Love and war go together. War destroys the body but love lives on with the soul. Love and war have transformed the hitherto seemingly empty-pated, fashionable woman to an angel of mercy. Socialists have developed into patriots, artisans have become statesmen, good-for-nothings are now heroes, misers have grown to be philanthropists.

Man, missing woman’s ministrations at the front, turns instinctively to her when opportunity offers. Hard, fierce, unyielding to his fellows, he relaxes in her sheltering affection. He is but a boy grown. He wants to be petted, coddled, civilized again.

The woman realizes he has suffered for her. He knows what she has sacrificed for him. War has brought them together, brushed aside false pride and hypocrisy and revealed refreshing springs of patriotism and love out of which flows a union of hearts and hopes that only those who suffer, sacrifice and endure together can realize.

The man is better for having been a soldier. He is self-reliant, stronger in mind and body. Through discipline he has become punctual and dependable. All snobbishness, fads and isms are now out of him. He is more tolerant and charitable. He recognizes the value of women’s work in the home, in the hospital and in the munition factory. As a representative of her country, whose uniform he wears, he carries himself more proudly, more uprightly.

What a soldier is to the army, a home is to the nation. The home is safe only so long as is the country. With foreign invasion, all values become nothing. The woman, the man, the home, the country are interwoven. Beyond lie the right to live their lives, personal liberty, representative government, the preservation, yes, even the propagation of the race.

To check that on-coming German tide which threatened to wipe away everything he holds dear, the soldier has fitted himself into that surging, bending, human wall. Behind it, under the shadow of death, woman works and waits, in a quiet that knows not peace—often in vain—filled with care and dread, ever striving to be calm, she hides her heart’s pain.

Ancestors died for the liberty his flag represents. Posterity must enjoy the same freedom. So, he bridges the gap, shoulders the load and becomes a better lover, husband, father. Having learned his obligation to the nation, he is a better citizen for all time. One man’s daughter loves and marries another’s son and they become one. War tears them apart. He goes to the trenches. She keeps the home fires burning. Love holds them together while he fights to protect and preserve, she works to support and maintain.

That man is not yet whose pen can do justice to the incomparable woman of France. She is a wonderful combination of heart, head and health. The women of colder climes love with their minds. The French woman with her heart. She gives all, regardless of consequences.

Cynical critics may have their cool sensibilities shocked at the sight of a well-turned ankle, crossing a muddy street. That is as near as they get to the sweet creature they outwardly condemn, but secretly approve. She plays square and wants to love as well as be loved. She gives love and is loved in return. While the woman who wants something, but gives nothing, instills her selfishness into others.

The selfish person loves him or herself and gives no love to friend, family or country. The unselfish woman absorbs love, and, as a flower its perfume, scatters fragrance. She inspires the noblest sentiments of loyalty and patriotism. She places herself and her best beloved upon the altar of her country. It is always she who has given most, who is willing to give all.

Mere man notices her dainty figure, her happy disposition, her cheery, outspoken manner, her charm and goodness of heart, the utter absence of vulgarity and ill-temper. Her tears are shed in solitude. Laughter is for her friends. He admires her at a distance, because she is sheltered in the home until marriage. The French man must pass the family council before becoming an accepted suitor. He consults them in his business ventures. His troubles become theirs when MademoiselleMademoiselle changes to Madame and is his comrade as well as a continued sweetheart. She devotes her whole time and attention to him. Her clever, home-making instinct is combined with good business sense. She is a valuable partner in life’s great enterprise.

One of the most beautiful sights in France is, on a Sunday afternoon the poilu home on furlough, satisfied to drink a bottle or two of wine with his family, and rest. He did not want to see anyone else. But she insists he must see grandmother and sister-in-law, drop into the cafe and inquire about old comrades, then, enjoy a walk out into the country.

In the gathering twilight Madame conducts her straggling brood home, her hands full of flowers, her eyes full of love—the little doll-like children, with long, flowing hair, romping nearby. The poilu has lost that dark, brooding look. That little touch of Nature and the woman diverted his mind from suffering and revived his sentiment. She sent him back to the front with a smile on her lips—hiding the dread of her heart.

The thought of peace is ever with her—she longs for it. But her conscience will not permit her to ask it. She thinks of the thousands of graves that dot the hillsides with the cross at the head. She will suffer the torments of hell rather than that they shall have died in vain.

Their little savings have been used up. The clothes are worn thin. She works, slaves to keep the wolf from the door. She manages to send an occasional five-franc note to her poilu. She labors in munition factories, the tramways, the postal service, in the fields, replacing the man, while cows and dogs do the work of the horses, who, like the men, are on the front. She wears wooden shoes and pulls hand-carts about the street. She drives the milch cow that plows the land, cleans the cars and wipes the engines on the railroad, cooks the food and nurses the wounded and sick in hospitals, does clerical work in the commissary department and military bureaus—chasing out the fat slackers who were strutting in the rear.

In spite of all, she retains her feminacy. She is still as alluring, as good a comrade, as cheerful and gay, outwardly, as though her body was not racked by fatigue, her heart choked with sadness. Occasionally she forgets herself. The mask falls off and trouble stares through the windows of her soul. Catching that look in the eyes of his nurse, a soldier exclaimed: “Cheer up! It will be all right after the war.” She replied: “After the war? There will be no ‘after the war.’ You’ll be dead, I’ll be dead. We shall all be dead. There’ll be no ‘after the war.’”

Many French girls have deliberately married mutilated cripples to cheer and to help them earn their living. A beautiful young woman, gazing into the eyes of her soldier, said: “Why should we not? They lost their legs and arms for us—we cannot do too much for them.”

Does the poilu appreciate this? Does he? What if he did lose one leg for such a woman? He would give the other with pleasure!

On furlough one evening, eating supper in my favorite cafe in Paris, I observed a most horribly repulsive object. He had once been a poilu, but a shell battered his face so that it resembled humanity not at all. His nose was flattened out. His skin was mottled and discolored. A hole was where the mouth had been. Both eyes were gone and one arm was crippled. He sat and waited for food. Madame came from behind the counter and looked on. A fat boy, repulsed and sickened, forgot his appetite and gazed, unconsciously stroking his stomach, fascinated by that mutilated creature.

A very beautiful girl, whose face might pass her into Heaven without confession, left the well-dressed gourmands with empty plates. She went and served the unfortunate one. She cut his meat and held his napkin that caught the drippings. She was so kind and gentle and showed such consideration, I asked her:

“Is that the proprietor?”

“Oh, no.”

“Your husband or sweetheart, perhaps?”

“I have none.”

“Who was he?”

“Un pauvre poilu.”

Again, we were in a peasant woman’s farmhouse. She wore wooden shoes, without socks. Just home from work in the fields, she asked two convalescent soldiers to help drink a bottle of wine, and we sat and talked with her.

“Yes,” she said, her dark eyes shining with pride, “my husband was a soldier, too. He is now a prisoner in Germany. This is his photograph. Don’t you think he looks well? He was a machine gunner in Alsace. He did not run away when the Germans came, but stayed and worked the gun.” Then, speaking of a well dressed little girl sitting on my Egyptian comrade’s knee: “He has never seen her—she is only two years old and thinks every soldier is papa.”

Hanging from the roof was a row of dried sausages. Pointing to them she said: “Yes, I send him a package every week and never forget to put in a sausage. Don’t you think from the photograph he looks well?”

In the stable were two milch cows and a young heifer. Indicating the latter, she said: “He has not seen her, either. When he comes home I am going to kill her, faire le bomb, and ask all the family.”

The look of pride changed into a haunted, painful, far-away gaze: “Oh, dear, we shall all be women! Except my husband and Francois, my brother, all our men are dead—four of my brothers! Francois is the last. The Government sent him from the front to keep the family alive. Don’t you think France was good to us to do that?”

When in hospital I met the grand dame from the nearby chateau. She harnessed her own horse and drove through the rain, on a wintry morning, to play the organ at early mass. She nursed a ward in the hospital through the day and returned home alone in the darkness to make her own supper.

“Oh,” she said, “I don’t mind it, I do what I can. I was not brought up right or I could be of more use. Before the war, we had fifteen servants. They are now at war. We have only two left, a half-wit and a cripple.”

“Do you know,” she said, “I have never heard the English marching song ‘Tipperary.’ I just love music. In Tours the other day, I saw it on sale, my hand was in my pocket before I knew. But I happened to think of our brave soldiers; they need so many things”—

Noticing the troubled look on the usually serene countenance of a very good friend, I asked her: “Why those clouds?”

“Oh,” she replied, “they have just called Gaston to the colors. His class is called up. You know how I have pinched and saved to bring that boy up right. Now, he must go and I cannot make myself feel glad. I ought to feel proud, but I cannot. I don’t feel right. Every time I look at him I think of my husband and his one leg.”

During the early days of the war I was out with my landlady, whose calculating instinct in the matter of extra charges separated me from all my loose change. Going past the Gare d’Est Paris we noticed a crowd about a French soldier. He had a German helmet in his hand. Walking up to him, she said:

“What is that?”

“A German helmet, Madame.”

“Did you get that?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Did you get it yourself?”

“Certainly, Madame.”

“Here, take this, go back and get some more.” She passed her pocketbook over to the poilu.

The soldier stared; the crowd stared; but the soldier was a thoroughbred. Crooking his elbow and sticking the helmet out on his index finger, he bowed:

“Will Madame give me pleasure by accepting the helmet?”

Would she! Boche helmets were scarce in those days. Beautiful Mademoiselles in that crowd would have given their souls to possess such a treasure! Neither they nor I know Madame. Her eyes looked level into those of the soldier as she demanded:

“You are not a Parisian?”

“No, Madame.”

“To what province are you going?”

“Brittany.”

“When?”

“At six o’clock tonight.”

“Have you a wife?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Will you do something for me?”

“With the greatest pleasure!”

“Well, keep that casque in your hand until you arrive in Brittany. Then give it to your wife. She will always love you for it and your children will never forget such a father!”

Walking away, Madame dropped into a silent mood. I looked at her curiously. Was she sorry she had given away her money? Did she regret not accepting that highly-prized helmet, or was she thinking of the pleasure that gift would give the soldier’s wife?

Suddenly she turned and said: “Well, one thing is certain.”

“What is certain?”

“You will have to pay my car fare home.”