Suzanne is a very pretty girl, I was told, but the charm of “Suzanne’s” wasn’t with her alone, for, always, one spoke of the deliciously-tasting meal, how nice the old madame is, and how fine a chap is her mari, the father of Suzanne. Then of the garden in the back—and before you had finished listening you didn’t know which was the most important thing about “Suzanne’s.” All you knew was that it was the place to go when on an aeroplane voyage.

At the pilotage office I found five others ahead of me; all of us were bound in the same direction. We were given vbarographs, altimeters and maps and full directions as to forced landings and what to do when lost. We hung around the voyage hangar until about eight in the morning, but there was a low mist and cloudy sky, so we could not start out until afternoon; and I didn’t have luncheon at “Suzanne’s.”

After noon several of the others started out, but I wanted to plan my supper stop for the second point, so I waited until about four o’clock before starting.

Almost before I knew it a village, which on the map was twelve kilometers away, was slipping by beneath me and then off to one side was a forest, green and cool-looking and very regular around the edges. Pretty soon I came to a deep blue streak bordered by trees, and was so interested in it—it wound around under a railroad track, came up and brushed by lots of back gates and, finally, fell in a wide splash of silver over a little fall by a mill—that I forgot all about flying and suddenly woke up to the fact that one wing was about as low as it could get and that the nose of the machine was doing its best to follow the wing.

Long before I came to the stopping point, I could see the little white hangar. The field is not large, but it is strange, so you come down rather anxiously, for if you can’t make that field the first time, you never will be able to fly, they tell you before leaving. I glided down easily enough, for, after all, it is just that—either you can or you can’t—and made a good-enough landing. The sergeant signed my paper, and a few minutes later away I went for “Suzanne’s.” The next stop is near a little village—Suzanne’s village—so when I came to the field and landed I was sure to be too tired to go up again immediately. Instead, off I went to town after making things right with the man in charge. That wasn’t a bit difficult, either, for all I did was to wink as hard as I could, and he understood perfectly.

I knew where “Suzanne’s” was, so I made directly for it. It was a little early, but you should never miss the vapertif. With that first, success is assured; without it, it is like getting out of bed on the wrong foot.Up I marched to the unimposing door and walked in to the main room—a big room, with long, wooden tables and benches and a zinc bar at one end, where all kinds of bottles rested. It isn’t called “Suzanne’s,” of course; it only has that name among us.

As I closed the door behind me and looked about, a bonne was serving several men at a corner table, and behind the bar a big, red-faced, stout man was pouring stuff into bottles. He looked at me a moment and then with a tremendous “Tiens!“ he came out from behind the tables and advanced toward me.

“Bon jour,” he said; “do you come from far?”

“Oh, no,” I answered, “only from ——.”

“Tiens!“ he repeated; then, “Ah, you are from the school.” L’ecole, he called it.

From l’ecole, I admitted, and, taking me by the arm, he led me to a door at the rear. Through this he propelled me, and then in his huge voice he called “Suzanne, un vpilote!“ and I was introduced.

As he shut the door, I could just see the corner table with the three old men staring open-mouthed, the wine before them forgotten, the bread and cheese in their hands untasted; then, down the stairs came light steps and a rustle of skirts, and Suzanne was before me with smiling face and outstretched hand.

Her instant welcome, the genuine smile! Almost immediately, I understood the fame of this little station, so far from everything but the air route.Her charm is indescribable. She is pretty, she is well dressed, but it isn’t that. It is a sincerity of manner, complete hospitality; at once you are accepted as a bosom friend of the family—that is the charm of Suzanne’s.

After a few questions as to where I came from, how long I had been there, and where I was going, Suzanne led me upstairs to be presented to v“Ma belle mere,” a white-haired old lady sitting in a big, straight-backed chair. Then, after more courtesies had been extended to me, Suzanne preceded me down to the garden and left me alone while she went in to see that the supper was exceptionally good.

A soft footstep on the gravel walk sounded behind me, and I turned to see one of the most beautiful women I ever beheld. She was tall and slender, and as she came gracefully across the lawn she swung a little work bag from one arm. All in black she was, with a lace shawl over her bare head. Like every one in that most charming and hospitable house, there was no formality or show about her. She came, smiling, and sat on the bench beside me, drawing open her work bag. I could not help noticing, particularly, her beautiful eyes, for they told the story, a story too common here, except that her eyes had changed now to an expression of resigned peace. Then she told me about Suzanne.

Long before, ages and ages ago it seemed, but really only four years, a huge, ungainly bird fell crashing to earth and from the wreck a man was taken, unconscious. He was carried to “Suzanne’s,” and she nursed him and cared for him until he was well again. “Suzanne was very happy then,” madame told me. And no wonder, for the daring aviator and Suzanne were in love. She nursed him back to health, but when he went away he left his heart forever with her.

They were engaged, and every little while he would fly over from his station to see Suzanne. Those were in the early days and aviation—well, even at that, it hasn’t changed so much.

One day a letter came for Suzanne, and with a catch at her throbbing heart she read that her fiancÉ had been killed. v“Mort pour la patrie,” it said, and Suzanne was never the same afterward.

For many months the poor girl grieved, but, finally, she began to realize that what had happened to her had happened to thousands of other girls, too, and, gradually, she took up the attitude that you find throughout this glorious country. Only her eyes now tell the sad story.

One evening two men walked into the cafÉ and from their talk Suzanne knew they were from l’ecole. She sat down and listened to them. They talked about the war, about aviation, about deeds of heroism, and Suzanne drank in every word, for they were talking the language of her dead lover. The two aviators stayed to dinner, but the big room was not good enough. They must come back to the family dinner—to the intimacy of the back room.

They stayed all night and left early next morning, but before they left they wrote their names in a big book. To-day, Suzanne has the book, filled full of names, many now famous, many names that are only a memory—that is how it started.

When the two pilots went back to l’ecole, they spoke in glowing terms of “Suzanne’s,” of the soft beds, of the delicious dinner, and, I think, mostly of Suzanne.

Visitors came after that to eat at “Suzanne’s,” and to see her famous book. They came regularly and, finally, “Suzanne’s” became an institution.

Always, a pilote was taken into the back room; he ate with the family, he told them all the news from l’ecole, and, in exchange, he heard stories about the early days, stories that will never be printed, but which embody examples of the heroism and intelligence that have done their part to develop aviation.

Soon, we went in to dinner, and such a dinner! Truly, nothing is too good for an aviator at “Suzanne’s,” and they give of their best to these wandering strangers. They do not ask your name, they call every one Monsieur, but before you leave you sign the book and they all crowd around to look, without saying anything. Your name means nothing yet, but a year from now, perhaps, who can tell? In the first pages are names that have been bywords for years and some that are famous the world over.

After dinner, Suzanne slipped away, presently to reappear with a special bottle and glasses. I felt sure this was part of the entertainment afforded all their winged visitors, for they went about it in a practised manner; each was familiar with his or her part, but to me it was all delightfully new.

Our glasses were filled, and Suzanne raised hers up first. Without a word, she looked around the circle. Her eyes met them all, then rested with madame. She had not said a word; it was “papa” who proposed my health, and as the bottoms went up, Suzanne and madame both had a struggle to repress a tear. They were drinking my health, but their thoughts were far away, and in my heart I was wishing that happiness might again come to them. Suzanne certainly deserves it.

When I returned to school, they asked, “Did you stop at ‘Suzanne’s’?” And now to the others, just ready to make the voyage, I always say, “Be sure to stop at ‘Suzanne’s’.”

Greayer Clover.