64-0 
 W72 
 
 1 
 
 2^ 
 
 WHEN CHENAL SINGS 
 THE "MARSEtLLAISE" 
 
 "WTTH THE HqpRS OF WAK' | 
 
 ' SISTER. JULIE ' '" 
 
 gr WYTHE WILLIAMS 
 
GLfO 
 
Cornell University Library 
 D 640.W72 
 
 When Chenal sings the Marseillaise; With 
 
 3 1924 008 529 772 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924008529772 
 
WHEN CHENAL SINOS 
 miE "MARSEILLAISE" 
 
 "mm WEHmpRs of mir 
 
 ' SISTER JULIE ^ 
 ^WXIHE WILLIAMS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUnON & companV 
 
 681 FIFTH AVENUE 
 
3> 
 
 COFTKGBI, 1916, 
 By E. p. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 
 
 
 <s'V|" n-Inted In the United States of America 
 
 ■« 
 
WHEN CHENAL SINGS 
 THE "MARSEILLAISE" 
 
 I WENT to the Opera Comique one day to hear 
 Marthe Chenal sing the "Marseillaise." For 
 several weeks previous I had heard a story going 
 the rounds of what is left of Paris life to the 
 effect that if one wanted a regular old-fashioned 
 thrUl he really should go to the Opera Comique 
 on a day when Mile. Chenal closed the perform- 
 ance hy singing the French national hymn. I was 
 told there would be difficulty in securing a seat. 
 
 I was rather skeptical. I also considered that 
 I had had sufficient thrills since the begiiming of 
 the war, both old-fashioned and new. I believed 
 also that I had already heard the "Marseillaise" 
 sung under the best possible circumstances to pro- 
 duce thrills. One of the first nights after mobili- 
 zation 10,000 Frenchmen filled the street beneath 
 the windows of the New Yorh Times office where 
 I was at work. They sang the "Marseillaise" 
 for two hours, with a solemn hatred of their na- 
 tional enemy sounding in every note. The so- 
 
 3. 
 
4 WHEN CHENAL SINGS 
 
 lemnity changed to a wild passion as the night 
 wore on. Finally, cuirassiers of the guard rode 
 through the street to disperse the mob. It was a 
 terrific scene. 
 
 So I was willing to admit that the "Marseil- 
 laise" is probably the most thrilling and most 
 martial national song ever written, but I was just, 
 not keen on the subject of thrills. 
 
 Then one day a sedate friend went to the Opera 
 Comique and it was a week before his ardor sub- 
 sided. He declared that this rendition of a song 
 was something that will be referred to in future 
 years. "Why," he said, "when the war is over 
 the French will talk about it in the way Ameri- 
 cans stiU talk about Jenny Lind at Castle Garden, 
 or De Wolf Hopper reciting 'Casey at the Bat.' " 
 
 This induced me to go. I was convinced that 
 whether I got a thrill or not the singing of the 
 "Marseillaise" by Chenal had become a distinct 
 feature of Paris life during the war. 
 
 I never want to go again. To go again might 
 deepen my impression — ^might better register the 
 thrill. But then it might not be just the same. 
 I would be keyed to such expectancy that I might 
 be disappointed. Persons in the seats behind me 
 might whisper. And just as Chenal got to the 
 "Amour sacre de la patrie" some one might 
 
THE "MARSEILLAISE" 5 
 
 cough. I am confident that something of the sort 
 would surely happen. I want always to remem- 
 ber that ten minutes while Chenal was on the 
 stage just as I remember it now. So I will not 
 go again. 
 
 The first part of the performance was Doni- 
 zetti's "Daughter of the Eegiment," beautifully 
 sung by members of the regular company. But 
 somehow the spectacle of a fat soprano nearing 
 forty in the role of the twelve-year-old vivandiere, 
 although impressive, was not sublime. A third 
 of the audience were soldiers. In the front row 
 of the top balcony were a number of wounded. 
 Their bandaged heads rested against the rail. 
 Seyeral of them yawned. 
 
 After the operetta came a "Ballet of the Na- 
 tions." The "nations," of course, represented 
 the Allies. We had the delectable vision of the 
 Eussian ballerina dancing with arms entwined 
 about several maids of Japan. The Scotch las- 
 sies wore violent blue jackets. The Belgian girls 
 carried large pitchers and rather wept and 
 watered their way about the stage. There were 
 no thrills. 
 
 After the intermission there was not even avail- 
 able space. The majority of the women were in 
 black— the prevailing color in these days. The 
 
6 WHEN CHENAL SINGS 
 
 only touches of brightness and light were in the 
 uniforms of the officers liberally sprinkled through 
 the orchestra and boxes. 
 
 Then came "Le Chant du Depart," the famous 
 song of the Revolution. The scene was a little 
 country village. The principals were the officer, 
 the soldier, the wife, the mother, the daughter and 
 the drummer boy. There was a magnificent sol- 
 dier chorus and the fanfare of drums and 
 trumpets. The audience then became honestly 
 enthusiastic. I concluded that the best Chenal 
 could do with the "Marseillaise," which was next 
 on the program, would be an anti-climax. 
 
 The orchestra played the opening bars of the 
 martial music. With the first notes the vast 
 audience rose. I looked up at the row of 
 wounded leaning heavily against the rail, their 
 eyes fixed and staring on the curtain. I noticed 
 the officers iu the boxes, their eyes glistening. I 
 heard a convulsive catch in the throats of persons 
 about me. Then the curtain lifted. 
 
 I do not remember what was the stage setting. 
 I do not believe I saw it. All I remember was 
 Chenal standing at the top of a short flight of 
 steps, in the center near the back drop. I indis- 
 tinctly remember that the rest of the stage was 
 filled with the soldier chorus and that near the 
 
THE "MARSEILLAISE" 7 
 
 footlights on either side were clusterai of little 
 children. 
 "Up, sons of France, the call of glory — " 
 Chenal swept down to the footlights. The 
 words of the song swept over the audience like 
 a hugle call. The singer wore a white silk gown 
 draped in perfect Grecian folds. She wore the 
 large black Alsatian head dress, in one comer of 
 which was pinned a small tricolored cockade. 
 She has often been called the most beautiful 
 woman ia Paris. The description was too lim- 
 ited. With the next lines she threw her arms 
 apart, drawing out the folds of the gown into the 
 tricolor of France — ^heavy folds of red silk draped 
 over one arm and blue over the other. Her head 
 was thrown back. Her tall, slender figure simply 
 vibrated with the feeling of the words that poured 
 forth from her Hps. She was noble. She was 
 glorious. She was sublime. With the "March 
 on, march on," of the chorus, her voice arose high 
 and fine over the full orchestra, and even above 
 her voice could be sensed the surging emotions 
 of the audience that seemed to sweep over the 
 house in waves. 
 
 I looked up at the row of wounded. One man 
 held his bandaged head between his hands and 
 
8 WHEN CHENAL SINGS 
 
 was crying. An officer in a box, wearing the gor- 
 geous uniform of the headquarters staff, held a 
 handkerchief over his eyes. 
 
 Through the second verse the audience alter- 
 nately cheered and stamped their feet and wept 
 Then came the wonderful "Amour sacre de la 
 patrie" — sacred love of home and country — ^verse. 
 The crashing of the orchestra ceased, dying away 
 almost to a whisper. Chenal drew the folds of 
 the tricolor cloak about her. Then she bent her 
 head and, drawing the flag to her. lips, kissed it 
 reverently. The first words came like a sob from 
 her soul. From then until the end of the verse, 
 when her voice again rang out over the renewed 
 efforts of the orchestra, one seemed to live 
 through all the glorious history of France. At 
 the very end, when Chenal drew a short jeweled 
 sword from the folds of her gown and stood, 
 silent and superb, with the folds of the flag 
 draped around her, while the curtain rang slowly 
 down, she seemed to typify both Empire and Ee- 
 publio throughout all time. AH the best of the 
 past seemed concentrated there as that glorious 
 woman, with head raised high, looked into the 
 future. 
 
 And ieis I came out of the theater with the silent 
 
THE "MARSEILLAISE" 9 
 
 audience I said to myself that a nation with a 
 song and a patriotism such as I had witnessed 
 could not vanish from the earth — ^nor again be 
 vanquished. 
 
"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 It was just dawn when I got off a train at 
 Gerbeviller, the little "Martyr City" that hides 
 its desolation as it hid its existence in the foothills 
 of the Vosges. 
 
 There was a dense fog. At 6 a. m. fog usually 
 covers the valleys of the Meurthe and Moselle. 
 From the station I could see only a building across 
 the road. A gendarme demanded my credentials. 
 I handed him the laisser-passer from the Quartier 
 General of the "First French Army," which con- 
 trols all coming and going, all activity in that 
 region. The gendarme demanded to know the 
 hour when I proposed to leave. I told him. He 
 said it would be necessary to have the permit 
 "vised for departure" at the headquarters of the 
 gendarmerie. He pointed to the hazy outlines of 
 another building just distinguishable through the 
 fog. 
 
 This was proof that the town contained build- 
 ings — ^not just a building. The place was not 
 
 II 
 
12 "WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 entirely destroyed, as I had supposed. I went 
 down the main street from the station, the fog 
 enveloping me. I had letters to the town officials, 
 but it was too early in the morning to present 
 them. I would first get my own impressions of 
 the wreck and ruin. 
 
 But I could see nothing on either hand as I 
 stumbled along in the mud. So I commented to 
 myself that this was not as bad as some places 
 I had seen. I thought of the substantial station 
 and the buildings across the road — ^untouched by 
 war. I compared Gerbeviller with places where 
 there is not even a station — where not even one 
 house remains as the result of "the day when the 
 Germans came." 
 
 The road was winding and steep, dipping down 
 to the swift little stream that twists a turbulent 
 passage through the town. The day was coming 
 fast but the fog remained white and impenetrable. 
 After a few minutes I began to see dark shapes on 
 either side of the road. Tall, thin, irregular 
 shapes, some high, some low, but with outlines all 
 softened, toned down by the banks of white 
 vapor. 
 
 I started across the road to investigate and fell 
 across a pile of jagged masonry on the sidewalk. 
 Through the fog I could see tumbled piles of 
 
"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 13 
 
 bricks. The shapes still remained — specters that 
 seemed to move in the light from the valley. An 
 odor that was not of the freshness of the morning 
 assailed me. I climbed across the walk. No wall 
 of buildings barred my path, but I mounted higher 
 on the piles of brick and stones. A heavy black 
 shape was now at my left hand. I looked up and 
 in the shadow there was no fog. I could see a 
 crumbled swaying side of a house that was. The 
 odor I noticed was that caused by fire. Sticking 
 from the wall I could see the charred wood joists 
 that once supported the floor of the second story. 
 Higher, the lifting fog permitted me to see the 
 waving boughs of a tree that hung over the house 
 that was. At my feet, sticking out of a pile of 
 bricks and stones, were the twisted iron fragments 
 of a child's bed. I climbed out into the sunshine. 
 
 I was standing in the midst of a desolation and 
 a silence that were profound. There was nothing 
 there that lived, except a few fire-blacked trees 
 that stuck up here and there in the shelter of 
 broken walls. Now I understood the meaning of 
 the spectral shapes. They were nothing but the 
 broken walls of the other houses that were. They 
 were aU that remained of nine-tenths of Gerbe- 
 yiller. 
 
 I wandered along to where the street turned 
 
14 "WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 sharply. There the ground pitched straight to 
 the little river. Half of a house stood there, 
 unscathed by fire ; it was one of those unexplain- 
 able freaks that often occur in great catastrophes, 
 Even the window glass was intact. Smoke was 
 coming from the chimney. I went to the opposite 
 side and there stood an old woman looking out 
 toward the river, brooding over the ruin stretching 
 below her. 
 
 "You are lucky," I said. "You still have your 
 home." 
 
 She turned a toothless countenance toward me 
 and threw out her hands. I judged her to be well 
 over seventy. It wasn't her home, she explained. 
 Her home was "la-bas" — ^pointing vaguely in the 
 distance. She had lived there fifty years — ^now it 
 was burned. Her son's house, he had saved thirty 
 years to be able to caU it his own, was also gone; 
 but then her son was dead, so what did it matter! 
 Yes, he was shot on the day the Germans came. 
 He was ill, but they killed him. Oh,- yes, she saw 
 him killed. "When the Germans went away she 
 came to his house and built a fire in the stove. It 
 was very cold. 
 
 And why were the houses burned? No; it was 
 not the result of bombardment. GerbeviUer was 
 not bombarded until after the houses were burneJiA 
 
"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 15 
 
 They were burned by tbe Germans systemati- 
 cally. They went from house to house with their 
 torches and oil and pitch. They did not explain 
 why they burned the houses, but it was because 
 they were angry. 
 
 The old woman paused a moment, and a faint 
 flicker of a smUe showed in the wrinkles about 
 her eyes. I asked her to continue her story. 
 
 "You said because they were angry," I 
 prompted. The smile broadened. Oh, yes, they 
 were angry, she explained. They did not even 
 make the excuse that the villagers fired upon them. 
 They were just angry through and through. And 
 it was all because of those seventy-five French 
 chasseurs who held the bridge. 
 
 Some one called to her from the house. She 
 hobbled to the door. "Any one can tell you about 
 the seventy-five chasseurs," she said, disappear- 
 ing within. 
 
 I went on down the road and stood upon the 
 bridge over the swift little river. It was a nar- 
 row, tiny bridge only wide enough for one wagon 
 to pass. Two roads from the town converged 
 there, the one over which I had passed and an- 
 other which formed a letter "V" at the junction 
 with the bridge. Across the river only one road 
 led away from the bridge and it ran straight up 
 
i6 "WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 a hill, when it turned suddenly into the broad 
 national highway tP Luneville, about five miles 
 away. 
 
 One house remained standing at the end of the 
 bridge, nearest the town. Its roof was gone, and 
 its walls bore the marks of hundreds of bullets, but 
 it was inhabited by a little old man of fifty, who 
 came out to talk with me. He was the village 
 carpenter. His house was burned, so he had taken 
 refuge in the little house at the bridge. During 
 the time the Germans were there he had been a 
 prisoner, but they forgot him the morning the 
 French army arrived. Everybody was in such a 
 hurry, he explained. 
 
 I asked him about the seventy-five chasseurs at 
 the bridge. 
 
 Ah, yes, we were then standing on the site of 
 their barricade. He would tell me about it, for 
 he had seen it all from his house half way up the 
 hiU. 
 
 The chasseurs were first posted across the river 
 on the road to LuneviUe, and when the Germans 
 approached, early in the morning, they feU back 
 to the bridge, which they had barricaded the night 
 before. It was the only way into GerbeviUer, so 
 the chasseurs determined to fight. They had torn 
 up the street and thrown great earthworks across 
 
"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 17 
 
 one end of the bridge. Additional barricades 
 ■were thrown up on the two convergiag streets, 
 part way up the hUl, behind which they had mi- 
 trailleuses which could sweep the road at the ottier 
 end of the bridge. 
 
 About a half nule to the soutE a narrow foot- 
 bridge crossed the river, only wide enough for one 
 man. It was a little rustic affair that ran through 
 the grounds of the Chateau de GerbevUler, which 
 faced the river only a few hundred yards below 
 the main bridge. It was a very ancient chateau, 
 built in the twelfth century and restored in the 
 seventeenth century. It was a royal chateau of 
 the Bourbons. In it once lived the great Frangois 
 de Montmorency, Due de Luxembourg and Mar- 
 shal of France. Now it belonged to the Marquise 
 de Lamberty, a cousin of the King of Spain. 
 
 I Interrupted, for I wanted to hear about the 
 chasseurs. I gave the little old man a cigarette. 
 He seized it eagerly — so eagerly that I also handed 
 him a cigar. He fondled that cigar for a moment 
 and then placed it in an inside pocket. It was a 
 very cheap and very bad French cigar, for I was 
 in a part of the country that has never heard of 
 Havanas, but to the little old man it was scane- 
 thing precious. "I wiU keep it for Sunday," he 
 said. 
 
i8 "WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 I then got him back to the seventy-five chasseurs. 
 It was just eight o'clock in the morning — a beauti- 
 ful sunshiny morning — ^when the German column 
 appeared around the bend in the road which we 
 could see across the bridge, and which joined the 
 highway from Luneville. There were twelve 
 thousand in that first column. One hundred and 
 fifty thousand more came later. A band was 
 playing "Deutschland iiber AUes," and the men 
 were singing. The closely-packed front ranks of 
 infantry broke into the goose step as they came in 
 sight of the town. It was a wonderful sight ; the 
 sun glistened on their helmets; they marched as 
 though on parade right down almost to the oppo- 
 site end of the bridge. 
 
 Then came the command to halt. For a moment 
 there was a complete silence. The Germans, only 
 a couple of hundred yards from the barricade, 
 seemed slowly to consider the situation. The 
 Captain of the chasseurs, from a shelter behind 
 the very little house that was still standing — and 
 where his men up the two roads could see him— 
 softly waved his hand. 
 
 Crkck-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack- 
 crackl The bullets from the mitrailleuses whis- 
 tled across the bridge into the front ranks of the 
 
"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 19 
 
 "Deutsehland fiber AUes" singers, while tlie men 
 behind the bridge barricade began a deadly rifle 
 fire. 
 
 Have you ever heard a mitrailleuse? It is just 
 like a telegraph instrument, with its insistent 
 clickety click-click-click, only it is a hundred times 
 as loud. Indeed I have been told by French 
 officers that it has sometimes been used as a tele- 
 graph instrument, so accurately can its operator 
 reel out its hundred and sixty shots a minute. 
 
 On that morning at the Grerbeviller barricade, 
 however, it went faster than the telegraph. These 
 men on the converging roads just shifted their 
 range slightly and poured bullets iato the next 
 ranks of infantry and so on back along the line, 
 until Germans were dropping by the dozen at the 
 sides of the straight little road. Then the column 
 broke ranks wildly and fled back into the shelter 
 of the road from Luneville. 
 
 A half hour later a detachment of cavalry 
 suddenly rounded the corner and charged straight 
 for the barricade. The seventy-five were ready 
 for them. Some of them got half way across the 
 bridge and then tumbled into the river. Not one 
 got back around the corner of the road to Lune- 
 ville. 
 
20 "WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 There was another half hour of quiet, and then 
 from the Luneville road a battery of artillery got 
 into action. Their range was bad, so far as any 
 achievement against the seventy-five was con- 
 cerned, so they turned their attention to the 
 chateau, which they could easily see from their 
 position across the river. The first shell struck 
 the majestic tower of the building and shattered 
 it. The next smashed the roof, the third hit the 
 chapel — and so contiaued the bombardment until 
 flames broke out to complete the destruction. 
 
 Of course the Germans could not know that the 
 chateau was empty, that its owner was iu Paris 
 and both her sons fighting in the French army. 
 But they had secured the military advantage of 
 demolishing one of the finest country houses in 
 France, with its priceless tapestries, ancient 
 marbles and heirlooms of the Bourbons. A howl 
 of German glee was heard by the seventy-five 
 chasseurs crouching behind their barricades. So 
 pleased were the invaders with their achievement 
 that next they bravely swung out a battery into 
 the road leading to the bridge, intending to shell 
 the barricades. The Captain of chasseurs again 
 waved his hand. Every man of the battery was 
 killed before the guns were in position. It took 
 an entire company of infantry — ^half of them being 
 
"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 21 
 
 killed in the action — ^to haul those guns back into 
 the Luneville road, thus to clear the way for 
 another advance. 
 
 From then on until 1 o'clock in the afternoon 
 there were more infantry attacks, all failing as 
 lamentably as the first. The seventy-five were 
 holding off the 12,000. At the last attack they 
 let the Germans advance to the entrance of the 
 bridge. They invited them with taunts to ad- 
 vance. Then they poured in their deadly fire, and 
 as the Germans broke and fled they permitted 
 themselves a cheer. Up to this time not one 
 chasseur was killed. Only four were wounded. 
 
 Shortly after 1 o'clock the German artillery 
 wasted a few more shells on the ruined chateau 
 and the chasseurs could see a detachment crawling 
 along the river bank in the direction of the narrow 
 footbridge that crossed through the chateau park 
 a half mile below. The Captain of the chasseurs 
 sent one man with a mitrailleuse to hold the 
 bridge. He posted himself in the shelter of a 
 large tree at one end. In a few minutes about 
 fifty Germans appeared. They advanced cau- 
 tiously on the bridge. The chasseur let them get 
 half way over before he raked them with his fire. 
 The water below ran red with blood. 
 
 The Germans retreated for help and made 
 
aa "WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 another attack an hour later with the same result. 
 By 4 o'clock, when the lone chasseur's ammunition 
 was exhausted, it is estimated that he had killed 
 175 Germans, who made five desperate rushes to 
 take the position, which would have enabled them 
 to make a flank attack on the seventy-four still 
 holding the main bridge. When his ammunition 
 was gone — ^which occurred at the same time as the 
 ammunition at the main bridge was exhausted — 
 this chasseur with the others succeeded in effecting 
 a retreat to a main body of cavalry. If he still 
 lives — ^this modem Horatius at the bridge — 
 he remains an unnamed hero in the ranks of the 
 French army, unhonored except in the hearts of 
 those few of his countrymen who know. 
 
 During the late hours of the afternoon aero- 
 planes flew over the chasseurs' position, thus dis- 
 covering to the Germans how really weak were 
 the defenses of the town, how few its defenders. 
 Besides the ammunition was gone. But for eight 
 hours — ^from eight in the morning until four in 
 the afternoon — the seventy-five had held the 
 12,000. 
 
 Had that body of 12,000 succeeded earlier the 
 150,000 Germans that advanced the next day might 
 have been able to fall on the French right flank 
 during a critical battle of the war. The total 
 
"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 23 
 
 casualties of tlie cliasseurs were three killed, three 
 captured, and six wounded. 
 
 The little old man and I had walked to the en- 
 trance of the chateau park before he finished his 
 story. It was stiU too early for breakfast. I 
 thanked him and told him to return to his work in 
 the little house by the bridge. I wanted to ex- 
 plore the chateau at leisure. 
 
 I entered the place — ^what was left of it. Most 
 of the walls were standing. Walls built in the 
 twelfth century do not break easily, even with 
 modern artillery. But the modern roof and seven- 
 teenth century inner walls were all demolished. 
 Not a single article of furniture or decoration 
 remaiaed. But the destruction showed some of 
 the same freaks — similar to that little house left 
 untouched by fire on the summit of the hill. 
 
 For instance, the Bourbon coat of arms above 
 the grand staircase was untouched, while the stair- 
 case itself was just splintered bits of marble. On 
 another fragment of the wall there still hung a 
 magnificent stag's antlers. Strewed about in the 
 corners I saw fragments of vases that had been 
 priceless. Even the remnants were valuable. In 
 the ruined music room I found a piece of fresh, 
 clean music (an Alsatian waltz), lying on the 
 mantelpiece. I went out to the front of the build- 
 
24 "WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 ing, where the great parK sweeps down to the 
 edge of the river. An old gardener in one of the • 
 side paths saw me. We immediately estahlished 
 cordial relations with a cigarette. 
 
 He told me how, after the chasseurs retreated 
 beyond the town, the Germans — ^reduced over a 
 thousand of their original number by the activities 
 of the day — swept over the barricades of the 
 bridge and into the town. Yes, the old woman I 
 had talked with was right about it. They were 
 very angry. They were ferociously angry at 
 being held eight hours at that bridge by a force so 
 ridiculously small. 
 
 The first civilians they met they killed, and then 
 they began to fire the houses. One young man, 
 half-witted, came out of one of the houses near 
 the bridge. They hanged him in the garden 
 behind the house. Then they called his mother to 
 see.i 'A mob came piling into the chateau headed 
 by four officers. All the furniture and valuables 
 that were not destroyed they piled into a wagon 
 and sent back to Euneville. Of the gardener who 
 was telling me the story they demanded the keys 
 of the wine cellars. No; they did not injure him. 
 They just held him by the arms while several 
 dozen of the soldiers spat in his face. 
 
 While the drunken crew were reeling about the 
 
"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 25 
 
 place, one of them accidentally stumbled upon tlie 
 secret underground passage leading to tlie famous 
 grottoes. These grottoes and the underground 
 connection of the chateau were built in the fifteenth 
 century. They are a half mile away, situated only 
 half above ground, the entrance looking out on a 
 smooth lawn that extends to the edge of the river. 
 Several giant trees, the trunks of which are 
 covered with vines, half shelter the entrance, which 
 is also obscured by climbing ivy. The interior 
 was one of the treasures of France. The vaulted 
 ceilings were done in wonderful mosaic; the 
 walls decorated with marbles and rare sea shells. 
 In every nook were marble pedestals and antique 
 statuary, while the fountain in the center, 
 suppKed from an underground stream, was of 
 porphyry inlaid with mosaic. 
 
 The Germans looked upon it with appreciative 
 eyes. But they were still very angry. Its 
 destruction was a necessity of war. It could not 
 be destroyed by artUlery because it was half under 
 ground and screened by the giant trees. But it 
 could be destroyed by picks and axes. A squad 
 of soldiers was detailed to the job. They did it 
 thoroughly. The gardener took me there to see. 
 Not a scrap of the mosaic remained. The foun- 
 tain was smashed to bits. A headless Venus and 
 
26 "WITH THE HONORS OF WAR" 
 
 a smashed and battered Adonis were lying prone 
 upon the ground. 
 
 The visitors of the chateau and environs after- 
 ward joined their comrades in firing the town. 
 Night had come. Also across the bridge waited 
 the 150,000 reenforcements, come from LuneviUe. 
 The five hundred of the two thousand inhabitants 
 who remained were herded to the upper end of the 
 town near the station. That portion was not to 
 be destroyed because the German General would 
 make his headquarters there. 
 
 The inhabitants were to be given a treat. They 
 were to witness the entrance of the hundred and 
 fifty thousand — ^the power and might of Germany 
 was to be exhibited to them. So while the flames 
 leaped high from the burning city, reddening the 
 sky for miles, while old men prayed, while women 
 wept, while little children whimpered, the sound 
 of martial music was heard down the street near 
 the bridge. The infantry, packed in close forma- 
 tion, the red light from the fire shining on their 
 helmets, were doing the goose step up the main 
 street to the station — ^the great German army had 
 entered the city of Gerbeviller with the honors of 
 war. 
 
SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER OF 
 THE LEGION OF HONOR 
 
 A LITTLE round apple dumpling sort of woman 
 in nun's costume was bobbing a curtsy to me 
 from tbe doorway. In excited French she begged 
 me to be seated. For I was "Monsieur PAmeri- 
 cain" who had come to visit- Gerbeviller, the little 
 community nestling in the foothills of the Vosges, 
 that has suffered quite as much from Germans as 
 any city, even those in Belgium. It was her 
 "grand pleasure" that I should come to visit her. 
 
 I stared for a moment in amazement. I could 
 scarcely realize that this plump, bobbing little 
 person was the famous Sister Julie. I had pulled 
 every wire I could discover among my acquaint- 
 ances at the Foreign Office and the Ministry of 
 War to be granted the privilege of making the 
 trip into that portion of the forbidden "zone of 
 military activity" where Sister Julie had made 
 her name immortal. I carried a letter from one 
 of the great officials of the Quai d'Orsay, ad- 
 dressed to the little nun in terms of reverence 
 
 37 
 
28 SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER 
 
 that one might use toward his mother. He signed 
 himself "Yours, with great affection," after crav- 
 ing that she would grant me audience. And 
 there she was, with the letter still unopened in 
 her hand, telling me how glad she was to see me. 
 
 I confess I expected a different type of woman. 
 I thought a different type necessary to handle the 
 German invaders in the fashion Sister Julie 
 handled them at Gerheviller. I imagined a tall, 
 commanding woman — ^like Madame Macherez, 
 Mayor of Soissons — ^would enter the little sitting 
 room where I had been waiting that sunny morn- 
 ing. 
 
 In that little sitting room the very atmosphere 
 of war is not permitted. There is too much close 
 at hand, where nine-tenths of the city lies in ashes 
 as a result of the German visit. So in that room 
 there is nothing but comfort, peace and good 
 cheer., Potted geraniums fill the window boxes, 
 pretty chintz curtains cover the glass. Where 
 bullets had torn furrows in the plaster and drilled 
 holes in the woodwork the wounds were concealed 
 as far as possible. It was hard to realize that the 
 deep, rumbling roars that shook the house while 
 we talked were caused by a Franco-German artil- 
 lery duel only a few kilometers away. 
 
 The little woman drew out chairs from the cen- 
 
OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 29 
 
 ter table jand we seated ourselves, sHe talking 
 continnously of how glad she was that one from 
 "that great America" should want to see her and 
 know about her work. Ah I her work, Jthere was 
 still so much to do I 
 
 She got up and toddled to the window, drawing 
 aside the chintz curtains. "Poor Gerbevillerl" 
 she sighed as we looked out over the desolate 
 waste of burned houses. "My poor, poor Gerbe- 
 villerl" 
 
 Tears stood in her brown eyes and fell upon 
 the wide white coUar of the religious order that 
 she wore. She brushed them aside quickly and 
 turned to the table, again all smiles and dimples. 
 Yes! dimples, for although Sister Julie is small, 
 she is undeniably plump. She has dimples in her 
 cheeks 'and in her chin — chins I might say. She 
 even has dimples on the knuckles of her hands, 
 after the fashion of babies. Her face is round 
 and rosy. Her voice low and mellow. She looks 
 only about forty of her sixty years — a woman 
 who seems to have taken life as something that is 
 always good. Evil and Germans seem never to 
 have entered her door. 
 
 Then I remembered what this woman had done; 
 how all France is taUdng about her and is proud 
 of her. How the President of the Republic went 
 
30 SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER 
 
 to the little, ruined city, accompanied by the 
 Presidents of the Senate and the Chamber of 
 Deputies, and a great military entourage, just to 
 hang the jeweled cross of the Legion of Honor 
 about her neck. I wondered what they thought 
 when she bobbed her curtsy in the doorway. 
 
 For it took a war to distinguish this little 
 woman from the crowd. Outside her order she 
 was unknown before the Germans came to France. 
 But it did not matter to her. She just went 
 placidly and smilingly on her way — ^" doing the 
 Lord's work," as she told me. Then the day ar- 
 rived when the Grermans came, and this little 
 round apple dumpUng woman blew up. That is 
 just the way it was. I could tell it from the way 
 her brown eyes flashed when she told the tale to 
 me. She was angry through and through just 
 from the telling. She just exploded when the 
 Germans entered her front door. And then her 
 name was written indelibly on the scroll of fame 
 as one of the great heroines of the war. 
 
 The Germans wanted bread, did they? — such 
 was the way the story began — ^well, what did they 
 mean by coming to her for it? They burned the 
 baker's shop, didn't they, on the way through the 
 town? Well, how did they expect her to furnish 
 them bread? Her bread was for her people. 
 
OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 31 
 
 Yes, she had a good supply of it. But the Ger- 
 mans oould find their own bread. 
 
 The German officer pointed a revolver at her 
 head. She reached out her hand and struck it 
 from his grasp. Then she waved a plump finger 
 under his nose. Her voice was no longer low and 
 mellow. It was commanding and austere. How 
 dared he point a revolver at her — a "religieuse," 
 ,a nun? He could get right out of her house, too, 
 •r— and get out quick. 
 
 The officer's heavy jaw dropped in astonish- 
 ment. He backed his way along the narrow hall, 
 not stopping to pick up his weapon, and kicking 
 backward the file of soldiers that crowded behind 
 him. At the door Sister Julie put a detaining 
 hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "You are an officer," she said — the man under- 
 stood French perfectly. "WeU, while your sol- 
 diers are setting fire to the town, you just tell 
 them to keep out of this end of the street. This 
 is my house ; it is for me and the five Sisters with 
 me. Now we have made it a hospital. You bar- 
 barians just keep out of here with your burning." 
 
 Barbarians! The officer raised his fist to 
 strike. Something that was not of heaven made 
 Sister Julie's eyes deadly black. The man low- 
 ered his fist, quailing. "The devil!" he said. 
 
32 SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER 
 
 iTes, Carbarians! She almost shouted the word 
 at him — ^and it was quite understood that his men 
 were not to burn the hospital or the houses ad- 
 joining. 
 
 The crowd cleared out of the house rapidly and 
 the breadth of Sister Julie's form filled the door- 
 way. It was night and the burning was progress- 
 ing rapidly, the Germans methodically firing 
 every house. Some soldiers came to the house 
 next to the hospital, and broke open the door. 
 Sister Julie left her position in the hospital door- 
 way and advanced upon them. 
 
 "Go away from here," she ordered. "Don't 
 you dare set that house afire. It is next to the 
 hospital. If it bums the hospital wiU bum, too. 
 So go away — ^your officers have said that you are 
 not to bum this end of the street." 
 
 The soldiers gazed at her stupidly. She ad- 
 vanced upon them, waving her arms. Several, 
 after staring a moment, suddenly made the sign 
 of the cross, and the entire party disappeared 
 down the street to continue their destraction else- 
 where. 
 
 The little nun then left her post at the door. 
 She went to see that her food supplies were safe. 
 She had a conference with the other Sisters, and 
 visited the beds of the thirteen wounded that the 
 
OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 33 
 
 house alread^^ contained. Sis of the wounded 
 were of the band of seventy-five chasseurs who 
 had held the Gerbeviller bridge against the Ger- 
 mans — ^twelve thousand Germans for eight hours 
 — ^until their ammunition gave out. The others 
 were civilians who were shot when the Germans 
 finally entered the town. 
 
 After visiting her wounded, Sister Julie went 
 out the back door of the house accompanied by 
 two of the Sisters. The three carried large 
 clothes baskets, kitchen knives, and a hatchet. 
 Through the gardens and behind the burning 
 houses they passed down the hUl to the part of 
 the city near the river, which was already smol- 
 dering in ashes. They went into the ruined 
 barns, where the cows and horses were all burned 
 alive. I was shown a bleached white bone, a 
 souvenir of one of the cows. 
 
 With the hatchet and knives they secured 
 enough bones and flesh from the dead animals to 
 fill the two great baskets. Then they climbed 
 painfully up the Mil, behind the burning buildings, 
 to the back door of their home. Water was 
 drawn from their well, and a great fire built in 
 the old-fashioned chimney in the kitchen. The 
 enormous kettle was filled with the water, the 
 meat and the bones, and soon the odor from gal- 
 
34 SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER 
 
 Ions of soup penetrated the outer door to the 
 street. Again a G-erman officer headed a delega- 
 tion into the hall. 
 
 "You have food here," he announced to Sister 
 Julie. 
 
 "We have," she snapped back. She was very 
 busy. She waved the butcher knife ujader his 
 nose. She then told him that the soup was for 
 the people of Gerbeviller and for her wounded. 
 She expressed no regret that there would be none 
 left for Germans. 
 
 The officer said that the twelve thousand who 
 entered Gerbeviller that afternoon was the ad- 
 vance column. The main body, with the commis- 
 sariat, was coming shortly. Meanwhile, they 
 were hungry. They would take Sister Julie's 
 supply. They would take it — ehl Take it? 
 They would only do that over her dead body. 
 Meanwhile, they would leave her kitchen in- 
 stantly. They did — ^the butcher knife making fe- 
 rocious passes behind them on their way to the 
 door. Sister Julie was still doing her "work for 
 the Lord." 
 
 She then ordered all the wash tubs filled with 
 water and brought inside the hall. The fire was 
 coming into the street. Dense smoke was every- 
 where. Even the Germans now seemed williDg 
 
OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 35 
 
 to save that particular part of Gerbeviller. It 
 was the portion near the railway station and the 
 telegraph. A substantial building near the gare 
 would make an excellent headquarters for their 
 Greneral, who was due to arrive shortly. The 
 civilians (only a few of the 2,000 inhabitants 
 remained) were all herded into a field just on the 
 outskirts of the town. Sister Julie, with Sister 
 Hildegarde, sallied forth with their soup, and fed 
 them. The next day she would see that the Ger- 
 mans allowed them to come to the hospital for 
 more. 
 
 When she returned, a number of soldiers who 
 had discovered a wine cellar were reeling up the 
 street. They stopped in front of the hospital, 
 but turned their attention to the house opposite. 
 They would burn it. It had evidently been for- 
 gotten. They broke into the place, and in a 
 moment flames could be seen through the lower 
 windows. 
 
 Sister Julie called to the soldiers. They stared 
 at her from the middle of the road. She 
 motioned for them to come to her. They came. 
 She told them to follow her into the hall. There 
 she showed them the wash tubs full of water. 
 They were to carry those tubs across the street 
 and put out the fire they had started, and which 
 
36 SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER 
 
 would endanger the tospital. This was accord- 
 ing to orders given by the oflScers. After putting 
 out the fire they were to bring the tubs back and 
 refill them from the well in the back yard. The 
 work was too heavy for the Sisters. 
 
 When these orders were obeyed, Sister Julie 
 carried a little camp chair to the front steps and 
 began a vigil that lasted all night long and half 
 the next day. She saw the great German army of 
 a hundred and fifty thousand march by, the band 
 playing "Deutschland iiber Alles," the infantry 
 doing the goose step as they passed the burning 
 houses. Four times during the night the tubs 
 of water in the hall were emptied and refilled 
 when the flames crept close to her house. 
 
 At dawn next morning four oflScers approached 
 her where she sat upon the doorstep. One of 
 them informed her that, inasmuch as she was 
 concealing French soldiers with arms inside the 
 house, they intended to make a search. 
 
 "You are telling a lie," she informed them 
 calmly, and did not budge. Two of the officers 
 drew revolvers. Sister Julie sniffed contemptu- 
 ously. The first officer again spoke. But his 
 tone altered. It was less bumptious. He said 
 that, inasmuch as the house had been spared the 
 flames, at least an investigation was necessary. 
 
OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 37 
 
 Sister Julie arose and started inside. The 
 officers stopped her. Two of them would lead the 
 way. The other two would follow. The parr, 
 with drawn revolvers, entered first and tiptoed 
 cautiously down the hall. Then came the little 
 nun. The second pair drew poniards and brought 
 up the rear. She directed them to the rooms on 
 the first floor, the sitting room, dining room and 
 the Mtchen, where Sister HUdegarde was busy 
 over the fire. Then they went upstairs to the 
 beds of the wounded. The first officer insisted 
 that the covers be drawn back from each bed 
 to make sure that the occupants were really 
 wounded. Sister Julie remained silent at the 
 door. As they turned to leave, she said with 
 sarcasm, but with dignity: "You have seen. You 
 know that I have spoken the truth. We are six 
 Sisters of Mercy. Our work is to care for the 
 sick. We will care for your German wounded, as 
 well as our French. You may bring them here." 
 
 That morning the invaders began battle with 
 the French, who had finished their entrenchments 
 some kilometers on the other side of the town. 
 At night the Germans accepted Sister Julie's 
 invitation, and brought two hundred and fifty- 
 eight wounded to her house. They completely 
 filled the place. They were placed in rows in the 
 
38 SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER 
 
 sitting room, the dining room, and the hall. 
 They were even in the kitchen and in the attic. 
 The weather was fine and they were stretched in 
 rows in the garden. The few other houses 
 undestroyed by fire were also turned into hos- 
 pitals, and for fourteen days Sister Julie and her 
 five assistants scarcely slept. They just passed 
 the time giving medicine and food and nursing 
 wounds. By the fourteenth day, the French had 
 made a considerahle advance and were dropping 
 shells into the town, so the Germans decided to 
 take away their own wounded. 
 
 During all this time daily rations were served 
 to the civilian survivors, on orders secured by 
 Sister Julie at the German headquarters. The 
 civilians were ill-treated, but they were fed. Sis- 
 ter Julie gave me concrete instances of outrage. 
 Many were killed for no reason whatever; some 
 were sent as hostages to Germany. During 
 fourteen days they were herded in the field. 
 Afterward ten were found dead, with their hands 
 manacled. Sister Julie told me one instance of 
 an old woman, a paralytic, seventy-eight years 
 old, who was taken out in an automobile to show 
 the various wine cellars among the neighboring 
 farms. The old woman had not been out of her 
 house for years and did not know the wine cellars. 
 
OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 39 
 
 So thfi Germans killed her. Sister Julie went out 
 at night and found her body. She and Sister 
 Hildegarde buried it. 
 
 On the morning of the fifteenth day, the battle 
 was fiercer than ever. The French had taken a 
 hill near the outskirts, and mitrailleuse bullets 
 frequently whistled through the streets. Sev- 
 eral times they entered the windows of Sister 
 Julie's house and buried themselves in the walls. 
 But none of the Sisters was hurt. 
 
 There was a lull in the fighting for the next 
 few days. The French were very busy at some- 
 thing — ^the Germans knew not what. They 
 became more insolent than ever, and drank of 
 the wine they had stored at the gare. In the 
 ruins of the church they found the grilled iron 
 strong box, where the priest, who had been sent 
 to Germany as a hostage, had locked up the golden 
 communion vessels, afterward giving the key to 
 Sister Julie. The lock was of steel, and very old 
 and strong. They tried to break it, but failed. 
 They came to Sister Julie for the key, and she 
 sent them packing. "I lied to them," she said 
 softly. **I told them I didn't have the key." 
 
 Through the grilled iron of the box the soldiers 
 could see the vessels^ They were of fine gold, 
 and very ancient. They were given to the 
 
40 SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER 
 
 church in the fifteenth century by Bene, Due de 
 Lorraine and King of Jerusalem. The strong 
 box was riveted to the foundations of the church 
 with bands of steel and could not be carried away. 
 They shot at the lock, to break it. But it did 
 not break. Instead the bullets penetrated the 
 box, a half dozen tearing ragged holes in the 
 vessels. The wine finally became of greater 
 interest than the gold, and the soldiers went away. 
 That night Sister Julie went alone into the nuns 
 of the church, opened the box, and took the ves- 
 sels out. 
 
 She paused in her story, got up from her chair, 
 and unlocked a cabinet in the walL From it she 
 brought the vessels wrapped in a white cloth. I 
 took the great golden goblet in my hands and saw 
 the holes of the German bullets. Sister Julie sat 
 silent, looking out through tiie chintz curtains into 
 the street. Then she smiled. 
 
 She was thinking of the eighth morning after 
 the wounded had been taken away. That was 
 the happiest morning of her life, she told me. 
 At 5 o'clock that morning, just after daybreak. 
 Sister HUdegarde had come to her bed to tell her 
 that the Germans stationed near the gare in that 
 part of the town all seemed to be going to the 
 
OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 41 
 
 mined part, near the river, in the opposite direc- 
 tion from the French. A few minutes later Sister 
 Julie got up and looked from the window. Then 
 she almost fell down the stairs in her rush to get 
 out of doors. About fifty yards up the street was 
 a watering trough. Seated on horseback before 
 that trough, watering their animals, laughing 
 and smoking cigarettes, were six French dra- 
 goons. 
 
 "I cried at the blessed sight of them," she said. 
 "They sat there, so gay, so debonair, as only 
 Frenchmen know how to sit on horses." Sister 
 Julie hurried to them. They smiled at her and 
 saluted as she approached. 
 
 "But do you know the Germans are here?" 
 she anxiously inquired. "You may be taken 
 prisoners." 
 
 "Oh, no, we won't," they answered in chorus. 
 "There are thirty thousand more of us just 
 behind— due here in about two minutes. The 
 whole French army is on the advance." 
 
 Then came thirty thousand. After the thirty 
 thousand came more thousands. AU that day the 
 street echoed to the feet of marching Frenchmen. 
 Their faces were dark and terrible when they saw 
 what the Germans had done. Most of the day 
 
42 SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER 
 
 Sister Julie sat on her doorstep and wept for joy. 
 Since that morning not a German has been seen 
 in Gerbeviller. 
 
 Sister Julie ceased her story and wiped the 
 tears that had been running in streams down her 
 cheeks. We heard the rattle of a drum outside 
 the window. It was the signal of the town crier 
 with news for the population. Sister Julie opened 
 the window and looked out. It was the announce- 
 ment of the meeting to be held that afternoon, a 
 meeting that she had arranged for discussion of 
 plans for rebuilding the town. Five hundred of 
 the population had returned. There was so much 
 work to do. The streets must be cleared of the 
 debris. The sagging walls must be torn down, 
 and new buildings erected. It would be done 
 quickly, immediately almost; aid was forthcoming 
 from many quarters. The new houses would be 
 better than the old. The streets were to be wide 
 and straight, not narrow and crooked. Gerbe- 
 viller was to arise from her ashes modern and 
 improved. And only a few miles away the can- 
 non still roared and thundered. 
 
 I asked her about the Cross of the Legion of 
 Honor given her by President Poincare. I asked 
 why she did not wear it. A pleased flush 
 deepened the color in her rosy cheeks. I shall 
 
OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 43 
 
 always remember the grace and dignity of her 
 answer. 
 
 "I do not wear it because it was not meant for 
 me alone," she said. "It was given to the 
 women of France who have done their duty." 
 
 "Not the little red ribbon of the order," I per- 
 sisted. "Tou should pin that on your dress." 
 
 But Sister Julie shook her head. She is a 
 "religieuse," she explained. Nuns do not wear 
 decorations. 3^hey ar§ doing the work of the 
 Lord. 
 

 
 ;' s^ 
 
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