Amelie has a stepson and daughter. The boy--named Marius--like his
father plays the violin. Like many humble musicians his music is his
life and he adds handsomely to his salary as a clerk by playing at
dances and little concerts, and by giving lessons in the evening. Like
his father he is very timid. But he accepted the war without a word,
though nothing is more foreign to his nature. It brought it home to
me--this rising up of a Nation in self-defense. It is not the marching
into battle of an army that has chosen soldiering. It is the marching
out of all the people--of every temperament--the rich, the poor, the
timid and the bold, the sensitive and the hardened, the ignorant and the
scholar--all men, because they happen to be males, called on not only to
cry, "Vive la France," but to see to it that she does live if dying for
her can keep her alive. It is a compelling idea, isn't it?
Amelie's stepdaughter is married to a big burly chap by the name of
Georges Godot. He is a thick-necked, red-faced man--in the dynamite
corps on the railroad, the construction department. He is used to
hardships. War is as good as anything else to him.
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