And when at
last we bade good-bye to our glorious hosts, she said to me, "Molly, you
tell them in French, that now I've met _them_ I understand why the
Germans could never pass!"
CHAPTER XVIII
Almost any place on earth would be an anti-climax the day after
Verdun--but not Rheims!
Just at this moment (it mayn't be much more) Rheims is resting, like a
brave victim on the rack who has tired his torturers by an obstinate
silence. Only a few people are allowed to enter the town, save those who
have lived there all along, and learned to think no more of German bombs
than German sausages; and those favoured few must slip in and out almost
between breaths. Any instant the torturing may begin again, when the
Boches have bombs to spare for what they call "target practice"; for
think, how near is Laon!--and we'd been warned that, even at the portals
of the town, we might be turned back.
We had still another new French officer to take us to Rheims. (I am
getting their faces a little mixed, like a composite picture, but I keep
sacredly all their dear visiting-cards!) He was a captain, with a
scarred but handsome face, and he complimented Mother Beckett and me on
our "courage." This made Father Beckett visibly regret that he had
brought us, though he had been assured that it was a "safe time."
However, his was not the kind of regret which tempts a man to turn back:
it only makes his upper lip look long.
I never saw Rheims in palmy days of peace.
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