As it was she beamed with pleasure at the visit, and
called a young nun to help place chairs for us all in the clean, bare
reception room. By this time she must know that she is the heroine of
Lorraine--her own Lorraine!--and that those who came to Gerbeviller come
to see her; but she talked to us with the unself-consciousness of a
child. It was only when she was begged to tell the tale of August 23,
1914, that she showed a faint sign of embarrassment. The blood flushed
her brown face, and she hesitated how to begin, as if she would rather
not begin at all, but once launched on the tide, she forgot everything
except her story: she lived that time over again, and we lived it with
her.
"What a day it was!" she sighed. "We knew what must happen, unless God
willed to spare Gerbeviller by some miracle. Our town was in the
German's way. Yet we prayed--we hoped. We hoped even after our army's
defeat at Morhange. Then Luneville was taken. Our turn was near. We
heard how terrible were the Bavarians under their general, Clauss. Our
soldiers--poor, brave boys!--fought every step of the way to hold them
back. They fought like lions. But they were so few! The Germans came in
a gray wave of men. Our wounded were brought here to the hospice, as
many as we could take--and more! Often there were three hundred. But
when there was no hope to save the town, quick, with haste at night,
they got the wounded away--ambulance after ambulance, cart after cart:
all but a few; nineteen _grands blesses_, who could not be moved.
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