 
 regenerated by suffering. And all of them, in 
 speaking, had in their voices a tender and almost 
 broken inflection contrasting with their words. A 
 feeling of kindness and gentleness, almost of con- 
 trition, stirred those who knew that they were 
 together perhaps for the last time. They did not 
 allow the scene to become tragic. There were no 
 tears nor phrases. They were French and were 
 as reserved in their tenderness as in their heroism. 
 Le Temps was brought in and Monsieur Louis 
 Raynaud read the latest news aloud: The visit 
 of the German Ambassador to the Quai d'Orsay, 
 the conversation of Monsieur Klobukowski with 
 Monsieur Davignon and the reputed assurance of 
 the ministry that France, faithful to its earlier 
 pledges, would respect the neutrality of Belgium, 
 but the decree of mobilisation was not in the five
 
 To Arms! 245 
 
 o'clock edition and therefore the iour large pages 
 seemed empty. 
 
 The day was declining. Nicolette, without 
 paint or powder, her eyes burning, went to sit by 
 Simone who gently took her hand. 
 
 "Be brave !" she said, very low. "You are not 
 the only one to suffer, my poor Nicolette. ... I 
 too . . ." 
 
 "Yes, we are all suffering, but not in the same 
 way," replied Madame Raynaud. "Your heart 
 is tortured and yet you remain calm, and your sor- 
 row is without bitterness. You have not bungled 
 your life ! You have not squandered your youth ! 
 If your love is broken, it has given you every- 
 thing, at least, all its sweetness, all its joys. . . . 
 It has left you the memory of a perfect and pure 
 beauty. . . . Others have not had this luck, Si- 
 mone! . . . Others feel, before the danger, the 
 price of lost days. Alas ! We did not know our 
 own souls, we did not have time to understand 
 them! We did not realise that we might have 
 been happy, so happy, and that underneath in 
 the midst of the little quarrels and daily misun-
 
 246 To Arms! 
 
 derstandings, we really loved with all our hearts !" 
 
 "Since we know it now, we must not forget it. 
 . . Trust in the future, my Nicolette ! . . ." 
 
 Madame Raynaud shook her head : 
 
 "The future! . . . Can you say that word to- 
 day?" 
 
 "I wish to speak it ! I wish to perform this act 
 of faith," said Simone. ... "I have too much 
 love not to hope. Yes, Frangois will return. . . . 
 I shall see him again. . . . 
 
 "Don't speak! Don't tempt misfortune!" 
 cried Nicolette. . . . 
 
 She bit her lips to choke back the sobs. 
 
 "Ah ! Simone, if you knew ! . . . This morn- 
 ing when we saw each other again, the scene, the 
 sad explanation! ... I did not want to think 
 which of us was responsible for our old misunder- 
 standings; I was no longer proud and irritable. 
 . . . The old-time love returned to my heart. 
 . . . And he was moved too! . . . But he goes 
 day after to-morrow and the idea of war intoxi- 
 cates him. What possesses the men? Is Frangois 
 the same? Did you see that he is glad to go?"
 
 To Arms! 247 
 
 "But Nicolette, have you thought how you 
 would feel if Jean went reluctantly? Their en- 
 thusiasm hurts us, but we enjoy it and are proud 
 of them." 
 
 Jean approached the two cousins: 
 
 "What are you plotting by yourselves?" he 
 said. "I am afraid that my wife may not be a 
 Spartan wife. You have a red nose, Nicolette! 
 Hou! Naughty child! Have some pluck, for 
 goodness' sake! You owe me that! I want to 
 take to war the memory of a pretty woman." 
 
 "Take my place," said Simone, moving away a 
 little, "and comfort this poor child. She loves 
 you more than you deserve to be loved." 
 
 Jean only kissed the hand of his wife silently. 
 Madame Louis Raynaud sighed: 
 
 "What sacrifices God demands of us! I am 
 not a very old person and yet I have seen two 
 wars, and twice I shall have given all that I love 
 best in the world; in 1870, my fiance; in 1914, 
 my children. I have endured the first test, and, 
 God willing, I shall bear the second. . . . Listen, 
 young women! Your hearts are not more torn
 
 248 To Arms! 
 
 than mine, but I am determined not to break 
 down. My sons must find me alive when they 
 return. . . ." She added: "Because they will 
 return, as their father did." 
 
 Monsieur Raynaud admired the vigor of his 
 old wife and did not dare to show his secret emo- 
 tion. Because he had seen the old war he foresaw 
 the horror of the new, scientifically planned for 
 and executed at the price of millions of men. 
 And then having known defeat, he had the slight- 
 ly humiliating fear of possible disaster. He had 
 heard it said for so long that France was wholly 
 decadent, that anti-militarism was consuming the 
 army, that the rich bourgeois thought only of 
 pleasure and the people only of class struggles. 
 No doubt, there would be an awakening of the 
 nation, but if fortune turned against it, at the 
 beginning, if the war was not ended in three 
 months, must it not fear the worst disaster? 
 
 The placidity of his sons disconcerted him. He 
 blamed their youth and inexperience, and as he 
 was a true French father, not solemn, and 
 very tender, he had a great desire to cry, but
 
 To Arms! 249 
 
 refrained for the sake of appearances and thought : 
 
 "My poor country ! My poor children ! . . ." 
 
 Jean declared that he would kill many Boches 
 
 and Madame Raynaud privately thanked God 
 
 that Maxime would be a doctor. Many mothers 
 
 would owe the lives of their sons to him ! 
 
 The brothers Gardave arrived a little late. Lu- 
 cien was ridiculously happy. The night before, 
 without waiting any longer, he had telegraphed 
 his father to ask his permission to enlist and had 
 received a favorable answer. 
 
 "Bravo!" said Jean. "It was fine for you to 
 do that! You are a dandy boy!" 
 
 Bertrand recounted his impressions of the day. 
 He spoke especially to Madame Davesnes, but 
 she listened absent-mindedly. In the middle of a 
 sentence, she interrupted: 
 
 "I think that I hear Frangois. ... At last!" 
 She rose to her feet, and as her husband entered 
 the room, where the light was fading, he saw her 
 first, and spoke to her first: 
 
 "Well! It is settled! I am going to-mor- 
 row. ."
 
 XVIII 
 
 THE dinner was painful for every one. The 
 old Raynauds made the best of it, but it 
 was easy to see that they were exhausted. Nico- 
 lette was absorbed in her passionate, dumb grief. 
 Simone and Francois, eager to be alone, dis- 
 tractedly exchanged glances. Bertrand de Gar- 
 dave thought of his mother and his sisters crying 
 in the poor castle in Perigord. . . . He dreamed 
 of the little hills full of hollow grottoes, of the 
 chestnut groves and of the clear and rushing Dor- 
 dogne. . . . Would he ever return to his dear 
 province? . . . Already, he had offered the 
 sacrifice of his life in the chapel of Saint-Jacques- 
 du-Haut-Pas which he had entered for a mo- 
 ment's meditation among the Jansenist shadows 
 and the damp ashes of the great past. His 
 brother smiled and talked, not at all disturbed, 
 with a charming Gascon vivacity. This gaiety 
 
 on the part of Lucien saddened the women. They 
 
 250
 
 To Arms! 251 
 
 admitted the duty and peril for the men, but this 
 little one, this child so fresh and young, who had 
 not tasted life, with the last maternal caresses 
 still upon him, this little one, they would have 
 spared. . . . 
 
 The blue light of evening, through the open 
 window, yellowed the glow of the electric light. 
 A basket of red roses sprayed over the tablecloth 
 like a pool of blood, and the perfume, in the 
 heavy air, seemed funereal. . . . 
 
 At times, there was silence, and the lines in 
 the faces no longer controlled by alert will power 
 became relaxed and aged, all at once. 
 
 Jean tried to revive the conversation. He de- 
 scribed his stay in Pontresina, in a cosmopolitan 
 hotel, where, until Wednesday, July 2Qth, peo- 
 ple did not speak of France except to comment 
 unpleasantly on the incidents of the Caillaux 
 trial. No one expected the war, but when they 
 saw the notice posted in the Kursaal announc- 
 ing the bombardment of Belgrade, they realised 
 that a critical moment was approaching. Im- 
 mediately, the tourists grouped themselves ac-
 
 252 To Arms! 
 
 cording to nationalities, because of the need of 
 drawing closer together to withstand opposing 
 and already hostile groups. 
 
 A large number of Germans watched the 
 French, who affected indifference. Bridge tables 
 were deserted and the uneasy women no longer 
 left their own countrymen. 
 
 Thursday evening there was a fresh despatch, 
 in German. "There has been no further ultima- 
 tum addressed by Germany to Russia, but there 
 is little hope of maintaining peace. . . ." This 
 time the shock was great. ... A Frenchman de- 
 clared, in a loud voice: "France does not permit 
 any one to send her an ultimatum." The others 
 approved before the German officers. Immedi- 
 ately they all made plans for the journey. They 
 rushed to the hotel office, and there, during quite 
 a long wait, Germans and French, side by side, 
 seemed more at ease, because everything had be- 
 come sincere. The masks fell. They were able 
 to speak at last with great mutual courtesy. The 
 Germans were sure of themselves. . . . Evident- 
 ly, the cause of the war the French said, the
 
 To Arms! 253 
 
 pretext is absurd, but it would be interesting to 
 fight. They were able to compare the artillery 
 of the two countries and the respective merits of 
 of the "75" guns and heavy cannon. . . . The 
 conversation relieved the tedium of waiting. . . . 
 But the Friday following, everything was 
 changed. The veneer of politeness had cracked. 
 The Germans emphasised their military conven- 
 tions: their relations were modified according to 
 their rank; one could see who gave way to the 
 others and who ignored the rest, the vulgar herd 
 of inferiors. They commented on the news, vio- 
 lently. . . . 
 
 And in the train, between the Engadine and 
 Basle, they did not conceal their aggressiveness. 
 When the Swiss employes did not attend to their 
 demands satisfactorily, they announced: "You 
 will pay up for this, next year, when Switzer- 
 land will be German. . . ." With us, they 
 were quieter. There was a certain timidity in 
 their insolence. . . . Moreover, they were con- 
 vinced that France was rotten. . . . One of them, 
 a colonel, said to me: "Still, apparently your
 
 254 To Arms! 
 
 army has made some progress. ..." I assured 
 him that he would shortly realise it. Then, after 
 a little silence : . . . "What can we do about it?" 
 he said, "war is a scourge, but we need colonies." 
 
 "Let them come and take them!" exclaimed 
 Lucien de Gardave. "The thieves, the bandits 
 the . . ." 
 
 The terrible denunciation he could not control 
 made every one laugh. His handsome rosy 
 cheeks grew purple. 
 
 "Out of the mouths of babes we hear the 
 truth," said Francois. 
 
 Monsieur Raynaud shook his white head. 
 
 "Are we ready"? That is the question." 
 
 "Our spirits are ready," replied Bertrand. 
 
 "That is not enough, my friend. We must have 
 cannon, guns, ammunition and a scientific com- 
 missary department. ... If you had only seen 
 1870! . . ." 
 
 Frangois said that one could not compare 
 France at the end of the Empire with the France 
 which, for several years, had proudly risen again 
 and felt her old vigor returning to her younger
 
 To Arms! 255 
 
 members. Bertrand de Gardave had expressed 
 it exactly: their spirits were ready. 
 
 "We do not make war with our spirits." 
 
 "But, without them, war leads to disaster. In 
 1870, all the nation did not rally to the flag; opin- 
 ions did not agree; faith was lacking. Cer- 
 tainly, our organisation is better than it was, al- 
 though it may still be inferior to the German or- 
 ganisation. . . . Fortunately, the French genius 
 is capable of marvellous inventions. . . ." 
 
 "You are confident 1 ?" demanded the old man. 
 
 "Absolutely confident." 
 
 Frangois repeated the surprise he had had in 
 the evidence of the sincere patriotism of his work- 
 men. 
 
 He had heard of the mobilisation at five o'clock, 
 from a factory gatekeeper who had seen the offi- 
 cial telegram displayed in the post-office. In the 
 nearly dark office, where they had gathered around 
 the directors, the head men and the engineers 
 looked at each other in silence. . . . Very simply, 
 in the quiet of the almost deserted building, they 
 had taken leave of each other. ... A hand grasp,
 
 256 To Arms! 
 
 a wish of good luck. . . . No conversation. . . . 
 Each one had gone to the pay-office and the em- 
 ployes, from the humblest whom Francois had 
 never seen, were come spontaneously to say "good- 
 by" to him. This sympathy had touched him. 
 
 "In returning to the station I was almost alone. 
 I looked at the darkened facade, a bit of the canal 
 reflecting the sky, the things I had seen every even- 
 ing for two years, and which had meant to me 
 the close of daily work, liberty, the first stage of 
 return home ... I thought: 'When shall I see 
 it again? . . .' The station was quiet. The 
 Zouaves mounted guard on the bridge. The train 
 arrived. In my car there were two young men and 
 a little dressmaker who was very anxious to ex- 
 plain to her parents the lark she had had all the 
 afternoon with the aforesaid lads. For them the 
 war did not yet exist. . . . Often, the train 
 stopped, leaving the line free for other trains 
 going towards the points of concentration. At 
 last, I arrived in Paris, very late. I was 
 struck by the look of the streets: no gaiety, 
 no enthusiasm, no dejection, but movement
 
 To Arms! 257 
 
 and action, and, in the crowd were officers 
 in service outfits, a blanket over their shoulders. 
 On the Pont de PEurope, I stopped a moment to 
 look at the interior of the Saint-Lazare station. 
 From that point, slightly elevated, from which the 
 streets appeared to descend, I suddenly had the 
 sense of a great change. . . . Paris was no longer 
 the Paris I had left in the morning. . . . All of 
 her complex life, divided into thousands and 
 thousands of interests, had now but one mind and 
 one object. . . . Then, I was seized with a sort 
 of intoxication, in which there was neither pleas- 
 ure nor trouble, not even enthusiasm, but much 
 more than emotion: an intoxication affecting my 
 brain and not my nerves and yet exciting my 
 breast. I was actually drunk with the idea that I 
 was living through a unique evening, greater than 
 all of the evenings experienced since my birth, and 
 which would not have its like in all the evenings 
 to come until my death. . . . And then, I thought 
 of nothing but you, my friends, and of Si- 
 mone and I hurried to this house like a school- 
 boy . . ."
 
 258 To Arms! 
 
 "Well!" said Jean, "hearing of the mobilisa- 
 tion through the noises in the street, did not give 
 me the shock I had last night on the frontier, when 
 they said : 'The Germans have held up the French 
 locomotives in Alsace,' and especially when I saw 
 this morning, the first French sentinel near a via- 
 duct. The silhouette, the military attitude, and 
 the sharp outline of the bayonet against the blue 
 of the dawn! It was beautiful enough to make 
 one weep! And the trains of reservists passing, 
 the soldiers at the car doors, the serene energy of 
 these men who did not sing! . . . Often the mo- 
 bilised men, going to their depot, delayed our 
 train. They were men from the East. They ex- 
 cused themselves for inconveniencing us a little. 
 They were calm. One of them said : 'The Boches 
 have tormented us for a long time, Monsieur. 
 ... It must stop. We understand that it must 
 stop. . . . Our children must have peace. . . . 
 For us, the worst is behind us. We have left our 
 home. Now, we are not thinking any more about 
 it. ... It is true, isn't it, that the government 
 will not let our families die 7' Others looked at
 
 To Arms! 259 
 
 the country, the ripe wheat, the woods veiled in 
 a thin mist. . . . They noticed, no doubt for 
 the first time, the beauty of the country-side. . . . 
 'All the same, it would be dreadful to let the 
 swine spoil our beautiful France.' I repeat the 
 phrase exactly. Never has a burst of academic 
 eloquence given me more pleasure than this 
 phrase." 
 
 After dinner, the old Raynauds went home. 
 Jean and Nicolette were to spend the next day 
 with them. Then, the Gardave brothers wished 
 to go in their turn. 
 
 Bertrand pressed his lips to Simone's hand. 
 
 "I do not know whether we shall see each other 
 again, Madame, but I shall think of you, in trying 
 hours, because you have helped me to understand 
 and to love France. . . . Does that surprise you? 
 . . . Oh ! It is very simple. . . . But I have not 
 the right to explain myself further. Believe me, 
 and do not forget me entirely." 
 
 He admired the blonde hair, the fine features, 
 the intelligent eyes, shading blue and grey like the
 
 260 To Arms! 
 
 Seine under the changeable sky of Paris, the ten- 
 der smile and the quiet grace and air of passion 
 and of modesty, making him think of the prin- 
 cesses of Racine. In a flash, he imagined this 
 woman attacked by the enemy and he knew that 
 he would gladly die to defend her. 
 
 "Farewell, Madame!" 
 
 "Until me meet again, Bertrand !" 
 
 That was all. When the two young men had 
 gone, Francois and Simone spoke of leaving, but 
 Nicolette begged them to wait five minutes. She 
 was going upstairs on account of the children, and 
 she would come back. . . . 
 
 Maxime took Frangois to the smoking-room to 
 give him some practical advice, and write a pre- 
 scription. Simone and Jean remained alone. 
 
 Nicolette's husband then said: 
 
 "I have a request to make of you, my little 
 cousin, and perhaps I may not have another chance 
 to speak to you frankly. It is this: I confide 
 Nicollete to you. It is not a question of the 
 children. My brother will be happy to interest 
 himself in them. But, for Nicolette, neither he
 
 To Arms! 261 
 
 nor my parents nor my mother-in-law are able to 
 do anything. You alone can do much. . . . 
 Promise me then to love this poor woman, like a 
 real sister." 
 
 "I promise you, Jean, but why? . . ." 
 
 "Because your promise will lighten my remorse 
 a little. . . . You know, Nicolette has not been 
 very happy. I feel myself responsible for the dis- 
 illusion that has come to her in marriage and 
 even for what has come to me in the same way. 
 ... I was mistaken in supposing that I could 
 make a good husband and father of a 
 family. . . ." 
 
 "Oh ! Jean, if you desire it seriously, after the 
 war, you can regain your happiness. It is cracked ; 
 it is not broken. . . ." 
 
 "Alas! I should not repair this precious por- 
 celain. . . . What happens in novels, my dear 
 Simone, is exceptional in life. ... I shall not 
 suddenly acquire all the domestic virtues because 
 I have risked my life. . . . My act would have 
 to be a sacrifice. But whatever happens no one 
 owes me either admiration or pity. . . . Open
 
 262 To Arms! 
 
 your beautiful eyes wide ! . . . Shake your head. 
 It is so. . . . I regret nothing, absolutely nothing. 
 The life I have lived has been vain and absurd. 
 I have a taste for risk and adventure. . . . Sud- 
 denly, adventure offers itself to me the most 
 splendid of all ! I am happy, I feel myself free 
 and young, and I go to war as I would to an ad- 
 venture in love. . . . Yes, I shall fight for 
 France and also for pleasure. . . . There is an 
 immense egoism in my courage. . . ." 
 
 "Poor Nicolette!" said Simone, softly. . . . 
 "How I pity her!" 
 
 In the smoking-room, Maxime whispered. 
 Simone overheard occasional words. 
 
 "If you are wounded in the chest. . . ." 
 
 Jean wanted to kiss her hand as a sign of grati- 
 tude. He felt sure that it was icy cold. . . .
 
 XIX 
 
 Rue de Rome at night. The whistle of 
 * locomotives in the cutting seems to make 
 the sky quiver as it is rent with flashes of still 
 lightning. Simone and Francois, moved by the 
 fraternal leave-taking of Maxime and of Jean, 
 walk close together. Often, in dark places, they 
 slacken their steps. Their lips meet in a profound 
 kiss, where the trace of bitter tears still lingers! 
 . . . They speak with difficulty. Simone thinks 
 of trifling matters that the key of Francois's 
 canteen does not work well, and she remembers 
 that the railway time-table is lost. . . . 
 
 "How will you be able to lunch en route? . . . 
 Have you taken the prescription Maxime wrote 
 for you? . . . You will telegraph me at once on 
 arriving at Besangon*?" 
 
 He replies no matter what. . . . She does not 
 
 listen, for she is speaking to herself to divert her 
 
 263
 
 264 To Arms! 
 
 thoughts. . . . And at times she shivers all over 
 and sighs: 
 
 "Ah! God help me!" 
 
 "Simone ! my beloved ! . . ." 
 
 "If we could waken to-morrow and find that we 
 had dreamed it all!" 
 
 "Be calm, dearest! . . . Dearest! . . . Put 
 your cheek against my shoulder. . . . There. 
 . . . Don't speak. . . . Let me lead you." 
 
 This distracted suffering raving at his side tor- 
 tures Frangois. He understands that the reaction 
 is the result of the long strain of the day, and that 
 Simone is paying the price of her courage. He 
 admires her because she was able to control herself 
 at the Raynauds'. Since they have been alone, 
 outside, she has become nervously unstrung. 
 
 He does not know the exact hour of the morn- 
 ing train. Simone asserts: 
 
 "The summer express goes about eleven 
 o'clock. . . ." 
 
 He is doubtful about it, and when they reach 
 the Place du Havre, he suggests that they should 
 go into a cafe to consult a time-table. In the
 
 To Arms! 265 
 
 brighter light, in the presence of others, Simone 
 recovers herself. . . . She searches the pages her- 
 self. . . . She was mistaken. 
 
 "The express leaves for Dijon at nine o'clock, 
 where it waits to make connections." 
 
 "Very well! I shall go at nine o'clock. . . ." 
 
 "Why not to-morrow evening 1 ?" 
 
 "But I am not at liberty to choose my 
 train. ... It is not a pleasure trip that I am un- 
 dertaking. . . ." 
 
 She makes no protest. He takes her through 
 the streets. People read the proclamation of the 
 Municipal Council. They speak louder and more 
 freely than on the previous evening. Many 
 Parisians are going hastily in search of friends 
 whose arrangements for military service they do 
 not know exactly and who may easily be leaving 
 the next day. There are families dragging their 
 sleepy or excited children, and lovers clinging to- 
 gether and kissing. During the day, the men have 
 lived intensely, virily, with all their fighting en- 
 ergies. During this supreme night now beginning, 
 they are going to live as lovers, as husbands, with
 
 266 To Arms! 
 
 all the power of the heart and flesh. Night gives 
 them back to woman. . . . 
 
 There is no brutality in the ardor burning in 
 their blood. Almost always tenderness has a part 
 in it. Handsome couples become pathetic partly 
 because of their beauty. And others, without 
 charm and without elegance, are no less touching. 
 Worn-out wives, husbands with ordinary faces, 
 hold each other awkwardly by the arm, and com- 
 monplace among the commonplace, are raised 
 above themselves by the sacred emotion of the mo- 
 ment. The shadow of hovering death ennobles 
 their humility. They revive caresses forgotten 
 since their honey-moon. The child is with them, 
 but this evening the child no longer belongs to its 
 mother. If they are walking, the father holds it 
 by the hand; if it is too small to walk, the father 
 carries it on his free arm, against his heart. The 
 instinct of perpetuity cheers him and the soldier 
 going to fight, certain of not dying wholly, con- 
 soles himself because his descendants will not 
 know war. 
 
 The families separate themselves in the crowd,
 
 To Arms! 267 
 
 the father, mother and little ones, huddled in an 
 isolated group. In the same way birds seek their 
 nest together when a hawk threatens to attack 
 them. 
 
 The wide avenue was bathed in night. The 
 gas of the street lamps gave to the plane trees be- 
 hind them a hard artificial green, making the de- 
 serted sidewalks seem more desolate. Not a soul 
 was in the little street. Madame Anselme's door 
 was half open under the ruddy light of the lamp. 
 The black velvety cats crept along craftily. 
 
 Simone whispered: 
 
 "Do you remember our return last winter, the 
 dry cold stinging my eyes, and how I held your 
 hand in my muff? . . . You said 'We shall be 
 comfortable, very soon. . . .' and you took off my 
 wraps yourself. ... It is ended, our joy, ended 
 for a long time. . . . To-morrow evening, I shall 
 come back alone, I shall pass here where we are 
 walking, quite alone. . . ." 
 
 "Don't say that," he said. "Don't take away
 
 268 To Arms! 
 
 my strength. You will never know what it costs 
 me." 
 
 At home, in the vestibule, they clung together 
 and without separating went to their room. The 
 globe in the ceiling, covered with flowered ma- 
 terial, lighted them and in the faint glow the ob- 
 jects seemed filled with intimate poetry. A wel- 
 come emanated from them like a perfume. How 
 charming the old cotton prints were with their 
 blue country scenes and their temples, colonnades 
 and sheep folds arranged on a creamy white back- 
 ground ! How friendly it was, the nut-brown fur- 
 niture, with its glossy leather in leafy patterns. 
 On the night-table, Marie had put the lamp with 
 the bent standard, a water-bottle, and some books. 
 And she had laid Simone's long filmy gown on the 
 folded point of the turned-down bedclothes. De- 
 lightful lover's room, too small now for a cradle, 
 but soon to seem so vast and empty ! . . . 
 
 Both of them, overcome by the same regret, 
 thought with silent dismay of the indefinite series 
 of future evenings, such solitary evenings !
 
 To Arms! 269 
 
 All at once, a little clock struck and Simone 
 cried suddenly: "Eleven o'clock!" 
 
 Was it possible 1 ? They had only eight hours 
 more to be together, before the departure of Fran- 
 gois! And nothing was ready for him! 
 
 He said that he must write some letters, con- 
 firming certain arrangements he had made for Si- 
 mone's sake, because one never knows what may 
 happen. . . ." 
 
 She turned pale, "One never knows what may 
 happen! . . . Alas! One knows only too well, 
 now!" 
 
 She went to get Francois's canteen and brought 
 it back to the room. It was an old one with a 
 poor fastening, which Frangois on leaving the ser- 
 vice had not wanted to replace. Then, in the 
 bottom of a chest they found the old uniforms 
 carefully folded and packed in camphor. 
 
 "We'll leave the windows open," said Simone. 
 "The odor will quickly evaporate." 
 
 On the lounge, on the arm-chairs, she spread 
 out the dark military clothes, trimmed with red 
 bands. She was astounded because they seemed
 
 270 To Arms! 
 
 heavy in her hands. She was hardly able to un- 
 fold the thick, stiff cloak ! 
 
 "Do you think that you will wear it again, 
 Fran9ois < ? Do you remember that you looked at 
 it regretfully, when you helped me fold it to 
 crowd it into the box two years ago*?" 
 
 "It is an old servant and has weathered many 
 storms ! We pushed it into retirement too quickly, 
 but it is like me, still good for active serv- 
 ice. . . ." 
 
 While the young wife ransacked the wardrobe, 
 Francois seated himself at his desk. From time 
 to time Simone went to him. She consulted him : 
 Where should she put this thing? . . . What 
 should she do with the others? 
 
 "I do not find your field-glasses." 
 
 "In the cupboard, on the third shelf, with the 
 revolver. . . . My sabre is below. . . ." 
 
 He continued writing. Simone went away 
 slowly without taking her eyes from his beloved 
 form, his head covered with rough hair, his profile 
 clean-cut as bronze. When Francois had finished 
 writing, he called her to him. He gave her an
 
 To Arms! 271 
 
 account-book, letters, a list of necessary shopping 
 for her to do, a small sum of gold he had col- 
 lected and the key of his private drawer. And 
 steadily, with the precision which was a part of 
 all the acts of his life, he gave her advice. The 
 war might be long. . . . She must resist the de- 
 moralising influences of solitude and revery; she 
 must act, working for herself and for others. . . . 
 In the hospitals or in relief work, which would in- 
 crease, a woman like Simone could find opportu- 
 nities for usefulness. . . . He took her on his 
 knees and felt her tremble all over, fragile and 
 ardent, her head turned away, choked with sighs. 
 A delicate perfume emanated from her skin, her 
 dress and her ashen hair. Under the fabrics, her 
 exquisite form moved gracefully. Francois 
 thought of the hours he had held her in this way 
 and the rapture of their mutual joy and the bonds 
 joining them together, ties of devotion and tender- 
 ness, of passion and of pleasure, bonds which cus- 
 tom had strengthened instead of weakening. Si- 
 mone was his companion and his friend, but she 
 was also his sweetheart. She was a part of him-
 
 272 To Arms! 
 
 self, like the power by which he moved, like the 
 marrow of his bones and the blood of his heart. 
 
 She did not know, the well-beloved, through 
 what alternations of courage and of weakness he 
 had passed; he, the apparently imperturbable 
 stoic ! 
 
 She did not know that he was consumed with 
 anxiety over leaving her in this way, and that out 
 there where his duty called him, he would know 
 all the tortures of solicitous homesickness. She 
 did not know that for this soldier ready to die 
 and die nobly, the sacrifice represented a super- 
 human effort. And she never would know. She 
 would never be able to realise the suffering of him 
 who refused even in the emotion of their parting, 
 to weaken her or himself. 
 
 She listened, pressed to his heart and she re- 
 membered. She recalled the years of her sad 
 childhood, her dreary and limited youth, and then 
 the beautiful golden autumn when she had finally 
 begun to live; she saw once more the walk in the 
 park, the bench under the elm, and Francois be- 
 side her, while the friendly twilight concealed
 
 To Arms! 273 
 
 their first kiss. And she remembered also the lit- 
 tle apartment which she had found on their re- 
 turn from the wedding journey, partly furnished 
 and in absurd disorder. She could hear Frangois 
 saying as they entered : 
 
 "Unhappiness will never enter here through 
 my fault." 
 
 Their love had been so simple, so brave in the 
 face of life, so pure even in its fervor! Simone 
 and Francois loved as one breathes, from vital ne- 
 cessity. Nature and chance had created in them 
 one of those unions rarely experienced by human 
 beings, so rarely that the majority of men speak 
 of them with a touch of irony, concealing under 
 a mask of scepticism a regret they do not confess. 
 And this love, this beautiful innocent thing, 
 spreading joy everywhere by its mere existence, 
 might be destroyed, like so many other joys, easily 
 or with difficulty produced by the unconquerable 
 patience of women. Happiness of old mothers 
 leaning on their sons, happiness of young mothers 
 bending over the cradles of their babies, happi- 
 ness of married couples, happiness of lovers, poor
 
 274 To Arms! 
 
 nests now to be overturned by the storm and tram- 
 pled on by the horde. . . . And why. . . . Why 
 should men, their short lives threatened by a 
 thousand evils, enrage each other, instead of help- 
 ing to make life better for every one"? Why 
 should the ferocious pride and cupidity of a peo- 
 ple bring them to universal butchery 1 ? Why was 
 this crime not punished by Eternal Justice as soon 
 as it was conceived in any mind, as soon as any 
 will prepared to execute it"? If it were accom- 
 plished to the very end, to the ruin of France, in 
 a flood of fire and blood, would it not mean the 
 failure of all morality, of all religion, of the great 
 struggle for the good that humanity has been la- 
 boriously making for centuries? 
 
 These thoughts made Simone almost cry out 
 with despair! But she clenched her delicate fin- 
 gers and bit her lips. A fury seized her, mingled 
 with her woman's grief, a powerless rage she had 
 never known until this night. Her soul, not 
 formed for hatred, was learning to hate. . . . 
 
 She wished that a catastrophe would entirely an- 
 
 
 
 nihilate Germany; she called down death on the
 
 To Arms! 275 
 
 Kaiser and every one belonging to him, and, 
 shrinking with agony before the future, she took 
 refuge on the strong heart of the being she cher- 
 ished, who was still with her for a little while, for 
 half a night. 
 
 She whispered: 
 
 "I have only you!" 
 
 It was true. Other women had parents, chil- 
 dren, sisters and brothers. . . . Simone was alone 
 in the world as Frangois was alone ! 
 
 "I have nothing but you ! . . . I have nothing 
 but you! . . ." She repeated in a kind of delir- 
 ium. . . . 
 
 He tried to quiet her. But when he wanted 
 to explain to her the arrangements he had made, 
 and how she might live "In case of misfortune" 
 she smothered him with a caress. . . . 
 
 "No ! I do not care to hear you. . . ." 
 
 "But it is necessary." 
 
 "No! ... No! ..." she cried, sobbing. "No! 
 I do not wish it. ... You imagine that I would 
 survive you? . . . Do you not love as I love*? 
 ... I let you go, I give you to France, but if I
 
 276 To Arms! 
 
 lose you, I shall not need to sigh for death. . . ." 
 From what depths did this woman's cry arise! 
 How she suffered, how the frail Simone, this ten- 
 der Simone, this dear Simone would suffer, whom 
 Frangois would protect from sorrow, even at the 
 price of martyrdom ! Truly, he did not renounce 
 for one second the old idea of hoaor which was 
 for him instinctive; his will did not waver a sec- 
 ond ! he did not cease to be himself, but his lacer- 
 ated feelings uttered a secret moan. . . . He ex- 
 perienced in a wave of emotion all the terrors of 
 separation and death, and pressing the adored 
 form to him he cried, he too, without shame, a 
 man's tears, rare and slow, flowing with difficulty 
 and giving greater evidence of suffering than the 
 blood flowing from a wound.
 
 XX 
 
 HE slept now, broken, on Simone"s "breast, be- 
 tween her arms, beneath her hair. 
 A rumble, a heavy clasp, then a tremendous 
 crash made the heavens resound. The phosphor- 
 escence cast a blue light on the shades. The 
 storm, after threatening for three days, broke 
 forth at last. Flashes of lightning crossed over 
 Paris. . . . Francois trembled in his sleep. Did 
 he dream of attacking armies? Did he hear the 
 caa'Mon roar"? Simone laid her hand on his fever- 
 isi '< orehead where his thought vaguely kept vigil. 
 
 Sleep, my beloved! . . . Sleep! . . . For- 
 
 gr > 
 
 $"he did not forget, and thinking of the sad 
 hfv >iness that they had drained to its last dregs, 
 sh iid to herself that in all of the homes in in- 
 ni^ icrable towns, men and women loved each 
 other, intoxicated with tears and caresses, during 
 the stormy night. This din of thunder in the hea- 
 vens, a bad omen, concealed, so that the God 
 
 277
 
 278 To Arms! 
 
 of pity might not hear human sobs and tender- 
 ness. But love was preparing its retaliation. The 
 web of life, about to break in so many places, re- 
 newed elsewhere the sacred fabric of the future. 
 From these farewells, a whole race would be born, 
 and France of the future renewed. 
 
 Strangely calm, Simone looked at Francois. 
 She did not cry any more ; she had passed beyond 
 that stage of revolt and of despair, and reached 
 the depth of supreme suffering where serenity is 
 found. Motionless, she heard the quick sounds 
 of thunder grow more distant. The darkness 
 faded. The sparrows in the chestnuts saluted the 
 dawn. 
 
 The dawn came and the sun threw a thin ar- 
 row of gold through the crack in the blinds. Blue 
 swains, under blue porticoes, arranged themselves 
 in a pattern with their flutes and their garlands. 
 Outside, a cart rattled in a silence like Sunday 
 morning and the bells rang for the first mass. 
 
 Simone kissed Francois's eyes to waken him, 
 that the terrible day might begin happily. They 
 had begun, in this way, for two years, all the joy-
 
 To Arms! 279 
 
 ous days of their lives. ' And in a voice that did 
 not tremble, she said: 
 
 "My beloved, the hour has come." 
 For the last time, she arranged her husband's 
 garments herself; for the last time she served the 
 tea in the tiny dining-room. . . . What meaning 
 was given to the smallest acts, what tenderness 
 was connected with the most ordinary objects! 
 All the house seemed a living thing that in some 
 unknown way suffered in sympathy with those 
 who lived in it. Frangois looked at the slight 
 crack in the cup, a cloth Simone had embroidered, 
 a faded bouquet he had bought two evenings be- 
 fore, the books lying about, the play of a sun- 
 beam in a mirror, a small defect in the wall-paper, 
 the nothings the nothings that recall everything, 
 when they are remembered far away. . . . 
 He thought: 
 
 "My home ! . . . My wife ! . . ." 
 All of his worldly possessions, all of his rea- 
 sons for living were contained in those four 
 words ! But he accepted the great reason for dy- 
 ing, tearing him from Simone and from his hearth.
 
 280 To Arms! 
 
 He already saw them only as a small speck in the 
 new world he was entering, where he himself was 
 only a soldier, lost among millions of soldiers. His 
 individual existence had become entirely negli- 
 gible. He renounced it without effort, with a 
 fierce joy, although the torture of the separation 
 remained. But this torture affected only his heart 
 and flesh. It did not touch his will, wholly sat- 
 isfied, perfectly calm, in the midst of the worst 
 troubles. 
 
 He was also strengthened because of Simone's 
 attitude, which no longer betrayed any weakness. 
 
 She was very solicitous about the carriage 
 which would be difficult to get, and because Ma- 
 rie Pourat was late. Then Frangois proposed that 
 they should go to the Avenue for an auto or an 
 ordinary cab, which they could keep waiting for 
 them. They went out together. The air had 
 cleared. A lavender and golden light, the misty 
 light which floats like crayon dust over Paris in 
 the early morning, caressed the little street. There 
 were no more masons in the stoneyard; no em- 
 ployees nor dressmakers were going toward the
 
 To Arms! 281 
 
 neighboring subway station. They certainly 
 felt, in spite of all, that the day was a Sunday and 
 they met women with new hats going to church. 
 The Gouge grocery was open, but Madame An- 
 selme's shop was closed. 
 
 On the Avenue, Frangois stopped a newsboy. 
 The paper he bought had a final paragraph: 
 
 "Germany has declared war on Russia" 
 
 The news was not unexpected, and the blow 
 they had seen coming disconcerted no one. After 
 the great shock of the mobilisation, the nerves of 
 the French were sufficiently braced to endure, 
 without giving way, any subsequent shocks. Si- 
 mone only said: 
 
 "Our turn will come soon." 
 
 As they walked, her eyes ran over the pages 
 unfolded by Francois. . . . Message of the Pres- 
 ident of the Republic to the French nation. . . . 
 Appeal of the Municipal Council to the people 
 of Paris. ... It is announced that the support 
 of England has been acquired by France, "with- 
 out arranging exactly the nature and form of the 
 probable intervention. . . ."
 
 282 To Arms! 
 
 "Well!" said Frangois, smiling, "Gustave 
 Herve has asked to go 'in spite of his myopia and 
 his forty-three years !' That will make our good 
 neighbor Lepoultre reflect!" 
 
 Just then, the "good neighbor" passed them; 
 he was with his son-in-law, Monsieur Delmotte, 
 who exhibited proudly his stripes of Second-Lieu- 
 tenant of engineers. A little farther away, Da- 
 vesnes saw Alexandre Frechette, carrying a canvas 
 valise. He accompanied his little friend who 
 bought cakes at a confectioner's and he looked 
 for a cab in vain. Although he had never spoken 
 to Frangois Davesnes, he bowed cordially: 
 
 "Good luck, Lieutenant !" 
 
 Frangois replied: 
 
 "Good luck!" 
 
 And other mobilised men of the district passed, 
 whose faces were familiar. Abbe Moriceau, trans- 
 formed into a sergeant, was with his mother in 
 an old cab with a top railing. The Alsatian lock- 
 smith conducted his workmen, and the fifteen- 
 year-old apprentice followed behind, very proud 
 to carry the distended bag of his comrades. Made-
 
 To Arms! 283 
 
 moiselle Florence, with reddened eyes, hung on 
 the arm of her lover. 
 
 Simone could not take her eyes away from 
 Frangois. Pale and more slender in his uniform, 
 he was truly a fine officer and he had the man- 
 ner and bearing of one born to command. In the 
 atmosphere of this morning, smelling of powder, 
 Simone was elated with pride, the enthusiastic 
 feeling of admiration added to love. The one she 
 had loved and chosen was a real man! She re- 
 membered the men she had met at the Raynauds', 
 ornaments of salons, politicians, athletes, men of 
 money and of pleasure, poor puppets who would 
 be quickly blown down by the wind of war! 
 What was Frangois Davesnes, even yesterday, to 
 these persons'? Neither celebrated nor rich, de- 
 testing talkativeness and bragging, what did he 
 
 C> \J\J <J' 
 
 represent to those who did not know his soul and 
 whom, moreover, he avoided with a quiet and cour- 
 teous disdain? Now, in the test where all of his 
 generation gave their utmost, he was precisely the 
 Frenchman whom France in peril needed, ener- 
 getic and modest, mastering the tenderest emotion
 
 284 To Arms! 
 
 of his heart by rigid will power, profoundly hu- 
 man even in the violence of the strife, scorning 
 words, knowing how to face all reality and ready 
 for obscure sacrifice. Everywhere, he would find 
 and keep the place due him: in the greatest dan- 
 ger and in the greatest honor. 
 
 After having walked about for some time, Si- 
 mone and Frangois finally discovered an automo- 
 bile. The chauffeur agreed to drive them home, 
 then to the Lyons station. 
 
 "It is because it is you, Lieutenant. To-day, 
 there are no longer any cabs for civilians." 
 
 Marie Pourat had come in the absence of her 
 employer. When she saw Francois, she began 
 to cry. She did not think that Monsieur would 
 go so soon ! That Anthime of hers would not go 
 until the fifth day. How empty it made all the 
 houses, this departure of the men ! And she asked 
 insistently if Monsieur believed that the war 
 would last a long time. 
 
 "Several months, perhaps." 
 
 "God preserve us! ... What will happen to 
 the rest of us! ... To be sure, there will be 

 
 To Arms! 285 
 
 women who will die of grief, like this poor woman 
 Anselme. . . ." 
 
 Simone exclaimed: 
 
 "Madame Anselme is dead!" 
 
 "Yes, Madame. She was too sensitive, that 
 strong woman. Night before last she had an at- 
 tack of vertigo, and her son begged them to hide 
 the bad news from her. . . . He did not even 
 tell her of the mobilisation. She suspected some- 
 thing. ... It is difficult to deceive a mother! 
 . . . She did not seem to notice anything, but last 
 night, she got up and went to the shop for a 
 paper . . . and suddenly she cried out. Her son 
 reached her only in time to take her in his arms, 
 quite rigid. . . . She died at daybreak. Mon- 
 sieur Pierre should have gone this morning! He 
 will ask a respite to bury his poor mother. . . . 
 It is terrible !" 
 
 "Yes," said Simone, "it is terrible !" 
 
 She put her hand over her eyes, as if she had 
 suddenly seen death face to face, death, about to 
 be the fearful queen of the world, and which, 
 stealthily, had come in the little peaceful street
 
 286 To Arms! 
 
 of the suburbs to seize its first victim . . . 
 
 Marie Pourat mopped her eyes with the corner 
 of her apron. She ended : 
 
 "There are plenty of mothers who would be 
 jealous of an end like that, in such times." 
 
 Meanwhile, Frangois hurried Simone. Even 
 arriving at eight o'clock, he risked not having any 
 place in the train. 
 
 Once more, he impressed upon his vision the 
 blue room, the grey salon, the cherished objects, 
 and pressing his wife to his heart, he said to her : 
 
 "Simone, whatever comes, we shall have known 
 life in its best and most beautiful form. I have 
 been happy through you, among all men. Tell 
 me that you have been happy !" 
 
 "Ah! Frangois!" . . . 
 
 The moments slipped by. He led her away. 
 Marie had already taken the canteen to the cab. 
 She handed the dressing-bag to Simone and the 
 sword in its grey scabbard. 
 
 "That is all. . . . Good-bye, Madame! and 
 good luck, Monsieur. May the good God send 
 you back soon, after beating the Prussians !"
 
 To Arms! 287 
 
 An automobile panted in the court of the house. 
 Madame Miton came to speak to Monsieur Da- 
 vesnes and to beg the chauffeur to hurry. 
 
 "Monsieur Melinier is going. . . . They say 
 that he will take a general with him." 
 
 She sighed: 
 
 "All the tenants are going! There will be no 
 one left here but their wives." 
 
 The taxicab started and the little street van- 
 ished behind Simone and Francois Davesnes, as if 
 it had fallen into the past, with its small old 
 houses, its new dwellings, and the fence with the 
 advertisements, the chestnuts overhanging the 
 garden wall and the clock-tower where the doves 
 cooed. . . . 
 
 The sun emerged from the heavy fogs. When 
 the automobile crossed Austerlitz Bridge, the 
 tower of Notre Dame and the quays were outlined 
 between the blue sky and the silver stream. 
 
 "How beautiful Paris is!" said Frangois. "Dear 
 Paris . . . with what affection we shall defend 
 her!" 
 
 "You believe," said Simone, eagerly, "you be-
 
 v 288 To Arms! 
 
 lieve in victory *? Do you think that we who were 
 born in a conquered country, shall see revenge, 
 triumph, a new France, and that we shall not sub- 
 mit in vain to the martyrdom of this day"? You 
 go confidently? . . . You are certain, say that 
 you are certain. . . ." 
 
 "I am sure that I shall do my whole duty, like 
 the others, and I feel a great hope, if not a cer- 
 tainty. . . . Germany is strong ! the struggle will 
 be long and hard. . . . Never be a pessimist, 
 whatever happens, my dearest, but keep your il- 
 lusions. . . . Success will be painfully bought." 
 
 "The Russians will help us. ... Perhaps the 
 English. . . ." 
 
 "Perhaps. . . . But we must count on our- 
 selves. ... It is the people of France who will 
 save France. . . ." 
 
 The automobile went slower. 
 
 An immense crowd overflowed the Rue de Lyon 
 where the subway entrance poured out a torrent 
 of men and women. Vehicles of all sorts, the 
 most antiquated and the most bizarre, carried the 
 mobilised men. All this crowd, barred at inter-
 
 To Arms! 289 
 
 vals by police and soldiers, moved with one im- 
 pulse in the same direction towards the station. 
 There were many officers of all grades and ages, 
 lieutenants of the territorials with grey hair, un- 
 comfortable in the uniform that squeezed their 
 stomachs, doctors and marines bound for their 
 ships at Toulon. On the earth-works families 
 of Italians, Croatians and Bohemians waited for 
 the free trains reserved for foreigners and looked 
 as if even the soil were bearing filth and misery. 
 There were couples with children and young men 
 with old mothers. The farewells of the night had 
 reddened their eyes and lined their wan faces. 
 Almost all of the women were crying, softly, with 
 an air of asking forgiveness. . . . "Good-bye, 
 little one ! . . . May the good God protect you ! 
 . . . Adieu, mamma! Good-bye, wife and 
 child ! . . . Don't be afraid. We shall get them. 
 Good-bye ! Write to us. ... Don't take cold 
 at night. . . . Don't lose your money! . . . 
 Tender and familiar nicknames melted in a kiss. 
 . . . But the scene was short and simple. The 
 soldier passed the barrier; the mother, the wife or
 
 290 To Arms! 
 
 the sweetheart, silent and staggering, turned back, 
 and the people stepped aside before her. 
 
 A good-natured man took Frangois's canteen. 
 Pushing through the crowd, with difficulty, he 
 reached the baggage room. But there were two 
 lines of soldiers with imperative orders. "No 
 women inside of the station, except travellers pro- 
 vided with tickets." Frangois insisted in vain. 
 
 "Very well! wait for me outside," he said to 
 Simone. "I shall leave the small packages with 
 you and go to register my baggage. Watch my 
 troublesome sword and my bag. ... I shall 
 come back. We can say good-bye in the court, 
 my poor darling!" 
 
 She obeyed sadly, standing near the officer of 
 the peace who guarded the passage. The soldiers 
 looked at her with an amiable curiosity. At the 
 end of a quarter of an hour, Frangois had not re- 
 turned. The military Cerberus observed the 
 young woman. Was he moved by the distress in 
 her eyes ? He murmured : 
 
 "The Lieutenant cannot leave without his 
 weapons? That would not be possible. ... By
 
 To Arms! 291 
 
 that time . . . you can enter all the same. ..." 
 In speaking, he moved a little away from the 
 door. Simone thanked him in a low trembling 
 voice, then slipped through the propitious open- 
 ing, like a mouse. At last! she was in the place, 
 and Frangois returning, saw it. 
 
 Half-past eight. They had still several min- 
 utes. . . . On a bench, to one side, they sat down 
 unable to speak, hand in hand, and they suffered 
 in that moment more than they had ever suffered. 
 
 The first to speak, she said: 
 
 "Francois, see the clock. . . . You must 
 go " 
 
 "No. ... I have time. . . ." 
 
 "There won't be any more room. You will be 
 very uncomfortable. ... I don't want anything 
 to happen to you. . . . And then, I feel that this 
 emotion will kill us. . . ." 
 
 He assented: 
 
 "You are right." 
 
 They went in the direction of the quay. There 
 a new order stopped Simone. 
 
 Then, she threw herself on Frangois's breast;
 
 292 To Arms! 
 
 she clung close to him, her fingers clutching his 
 uniform, as her hair was caught on its buttons. 
 A mad prayer arose from the depths of her shat- 
 tered being to the unknown Powers: "Oh, that 
 he may live! that I may see him again! ..." 
 Feverishly, Francois's mouth pressed hers. 
 
 She cried : 
 
 "Adieu! . . . Adieu! . . ." 
 
 And she tore herself from him, brutally. She 
 ran, without turning back, to the exit, biting her 
 handkerchief, her soul and her eyes full of gloom, 
 and feeling her life ebbing, as if her veins had 
 been cut. . . . 
 
 She recovered herself outside, in the crowd 
 ... It was over. 
 
 He had gone. She was alone. . . . 
 
 The sun shone on the bayonets. Below, on the 
 top of the column, the Genius of Liberty looked 
 like a flame jn the sky, and the mists, driven by 
 the wind, whitened the blue, like a far-away 
 sweep of Victory. . . . 
 
 THE END

 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which it was borrowed. 
 
 KK'li 
 
 API 
 
 APR 
 
 91993