 Six Women and the Invasion, by Gabrielle and Marguerite Yerta. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by J.L. Baldwin. Six Women and the Invasion, Preface. This little book gives a very graphic and interesting account by an eyewitness who knows how to write, of life in the occupied provinces of France under the daily pressure of the German invasion. There are many repulsive and odious incidents recorded here of the German occupation, but mercifully few atrocities, such as those which make of the French governmental reports or that of the Bryce Commission, tales of horror and infamy that time will never wash out. These pages relate to the neighborhood of Laos, and the worst brutalities committed by German soldiers in France seem to have happened farther south, along the line of the German retreat during the Battle of the Marne, and in the border villages of Lorraine. But the picture drawn of the Germans in possession of a French country district, robbing and bullying its inhabitants and delighting in all the petty tyrannies of their military regime is one that writes in large hand the lesson of this war. There must be no next time. If Europe cannot protect itself in future against such conduct on the part of a European nation, civilization is doomed. And that this little book understates the case rather than overstates it, can be proved by a mass of contemporary evidence. I pass for instance from Madame Yertos' graphic account of the endless requisitions, perquisitions, inquisitions to which the inhabitants of Mornie in the Laenois were subject in 1915, to a paragraph in this week's morning post, Tuesday, September 18, where a letter found upon a German soldier and written to a comrade in Flanders from this very district gleefully says, We take from the French population all their lead tin, copper, cork, oil, candlesticks, kitchen pots, or anything at all like that, which is sent off to Germany. I had a good haul the other day with one of my comrades. In one walled up room we found 15 copper musical instruments, a new bicycle, 150 pairs of sheets, some towels, and six candlesticks of beaten copper. You can imagine the kind of noise the old hag made who owned them. I just laughed. The commandant was very pleased. No doubt the commandant was of the same race as the von Bernhausen's, or the Bubenpecks, who met Madame Yertat pillories in these lively and sarcastic pages. It would be too much indeed to expect that any French woman who had passed through 15 months of such a life should ride with complete impartiality of her temporary masters. She would be less than human were it possible. Yet in the sketches of the two German officers, Barbou and Creufle, billeted on the six women, there is no more than a laughing malice and an evident intention to be fair to men who have no evident intention to be cruel. But of the bullying commandant, Lieutenant von Bernhausen, and of the officer, Lieutenant Bubenpeck, who succeeded him as the absolute master of the French village, which is the scene of the book, Madame Yertat gives us portraits in which every touch bites. The drunken sensual manners of such men, combined with German conceit and German arrogance, make up a type of character only too real, only too common, to which, throughout the districts where the Germans have passed, French experience bears inexorable and damning witness. It is clear, however, that these six brave women, Madame Valen, her four daughters and her daughter-in-law, the writer of the book, were well able to take care of themselves. The tale of their courage, their gaiety, their resource under the endless difficulties and petty oppressions of their lot lights up the miserable scene, kindling in the reader the same longing for retribution and justice on a barbarian race as burnt in their French hearts. Madame Yertat describes for us how neighbors helped each other, how they met in the farm-kitchens, behind their closed doors and windows, to pass on such news as they could get, to pray for France and scoff at the invader, how they ingeniously hid their most treasured possessions, how they went hungry and cold because the Germans had robbed them of food, clothing, and blankets, they are doing it afresh at this very moment in occupied France and Belgium, and how village and town alike would have starved but for the Spanish American Relief Commission. The result is a typically French book, both in its lightness of touch and in the passionate feeling that breaks through its pages. The old Latin civilization makes the background of it, with its deeply rooted traditions, its gift of laughter and of scorn, its sense of manners and measure, its humanity, its indomitable spirit. When the writer at last, after fifteen months of bondage, sees once more the fields of la douce France, she puts simply and sharply into words the thoughts and sufferings of thousands, thousands of ill-treated innocent and oppressed folk, to whom, as we pray, the course of this just war will before long bring comfort and release. Her book deserves a wide audience, and will, I hope, find it. Mary A. Ward, September 1917. End of preface. Chapter 1 of Six Women and the Invasion by Gabrielle Yerta and Marguerite Yerta-Mallera. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by J. L. Baldwin. Part 1. It is no longer the pillar of fire, it is the pillar of cloud, it is the dark shadow of invasion that approaches. Chapter 1. As you know only too well, in the year 1914, war set Europe on fire. That is to say, you the man-made war, and we the women had but to comply. Let us be honest and true, whereas you, heart of my heart, now gone to fight for your country, wished for this contest with the enthusiasm, spirit, and rage of youth, I wished for it too, but with terror, anguish, and remorse. Such is the difference. The place? The Île-de-France, the part of my country, blessed among all, sweeter to my eyes than the most loudly sung. And in the Île-de-France, Mournay, a village of the Laenois, situated on a level plain. At ten miles distance to the west of Mournay, Laon is perched on a steep low hill. To the north, fields and meadows stretch out as far as the eye can reach, and towards the south, the forest of Saint-Cobain makes a long dark blot on the landscape. Beyond, a blue line of mountains closes the horizon like a wall. This peaceful scene, with its green meadows, fertile fields, rich forests, rich forests, villages nestling among orchards, with its good-humoured tenets wrapped up in a love of their country, sums up the treasures of the Île-de-France. But it is also the seasoning of the French pie, this rotten ferment whose canker-like nature, frivolity, inconstancy, and folly, have spread into the noblest parts of France. You are not aware of this? No more was I, but I learned it from Hummel's geography, published in 1876 for German families, and it is a conviction that teutonic babies imbibe with their mother's milk. The dramatis personae? Six women, I have said. My mother-in-law, her four daughters, and I. Let me introduce them. Madame Valen, my mother-in-law, charms by her gentle dignity and by her handsome face, still young under waving grey hair. As to her daughters, when they all were little girls in pinafores, an old woman once cried out at the sight of their childish beauty, one is prettier than another. To which my husband, at that time a teasing schoolboy, retorted, one is naughtier than another. We do not believe this last assertion. I will only maintain that their beauty has grown with them. Jean-Aviève, the eldest, is my favourite sister, another me, and for a long while we have not been able to do without one another. A supple shape, a lovely expressive face fringed with golden hair, clear eyes between black eyelashes, added to a fine intellect and well-poised faculties, make of her a privileged being. Her steadfast character always deals straightforwardly, whereas mine, just as tenacious, does not disdain manoeuvring. Her sisters are tall and graceful, Yvonne has large black eyes, a tiny mouth and splendid golden locks. She is the musician of the family, thinks nothing better in the world than the harmony of sweet sounds and lives only for her art. Antoinette bears proudly an imperial beauty and a bachelor's degree, which she has recently carried off. As to Colette, the pet child of the family, by turns charming and execrable, she counts seventeen summers and rejoices our eyes with the sweetest face ever seen, a rosebud complexion and cornflower eyes. Two representatives of the opposite sex intrude upon this company of women, my husband first, he is the tallest, the handsomest of the sons of men. When I see him I think I behold a young God, said one of our friends a few years ago, and I shall not cheapen these terms of praise by any description of him. If I confide to you that he is growing bald on his temples, be sure you don't go and tell him so. The loss is due to sojourns in Sagan and Panama, for this half of myself is a true globetrotter and has seen the whole world, without me, alas. He is a man of great learning and is deeply skilled in philology and theology. Such as he is, I adore him, and think it better to own it honestly, for fear my partiality might remain unperceived. The other specimen of the sterner sex, with whom I have to deal here, is a small Parisian boy, nine years old, owner of the most flippant tongue. By a stroke of carelessness he was sent to us for a fortnight, and like many another has now to stay as a prisoner on account of the invasion. Out of common politeness I have not yet mentioned my own person. The task of describing it is hateful. Of this self fortunately there is not much, fifty kilos at the utmost. In other words I am slender. I have a pink and white complexion and very long, auburn hair, a small insignificant nose, a large mouth, and serious eyes. I am generally called grandmother in memory of a time when we acted little red riding-hood. My husband always calls me Mr. Monkey, your poisonous ladieship, or Mrs. Kid, vexatious names truly for a woman. We live in Paris the greater part of the year, but it is with pleasure that the whole family meets every summer in our country house at Mourney to spend its holidays. When, about the twentieth of July 1914, Jean-Yves Yvon and I arrived in the dear old place, my husband and Colette had been enjoying it for a fortnight. My mother-in-law and Antoinette were expected shortly. We had taken with us little Pierre Pras, whose mother, a good friend of ours, could not leave Paris for the present, and the health of the interesting boy required the country. We had hardly exchanged the usual kisses and renewed our knowledge of the place. We were hardly seated at the dinner-table when Colette cried out, Oh, grandmother, how lovely, fancy, there will be a war. The day it is declared, I shall dress like a boy and become a soldier. Of course you will cut your beautiful locks, besmear your cheeks, and there you are. But tell me an earnest posy, do you think there will be a war? I suppose my husband has a name of his own, but no one knows it. Only he is brother, and I call him Posi. Now Mr. Posi thought war unavoidable and began to expound the reasons that strengthened his opinion. A little tired of the journey, happy to be again in the country, I listened to the deep sounds of the dear voice I had not heard for the last fortnight, but gave little heed to the meaning of his words. Besides I was so sure there would be no war at all. We began to lead a blissful life. We enjoyed walks in the large garden and praised the sun and the green. What delightful holidays we would have. The mere thought of it led to lyricism. Oh nature, oh ideal, oh blessed rest. At first nothing happened to trouble our peace. It will be remembered that the newspapers were rather encouraging. Optimism prevailed. My husband alone talked of an impending conflict. But he wished it so eagerly that I thought he might be mistaken in his prophecies. War is talked of every year, I said. It is but a summer topic. On the 26th of July there were alarming rumors, confirmed the day after. We then began to talk of war, to talk always about that, to talk of nothing else. Colette herself helped no other conversation and from her crimson lips dropped no other words than mobilization, armament, concentration. I shall never forget the night when troops crossed the village. I saw war that night, war the man-eater, the great killer, war himself. The hour was grave. France was preparing to withstand her enemies and was sending her armies to protect the frontiers. Troops marched through the village the whole night. First came the foot soldiers who filed off to the strains of the Marseillais and the Chante de Parc. Leaning out of my window in a nightgown I tried to catch sight of something and I saw only a black flood endlessly rolling on. The sight of this dark mass which marched on and sang was striking indeed. The young voices had an accent of resolution and rage and gave the impression that all hearts throbbed as if by one impulse. The men knew they were marching on to death and they sang as the volunteers of ninety-two may have sung. Sometimes there was silence and nothing was to be heard save the sound of steps as rhythmical as a heavy shower. As the first battalion passed my husband laid his book aside, lifted up his head and declared, There can be no more doubt of it now. And resuming his Henri Ousset and his cigarette he buried himself again in his reading. I was not so easily resigned to the situation. A certitude had seized upon me too. It is war. I was trembling like a leaf shaken by the wind and I could not master my emotion. I was not frightened, I felt easy in my mind but my body. Was it due to primeval memory, to misgivings or to the terrible thought that has been handed down from wars of yore? I do not know but my frightened body was trembling convulsively. When I was not leaning out of the window I thought lying by the side of my husband, war is coming may God protect us. I clasped his dear hand into spare. I kissed him in an agony and said over and over again war will carry him off. And I thought all over France the roads are covered with troops and thousands of women close to the man they love are listening to the steps of the soldiers and the rumbling of the cannon, broken hearted they kiss and adored face and with bitter tears repeat war will carry him off. Cavalry followed infantry then came gunners, cannon and powder carts. The heavy pieces rolled on with the noise of thunder and shook the house to its foundations. It was about three o'clock in the morning. A cold mist fell as if reluctantly from the cloudy sky. The night was less dark and the moving forms passed slowly like shadows before my sight. Horses, cannon and gunners wrapped up in their cloaks. Dark in the dark haze the outlines of men and animals seemed to sketch a new dance of death, in the midst of which the grim monster might have appeared at any moment. I was so deeply impressed by this phantasmagorical marching past that I almost expected to see death go up behind a gunner or get a stride of cannon. I felt intensely that I was seeing war, war and death. War, the terrible tyrant was marching along and nothing would impede his progress. Still more foot soldiers, the men sing no more. Dawn is unfavorable to enthusiasm. You set forth in the evening sanguine of success seeing at the end of the road victory, triumph and glory. But when morning comes dark and cold your exaltation sinks. Not that you feel less resolute, but behind the brilliant phantoms your fancy had conjured up the night before, you see grimacing slaughter and death and fire. Day broke bright and clear. In the sun's lively beams all fears melted away. There will be a war. Be it so, the men will go and fight and we too will do something for France. The following week was a medley of enthousiasms and sadnesses. At last war and revenge were no more mere words. At last Germany would be crushed. Too long our enemy had wronged us. We would wreak a tardy but fearful vengeance for our still and avenged disgrace, for grievous humiliations daily inflicted on us. O revenge, O sun, you rise and your first rays make our hearts sing like the granite of old Egypt. We lived in a fever. War which approached cast its shadow before, but it was a bright shadow, the shadow of glory, of more than human courage, of manifold heroism. It was the pillar of fire which, shielding our hearts from the enemy and the terrors to come, hid them from our eyes. The passing breath of enthusiasm quickened the beating of our hearts. As to myself I put a good face upon the matter, but all the time I thought with anguish, it is war, I shall be alone. War will sever us from all we love, blood and tears will be shed everywhere. May God save France and have pity upon us. On the 2nd of August war was an unquestioned fact, mobilization was proclaimed. My husband has served in the navy and had to go to Cherbourg the next day. We then began preparations for the departure of our sailor, who increased my cares by saying over and over again, don't expect me to remain in the navy, there is nothing to do there, I will be sent to the east of France and see the white of the Prussian's eyes. The luggage being ready we went for a stroll in the village. War was of course the one topic of the day. To qualify them for the toils of Mars the men had duly sacrificed tobaccos, and their patriotism was nonetheless fiery for that. Most women were silent. Many had cried their eyes quite red. One day more and they would be alone with groups of small children. A very young woman, almost a girl, declared with a toss of her light hair, bachelors who have but their own body to care for out to go and fight, that's right, but fathers of a family. Her neighbour next door, Madame Turgot, nodded ascent. She had a baby in her arms and was pensively listening to her husband who, hot with anger, was speech-ifying, not very far off. In his quality of orator he discoursed not only upon Germans but upon spies also. In the morning two Germans had been arrested in Léon and the day before a man who was going to blow up a bridge had been shot. But look, two strangers appeared at the corner of the street. All faces grew serious and Turgot, advancing towards the men, demanded their papers. When they refused to show them the crowd grew nervous and Turgot thought himself insulted. Cries and bad names filled the air until the soldiers, astonished at the uproar, took the culprits away to examine their papers. The lover of justice came back home greatly pleased with himself. People gathered round him and declared, Policemen, gendarmes, all humbug. Fortunately we are here to maintain order. And all together they went to the next inn and from the adventure drew this moral lesson, no more strangers, France for Frenchmen. Pleasant and peaceful the last evening was drawing to its clothes the last of many evenings that will never come again. The following morning I went to the station with my husband. There was a large crowd on the platform. The men high in spirit seemed delighted to go off to the army. Silent and gloomy the women stood close to their husbands and their eyes betrayed a sadness past remedy. Then came the train full of soldiers of the reserve, singing at the top of their voices. All get into the crowded carriages. A whistle is heard. The train moves forward. A last kiss, a last handshake. The deer face leans out of the window. My eyes raised up towards it until its features disappear and vanish in the distance. It is all over. He is gone. They are gone. Towards glory. Towards death. Who knows? I came back home for Lorne and sad. In vain collets and hearing words and Genevieve's warm affection awaited me. Love had deserted the house. The following days glided by tiresome and empty. But fortunately we soon found an occupation. A regiment of artillery was formed in the neighborhood. Two batteries were quartered in morning and willing needle women were required to put the uniforms of the soldiers into good condition. Very well. There are no opportunities for high deeds let us be content with small ones. We put together needles, scissors and thread and thus armed ran to the school where other women were already working. And what work we were told to shorten trousers to let jackets out, to sew stripes and to stitch numbers on collars and sleeves. A noisy and merry activity prevailed in the yard. When off duty the soldiers gathered about the big nut tree whose shadow protected the needle women from the sun. Harmless jokes were exchanged and Germany of course had to bear the brunt of them. There was a tailor, a giant with a jolly face who declared that he would get all he wanted on the other side of the Rhine and for a ball of thread or a missing button would send you straight to Berlin. These good-natured and simple ways were all the more touching on account of the dangers which lay ahead. And what we highly appreciated the soldiers behaved like gentlemen. We spent many hours with them and never heard a rougher coarse word. For truth's sake I must say their captain kept a sharp lookout upon his men. He was about forty-five, had nice eyes and a kindly face. We heard his name and found out that he was a famous man whose works we greatly admired. We had common friends too. It was not long before we became real comrades and told him how eager we were to be of some use to our country. Don't you think we might nurse a few wounded soldiers in our house, we asked? The captain was good enough to like the idea. All right, he said, if your rooms are large enough and airy, come and see yourself. The captain came first alone and the day after with two surgeon majors. They made calculations and then declared that we might receive thirty soldiers. Two empty houses our neighbors offered out of kindness would contain twenty other beds. Fifty soldiers would compose quite a sufficient ambulance and to our heart's delight we might devote our strength to the wounded. In Léon they will be only too pleased to send you convalescence, Monsieur Vainchamps told us. Plenty of patients will soon fill the hospitals and a doctor from the town will come every day to tend your invalids. This medical visit did not remain the only one Monsieur Vainchamps paid us. About nine o'clock, his day's work over, our new friend came round and knocked at the window. Our talk was chiefly on war, the only topic we took an interest in. Men are good for nothing, Monsieur Vainchamps said, courage is their only gift. That is why I am delighted with the present war and peace men are out of their right element. Then you must improve the occasion and make the best of it for certainly there will be universal peace after the present war and you men will be forever out of your element. No one answered and our silence called up a picture of dead and wounded stretched upon a plane where a battle had taken place. And again we talked of Belgian courage, of that heroic liège which had to face such fearful odds and did not yield to brute strength. We likened the storming party to the turbulent waters which beat furiously against a dike, but we knew the dike was strong and would not give way. The Germans were not highly appreciated by Captain Vainchamps. They are not intelligent, he declared, but they are not. I do not deny their qualities, they are fine imitators but no creators. They make good use of others' inventions and derive benefit from discoveries they would be unable to make themselves. Their talents, quite practical, are not what is called intelligence. Cuviers, Pasteurs, Lemak have no rivals on the other side of the Rhine and their work no equal. Besides, consider that for fifty years our neighbours have thought about one goal, a victorious war. But that is very important just now. Never mind, intelligence will get the better of brute strength and crush it. The mere thought of victory sent a thrill of rapturous joy through our hearts. On going out through the yard, lit up by the moon's rays, the captain listened to the whistle of the trains and said with a smile, food for powder. At full speed the trains rolled on both lines day and night, the food for powder went by without ceasing. Food for powder. And yet the expression is not right. For the soul of every man was awake. At the call of war all men were ready to fight and to die, all shouted victory in the assurance that it would come to us. In the village our confidence met some distrust. Madame Tassin, who acts as housekeeper when we are away, tossed her grey head. I was young when I saw them for the first time in 70. What shall I do at my age if they come here now? Jean-of-Yves was filled with horror at the mere suggestion. In the farm nearby, Madame Lantois expressed the very same unreasonable fears. Do you think we shall have them here? She asked a young lieutenant who was as bitterly disgusted as we were. Meanwhile our gunners were ready from head to foot and their horses from mane to hoof. We heard the last exhortations of the captain to his men and the next day we got up at four o'clock in the morning to see them off. It was magnificent. The sun shone in triumph upon the marshal train. The flower-covered cannon had a good humoured air. The horses pawed the ground and the gunners had not smiles enough to throw to us nor caps enough were with to salute us. Captain Vachon, before he took leave, introduced his horse. It was a skittish little mare, he thought, clever and sweet-tempered. Once more we wished him success and once more hoped that the war would spare him and his men. And all soldiers, officers and horses galloped off and were soon hidden from our sight amid the poplar trees in the sun and the dust. The last soldier had departed. The village was empty of men and the women from sunrise to sunset were working in the fields. We led an uninteresting life. In fact, we did not live in Mourney but in Belgium where our soldiers were fighting. Our overburdened minds looked forward passionately to the result of the first conflict. What was going to happen? End of chapter one. Chapter two of Six Women and the Invasion by Gabriel Yerta and Marguerite Yerta-Malera. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by J.L. Baldwin. Chapter two. First came a letter from my husband. He had written it in the first fever of war. The letter was a week late and he marveled at the splendid eagerness and union of France. "'Tis the world upside down," he wrote. In my detachment out of 1200 seamen, not one was missing or drunk on getting to Cherbourg. As to myself, I am more decided than ever not to go to sea. I will see the Prussians face to face. Yesterday, I had to talk with a field officer and he promised to get me an interesting post. That is a good thing. I now depend only on him. I thought I saw him rubbing his hands with satisfaction. An interesting post. It means, doesn't it, to run into Jeopardy to seek after perilous missions? Oh, daredevil, oh, heart of stone. Wrapped up in his joy, he has no thought for the pangs of those whose hearts are hanging upon his life. Soon after, there arrived unexpectedly Madame de Len and Antoinette, whose journey had been greatly delayed by the mobilization. We had got but scanty news from Paris and listened in amazement to their descriptions of the capital, the fine frenzy of the soldiers leaving for the front, the plunder of German shops, and then in our turn told them the little that we had seen in the country. When our stories and greetings were finished, it was time to prepare rooms for the travellers. I will seize upon the occasion to give a short description of our dear old house. Notched like a saw, the gabled front presents a row of shutters which, like gray eyelids, secure us from indiscreet looks. To the right and the left, two large iron gates, always carefully closed, lead one into a paved yard, the other into a narrow road planted with trees. The side of the house looking out on the high-walled garden throws off the reserve in which the front is shrouded. Windows and doors are always wide open to the air, the sun, and the creepers, whose branches penetrate even the rooms themselves. Inside, a passage separates the house into two parts, the dining and the drawing rooms on one side and on the other, the bedrooms and the kitchen. Jean-Vierve Collette and Madame Villain have their rooms downstairs. Upstairs, the attic has been cut up pleasantly into three. Outside, parallel with the house, a small building opens into the yard containing a wash house, a room, the small room, a coach house, a stable, and the hall is topped by an attic. The house, this does not allow of discussion, is too small, or the family is too large, and Antoinette, who wanted a room to herself, declared, I will settle in the small room, and we could not get it out of her head, although we enlarged with some complacency upon the dangers she might run alone by night. The walls are high, the door's strong, I am not afraid, and then there are the dogs. Indeed, Cassius and Pelsenet, the colleagues we dot on, live next door and have sharp sets of teeth, which they show to all intruders. Grandmama said Antoinette the next morning, last night, about 12, the proper time for crimes, I was startled out of my sleep. You were dreaming of the Germans. No, no, someone was in the attic above my room. There you are, a spy, have you run him in? Without joking, Grandmama, I heard steps quite clearly. Do you know that deserters are said to have escaped near Morni? In process of time the deserters were proved to be dormice, but we thought the mistake amusing, and ever after called the attic the deserter's attic. Life went on, dull, spiritless, insignificant in Morni, immense, tremendous, and tragical beyond there in the north and the east. We longed for the postman the whole day long. He had few letters for us, but he still brought papers. We read them carefully, and we were none the wiser. We ought to have read between the lines, but we could not. I assure you that during the end of August we were deaf and blind. Our reason refused to believe the testimony of our senses. We saw thousands and thousands of people whom Belgium and the North had cast away, the Belgian army driven back from Flanders, the staff officers subtle and lay on, and we never came to the right conclusion. In the case of floods, long before they are out, birds fly with hasty wings, beasts hurry away, and even snails climb up the trees. Less clever than the beasts of the field, we were unconscious of the threatening inundation, even when the country round us already lay under water and floating wrecks were visible on all sides. One morning at an early hour, we went with our arms full of provisions to the station where seven trains had stopped, crowded with refugees. In an instant the poor people had stripped us of our burden, and by way of thanks answered our anxious questions. For 36 hours they had been traveling, men, women, old people, children, invalids, crowded in the narrow carriages. And yet they were happy to get away, to escape as they thought from a nightmare. Furious bombardments, pitiless fights, burning villages, they had witnessed and told to us all the horrors of war. They had seen corpses in some places so thickly packed that they remained standing and the sight haunted them. As did the horrible smell of hundreds of dead bodies burning on funeral piles or floating in long files down rivers of sinister aspect. For the first time we realized the actual atrocity of war and with the shrinking of the heart we eagerly questioned the lieutenant to convoy the train as to what had happened. Madam, I know nothing. I have been told an important battle is imminent. Belgium is in ruins. And we shall not go to Germany and impose upon the aggressors the law of retaliation. Of course we shall. Be patient, they shall rue it dearly, but when? The hordes that covered the roads were still more miserable than the travelers we had just seen. Day after day they trudged grimly along. We saw vehicles of all kinds, carriages, carts, wanes drawn by horses, oxen, donkeys, and even dogs loaded and overloaded with women, children, sick people, huddled together with old clothes, kitchen utensils, articles of food for the people and straw for the animals. The men relieved the sorry jades by pushing or pulling and on both sides of the road rolled a flood of ragamuffins. The women with urchins hanging onto their skirts bore babies in their arms. Boys and girls rode on bicycles with great toil, old and infirm people dragged along heaps of shapeless burdens, tools, sospons, and the most unexpected objects of every kind. They went on without rest and with only one wish to get farther away and the very dogs followed, lolling their tongues out, their tails curled between their legs with a feeling of the universal distress visible in their eyes. Some faces looked tragical, even desperate, but on most of them was impressed a gloomy resignation. The Prussians are coming, they had heard, and snatching some hastily made parcels they had fled away with no other purpose than flight. They were but a distracted herd flying from a destroying wave. They possessed neither hearth nor home. All that they had was lost, burnt, plundered, and every one of them was but a cipher in the nameless crowd that besought the pity of France. This human torrent had its dregs. There was no excuse for those who were harsh to the fugitives and they were plenty, but society was upset and the worst elements came to the surface. Plunder-fed vagabonds always to be met in public calamities, profited by the woes of others, felched from the rich, took toll even of the poor, ransacked abandoned houses, and on their way back still managed to commit highway robbery into steel purses. Thanks to these scoundrels, many honest and pitiful people were involved in the suspicion which wanderers often arouse. Fortunately, our people in Mournier are trustful enough and they did their best to assist the helpless and relieve the hungry. Even in the poorest houses, the peasants deemed it a point of honour to share their food and lodging with the wanderers. Several nights running, we gave hospitality to unfortunate families, first to Belgians and then to people of the North, small manufacturers of the neighbourhood of Fourmi. All told the same heart-rending stories, the order to evacuate, the house left ten minutes after, the bewildered flight on the road. Many had fled of their own free will, driven by the breath of terror the Prussians spread abroad. But all were way-worn, all talked of sleepless nights, hunger, thirst and suffering. Alas! said a young girl, there are some still unhappier than we are. Graves have been dug by the wayside. One woman has lost her mother, another her baby. And under their breath they whispered the nameless deeds, the monstrous crimes committed by the Germans. Their stories left us half incredulous and if terror seized upon our soul, it was a far-off, unselfish terror. It did not occur to our minds that the tempest was lowering overhead. We refused to believe that the dyke over there had already given way and that we ourselves might be overrun by the tumultuous flood of invasion. And then, on Wednesday, August 26, three Belgian officers announced that 12,000 Belgian soldiers, the remainder of an army 40,000 strong, would march through the village the next day at five. The excited people gathered in knots on the road, long before the appointed time, and having nothing else to do, let their tongues run on. Much news was exchanged, some of which seemed insipid and some thrilling. The journal de Léon, born with the war, ceased to come out owing to postal difficulties. This organ surely suffered from a secret blemish. It was not born to live. Indifference. No trains came from the north. Indeed, and we had been told everything would go on miraculously well as soon as the mobilization was over. Astonishment. The people of the Terre Rouge, a remote quarter of Mourney, persuaded that the Prussians were approaching made a great slaughter of their plumpest pigs in poultry and devoured them hastily. It is so much gained, they wisely thought. What a droll idea. Hilarity. But, and this seemed odd, the ladies of the Red Cross leaving the wounded in the lurch scampered away last night. Shame upon them. Surely the straight-laced nurses would never be guilty of indiscretion and yet they commit strange blunders, reprobation. The staff is established in Léon. Ah, ah, that is worthy of note. It will be interesting to see the town in its new aspect of headquarters. Interest. And here are the newspapers a neighbour has brought straight from Paris. Change of ministry, formation of a Ministry of National Defence. Oh, oh, this is somewhat curious. They are hiding things from us. Anxiety. While the village was busy in discussion, time went on in the Belgian army also. About seven the boys that stood sentry over the road came on, shouting, Here they are, here they are. They were coming indeed, white with dust but still gallant looking. First came Lancers, then Gunners, a few foot soldiers and again Lancers. Here and there a spiked helmet topped a Lancers point as a trophy and the Gunners, along with their guns, dragged a canteen carried off from the enemy. For three hours they went at a gallop and for three hours we shouted our throat soar and the whole village with us. Bravo, long life to Belgium, success to the brave. The soldiers still galloping answered at the top of their voice. Dieve of France, down at Germany, hurrah for the French women. And rushing forward we shook all the hands that were stretched toward us. That night I think we shook 12,000 hands as 12,000 men went along. We ran, we were everywhere. Collette was madly imprudent and I wondered at her not being run over or crushed under the wheels of the cannons. At last about half past ten the village was silent as we made our way home with horse voices and tired arms thinking only of our beds. There will be time enough for serious politics tomorrow. The next day we went to Léon, Jean-Vierve and I. If we were uneasy and disquieted where could we better calm our fears than in Léon? The official reports were vague but rather encouraging the officers optimistic. The civilians thought there was no room for hesitation and unhesitatingly ran away. Many were already off. The cowards were frightened like hairs by the shadow of their ears. Our scorn was greater even than their haste. We reserved our sympathies for the soldiers whose bright uniforms gave a pleasant liveliness to the town. We were less pleased with the chucks put upon our movements. Passports had to be produced at every corner of the streets and then after two hours waiting among a noisy and ill-smelling crowd to be signed in a guard room. This was, if necessary and comprehensible, very tiresome. All the same we felt uneasy on our way home. We were infringing the regulations. That was as clear as day. It is strictly forbidden to take any provisions out of the town, the orders said. But there is no use talking of obedience to hungry women and we had with what pains carried off from a greedy grocer rice, sugar, salt and other precious things that ran short in the country. Fortunately, we saw the mayor of Morni driving by and from him we gratefully accepted a lift for the sake of our parcels. The evening was lovely. The country smiling in the setting sun. The harvest somewhat delayed for want of men and horses due to its close and beetroot promised a splendid crop. Everything spoke of peace and plenty. The mayor with a word broke the spell. From this place, he said, pointing at a hill disgraced by the presence of a factory. The cannon was audible yesterday. It is mere hearsay, he added, daunted by our protestations. And we all came to the conclusion that the hearers had but singing in their ears. Thus at the side of the mayor, we made a sensational entrance into Morni. At home they had taken in two Belgian soldiers whose lucky star had led to our door. In great haste, the family had prepared a huge omelet, a solid beef steak, a comfortable salad. Then to pay their share they had talked. Alas, what they said was not encouraging. We have been beaten. The Germans are gaining ground. They knew nothing more. The next day we had another Belgian to feed. Our ward, Pierrot, met him in the street in quest of a dinner and, showing him the way, had brought the soldier into the dining room. Our new guest told us frightful stories and talked of defeat and high treason. But on the other hand, he boasted of such high deeds he had performed himself that we listened wholly unmoved to his wondrous tales. Defeat, treason, we had no fear on that score. In spite of a vague alarm, we apprehended no real danger. Some uneasiness stole first over our minds when we got a telegram from Madame Proix, claiming Pierrot back. It was the 30th of August. We ran to the station and were there told with the greatest serenity. There is no train going to Leon tonight. Tomorrow will do then. There is no hurry. We thought no more of the journey for the major's dinner took place that very evening. All that wore a uniform were sure to arouse an admiring interest. The soldiers were overwhelmed with love and adulation. A little more, and we could have prostrated ourselves at their feet. It was but right. What sacrifices could we make to match what they gave us, their strength, their life, their youth? And they were France herself. They were ourselves. Every woman who spoiled a trooper said to herself, my son, too, as a soldier. On this Sunday, then, the village was overjoyed to hear that soldiers would be billeted on it. A good thing. We shall see some officers and perhaps hear some use. And we kept our eyes open, ready to snap up the first piece of gold lace that would come on. The said lace happened to be on the sleeve of a surgeon major. Who, to our anxious questions, gave us an evasive answer and seized time by the forelock. Oh, madam, he said to my mother-in-law, shall I dare ask you? Dare ask it, sir. To lend us your kitchen and your dining room, we are ten surgeon majors and we have nowhere to dine. Certainly my house is at your disposal. But say nothing about it. It is not here that our quarters are. His companion, a giddy brain-jewth, fresh from the schools who hitherto had not opened his mouth, cried out. We will say that the ladies are relations of ours. Mademoiselle will not refuse to declare I am her cousin. The haughty Antoinette not liked the joke and snubbed the joker. Then Asclepius's disciples went away to return speedily. We exchanged a great many lo-bows and the ceremony performed left the gentlemen for fear we should disturb them. They seemed to want rest, judging from their worn-out faces. We heard that one of our guests who had just fallen into a dose was the famous Professor Axe, and we beheld his tired face with some respect. In a clandestine meeting we had decided we shall have supper in the garden. We will drink a cup of milk and eat bread and butter. We are not of those who believe in the necessity of dining. Of course, out of respect for our stomachs we give them tolerable cheer, but occasionally we are content with a cup of cocoa and a slice of bread. And that night we had other fish to fry than to feed ourselves. Besides, we were unlucky enough to have no maids at all at that time. The only one we had left had refused to stay any longer in a place likely to be invaded. Our modest meal over we ran into the house. In the kitchen the dinner was getting on well. A savory smell rose from the sospons. A giant scullion was helping a cook who pontified solemnly. The strange cook hid beneath his apron assumed for the occasion a uniform covered all over with decorations. Beneath the trade of cook he also assumed for the occasion he hid that of an engineer in civil life in military life that of an hospital orderly. He was tall, spare, pale, red haired and he looked unalterably calm. Where are the Germans? We asked the engineer cook. Will they come here? What ought we to do? He feared the Prussians would reach Mornie and in his opinion we had better avoid the meeting. Are we to run away then and wander about like the Belgians? Or shall we take a ticket to Marseille, Algiers or Timbuktu? Is that far enough? Our interlocutor stilled our impatience with the slow sounds of his voice. Really now he had a castle in the air? No, but in Brittany where his sister would be delighted to receive us and the head cook while draining dry his fried potatoes gave us the address of his mansion in Brittany. After the advice of the kitchen we wanted the councils of the dining room. A few sleepyheads had already gone to bed among others the celebrated physician and the giddy-brained youth who had grown extremely serious. The remainder of the learned party were chatting together amid the smoke of tobacco and the flowers on the table. Without more ado we all went in and asked the usual questions. Where are the Germans? Will they come here? What ought we to do? A long conversation ensued. Alas, our guests were as pessimistic as could be. The headmajor, a small man, thick-set, energetic and dark did not hide from us the truth that we should see the Germans and still worse that they would lay siege to Paris. Grief and indignation prevented us from looking at our own situation. We thought but of the country itself. Why, Jean-Vierve cried out, you think the Germans will conquer us? You are expecting another seventy? Never, never, the Germans will be beaten. Should they go to Marseille and Bordeaux, I should still believe in their final defeat, but the moment is a critical one. We have been beaten. It is a certain fact there is no use being blind to it, and the Germans will go to Paris. A clear voice rose at the end of the table. You talk as if we were lost, Collette said. We are retreating. It may be a wise measure. Our men are ready for anything. The Germans in Paris, but you do not know our soldiers. Very good, said the neighbour of Collette, a tall, fair-haired man. Do try to convince my friends. These ten days I have dinned the same arguments into their ears. But you must excuse our despondency. Weariness is the cause of it. These last three weeks we have hardly slept. And what do we see of war? Nothing that is not horrible and disheartening. Battlefields after the fight. The dead, the wounded, the stragglers. Nothing that elevates and idealises men. So the talk went on, and the dining-room rang with the praises the doctors bestowed on their heroic patients. They spoke chiefly of the terrible weariness of the men. They are overcome with sleep, they said, and to such an extent that they don't wake up even when we dress their wounds. A few minutes after Collette said to her neighbour, It is delightful to discuss with you. At least you always agree with me. We all burst out laughing, and at this fit of gaiety the majors went softly out, for fear they would wake up the officers and the refugees whom we were sheltering. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Six Women and the Invasion by Gabrielle Yerta and Marguerite Yerta-Mallera This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by J. L. Baldwin Chapter 3 Sleep was long and coming that night. After much talking we were still at a loss what to think. Were the Germans really at our gates? I cannot believe it, grown Jean-Vierbe. It is a collapse, it is the end of all things. If we are invaded what shall we do? The next day we renewed the discussion. If the Prussians come, we have but to wait for them with a bold face, said Jean-Vierbe and Collette. Madame Villain hesitated. Mother, exclaimed Yvonne and Antoinette, we cannot stay here. Think of the risks we run. What shame retorted Collette to run away like a troop of rabbits. I had never thought you were such cowards. The others repeated with one accord. And if mother was taken as a hostage, the Germans are capable of anything. They have already committed many atrocities. Our perplexity was great. About ten o'clock there dropped from the sky three new surgeons and pressing on them a cup of coffee we renewed our anxious questions. They told us plainly that the Germans were gaining ground and that we were sure to see them. What do you advise us to do? cried my mother-in-law. Madame, Dr. Sésamon declared, he was bearded, jovial, and fatherly. Madame, if you were relations of mine, I should urge your departure. Well, the die is cast. We shall go, declared Madame Villain. Yes, I said, but the house is not in order. A few days ago, as I went to Madame Lantois to buy some eggs, the farmer's wife told me with great satisfaction. I feel quieter now. My house is in order. It was as much as to say that all she set store by had disappeared. The family had hidden, buried, and walled up whatever they had been able to hide, bury, and wall up. Our guests of yesterday's dinner had told us that the owners of a northern farm had unpaved a yard, dug a huge hole, huddled in pieces of furniture and pictures, and then filled up and repaved it. This farm could await the invaders. It was in order. But our house was not in order. That was obvious enough. You have here, said our visitors, a beautiful empire clock. It would be a great pity to have it sent to Germany, and this lovely console table, and those vases. A few minutes after, the two officers, with whom we were gravely discussing, asked, Where is our friend Laison? In the garden with Colette digging holes. Is he? Then we will too. And soon after, our visitors in their shirt sleeves seemed to strive who would dig hardest, and we, just as busy, ran in all directions and brought in objects of every kind. In order to carry out our plan, we had to look for a favourable place. In front of the house stretches a velvet lawn planted here and there with furs and pretty reeds. We could do nothing there. But beyond there are beds in the gardens, shaped like a lozenge. A crescent, and what not, box-edged and planted with shrubs. That was the right place, and we proved it by digging their six or seven big holes. The largest received the drawing room clock carefully wrapped up in oil cloth, with other clocks almost as dearly cherished. On this side we buried silver, on that old china with a great deal of bustle and haste. Is the old ruon jug buried and my yellow tea set? I will bury that too, it is too lovely to lose. The work drew to an end, and by a masterpiece of cunning we strode the newly dug ground with dry leaves, twigs and small pebbles. Dr. Lézon went into ecstasies about the garden he had made over the grave of the clocks. He was thinking himself a match for Le Nôtre, when he gave a start. What is that? The buried treasures, indignant at their ill usage, protested against it by the voice of the empire clock, which began to strike the hour. As we listened to the silvery yet hollow sound which came from the earth, we were reminded of a tale by Edgar Poe. But we had to apply our thoughts to other cares and hide the linen in clothes. After our guests were gone, loaded with grateful blessings, we hardly spared the time to swallow a hasty dinner and went to give the finishing touch to our work. Now there is between the ceiling of my bedroom and the roof a very dark and lofty space that might serve as a very good hiding place, but the ladder was too short to get to it, so we put it on the table, and I, astride on a beam, concealed in the accommodating shadow the things which my sisters-in-law posted on the ladder like so many tylers busy with new roofing, handed up to me. We spread out and heaped up at first linen, then clothes, spurs, shawls, carpets, curtains, iderdown, coverlets, and a big lion's skin. With many exertions we even hoisted up to the loft to console table. Collette standing on tiptoe at the other end of the attic declared, It looks quite empty. You can put in more things. Thanks, we are quite stiff enough for once. Thank heaven the Germans don't come every day or we should not be equal to the job. Downstairs we took down looking glasses and pictures and concealed them as well as we could behind cupboards and bed curtains. They showed a little, but we hoped the Germans would see nothing of them. We could not bury watercolours or oil paintings, could we? At last the house was in order, and we went out for a little stroll. The village was silent, dead, not a cat in the streets. All the doors and windows were closed. It was evident that everyone was giving himself wholly up to the very sport we had just enjoyed. All were vying with one another in hiding their treasures and were racking their brains to find unknown holes and undiscoverable hiding places. I wish to state here that there is a gap in our public instruction, a want in our literature. Since we are provided with such alarming neighbours, every schoolmaster should devote two hours a week to teach our youth what precautions to take in case of invasion. Moreover, in my leisure hours I intend to write a book on the art of concealing applied to invasion. This may open a new field of literature, for they will certainly lose no time in answering the work from the other side of the Rhine with the Treasure Seekers Guide, or a handbook for the complete plunderer. We shall have therefore to study the question and improve the art of hiding. In this respect it is true, an ancient instinct may serve as a guide, an instinct which has had no better chance of expansion than the corner of France we belong to. This rich country has excited the last of all conquerors, before the Christian era the Romans subdued, and later on the Franks laid hands upon it. Attila, as Colette said but yesterday, may have sent a few patrols down here. Then came the Normans, who levied contributions on us, and the English who took their ease at the inhabitants cost during the Hundred Years War. Later the troops of Philip II plundered us and last century, 1814, 1870, to inauspicious dates, we knew the strangers twice more. Therefore, when the alarm spread, the enemy are advancing, the order of the day which we knew by right of inheritance went round. Let us hide, let us hide. All kept on hiding, and we hid too. And our departure? We had decided to go, that was well and good, but how should we go? We could not go by railway, and we could not find a horse and a carriage in the village for their weight in gold. Madame Villan went in haste to Monsieur La Sable, who was setting out with three carts drawn by oxen. He promised to take us and our luggage with him, as little luggage as possible. Never fear, I will tell you in good time, there is no danger for the present. These words gave us confidence. We would fly, but wither, in this train of sluggered things. I have mentioned the ridges that lie to the south and the west of Mourni. In the country these modest hills are pompously called the mountains. Now everyone was convinced the Germans would shun the mountains. An army always goes along valleys, does it not? And what would the enemy do in this uneven region, where orchards and pasture grounds alternate with rocks and woods? It is not the right place to fight in, the people said. And in a hamlet, in this happy part of the country, lives an old relation of ours, Madame La Hwa. We decided to go to Cousin La Hwa. We were sure she would receive us with open arms. There we should see what to do next. And when once the enemy had passed over both sides of the mountains, we could get to Switzerland, the south of France, or Brittany as we chose. Meanwhile, after this busy day, we really wanted rest, and tonight at least we would sleep our fill. But we do not shape our own ends. At half past two we were up, foot soldiers passed in the street. At three we were standing at the window, busy pouring out wine or coffee. Our poor, poor soldiers, so cheerful, so lively, so full of gay spirits but a month ago. In what a state did we see them return? Bent, way-worn, they marched painfully. Yet they marched, but as soon as they were ordered to stop, they dropped to the ground and many fell asleep on the spot. Still, when they heard we were giving something to drink, they came tumbling one over another and gathered around the window. A captain advanced, quieted the disturbance, and ordered the sergeants to distribute the bottles of wine by sections. At the sight of this officer, I suddenly understood the gravity of the hour. Dark-haired with firm and yet fine features, he bore in his eyes the bitterness of the retreat, the horror of the defeat. A look on his tragic face informed me of the truth, better than long speeches. Beaten, we were beaten, France was lost. Oh, God, is it possible? Has God suffered this? No, no, it is not so. I see now the flames, that protest in the feverish eyes. We will die, but we will struggle to the end. Yes, dear soldiers, brave heroes, you will struggle against the enemy. Happy that you can still take an active part. While we, we can but wring our hands in despair and support your courage with love and earnest prayers. In this terrible moment, our eager goodwill could do no more than ask. Do you want a cup of coffee? The water is boiling. Madame, with pleasure. Then someone called the officer, and he had to go without his coffee, for which, by the way, many were eager. The village was awake, and all were desirous to bring food and drink to the soldiers. But the soldiers are so many that a great number certainly got nothing at all. Day broke, and the men still passed on, always as dusty, always as tired, all regiments, all arms mixed in confusion. We did our best to relieve as many as we could. In the morning the crowd grew thinner, we saw only stragglers and cripples. How many we took in to comfort a nurse, I cannot say, they were too many. I remember the clerk of the telegraph pointing to his right hand, of which the fingers had been shut off. What shall I do now, he said, and the girl I am engaged to, will she marry me? Of course she will, or she would not be French. And then came a soldier wounded in the leg, and in spite of his sufferings, he hobbled on with a stick. In admiration he indicated Antoinette with a movement of his chin, and declared in his Lorraine Brogue, that girl there, she has dressed my wound much better than a trained nurse. A little linesman moved our pity still more, and even now we cannot talk of him without emotion. He was very young, with a childish face, his motionless features expressed an immense stupor, a grievous surprise. What, that war, that was war, this wonderful thing we had so often heard of? It was this retreat, these toils, these sufferings? For three weeks he had not taken off his shoes, and his blistered feet were so swollen that the poor fellow could hardly walk. Jean-Vierve washed his poor feet, and Colette, the over-festivious Colette, wiped and bound them up with tender care. We got him fresh socks, and the little foot soldier, after a comfortable breakfast, went on his way again. As he left us he looked around him with amazement depicted on his face and said, the Germans will punish you for that. In these busy hours we had as many opportunities to wonder at the energy and vitality of our race. As soon as the soldiers, spent with fatigue and disheartened, had rested a bit and swallowed something hot, they renewed their vigor and even recovered gaiety enough to tell us their adventures, to laugh at the German shells, which often do not burst, and whose fragments run over the cloth of their uniforms they assured us without doing any harm. But, and there they dropped their voices to a whisper, we had been beaten because there are traitors among the generals. This opinion drove us to despair. We did not give credit to it, but what would happen if the men reposed no trust in their chiefs? And what could we answer to the poor fellows? I recalled to Jean-Vierve's memory Captain Vanchant's saying, beaten soldiers always call out treason, and they are not wrong, a traitor is not merely a man who basely and selfishly sells his country, he is a traitor too when he is not equal to his duty. We did our utmost to hearten our guests of a moment, to cheer them physically and morally, and then one after another they resumed their journey. A touching detail, every lame soldier was attended by a comrade who took charge of him, carried his knapsack, held him up, and was as careful of him as a mother of her child. About noon when all had gone away, Yvonne and Colette, who kept a watchful eye upon the street, cried out, Something is happening towards the pond, and set off running thither. They found that a soldier had suddenly gone mad. Half naked, up to his waist in water, he shrieked and gesticulated, and four men had a hard struggle to master him. Trifling as it was, this incident brought the people's excitement to its highest point. He is a Prussian, said one, he is a spy, retorted another. This time the people snatched at their luggage were often an instant and came back an hour after. The level crossings were not open to civilians for the present, or at least to carriages. Our state of mind was that of a fish caught in a net. Terror spread a mane, and won complete power over the public mind. None knew what he dreaded, and all men reasoned themselves out of reason. Our arguments were proved absurd and grotesque by the event. A mist was over us, it was no more the pillar of fire, it was the pillar of cloud. It was no more the shadow of approaching glory, it was the black shadow which impending invasion casts before. News kept coming. The Prussians are at mal. No, they have been driven back. Perhaps they won't come down here. Driven back, oh you simpletons, have you not just seen our army pass? Are you not conscious of the void which draws on the enemy like a cupping glass? In the village, so lively, so busy but a few days ago, is there a single uniform left? At heart the people felt uneasy. The cars were loaded, the horses harnessed, the drivers on the lookout. Animals and people were but waiting for a signal to rush upon an unknown fate. The signal came. It was about six. Tired, I was lying down in the drawing room when all of a sudden a gunshot resounded in the air, and directly after followed sharp firing. At a bound I was up in the attic. At another I flew to the garret window. Like a gargoyle stretched out on the edge of the roof I scanned the horizon. Northward a light puff of smoke vanished in the upper branches of the poplar trees. Nothing was to be heard, but I beheld the confused flight of all creatures that were out in the fields. A man standing in a car lashed his bewildered horse with all his might. Fowls and even pigeons hurried away to poultry yard in Dovcott. What had happened? I hastened down. The house was empty. I jumped out of the window. At the corner of the street I caught sight of Genevieve. I ran after her as fast as I could. We met at the crossroad where a crowd had gathered. What is the matter? A patrol, an English patrol. We cast a look at the field-grabe backs which rode away on big horses. English it may be. But at what did they fire? It was a signal. No, they have shot carrier pigeons. You are mistaken. They have arrested a spy. In fact, they had taken away a French soldier, bear-headed, who looked about him with a profoundly ironical air. Oh, murmured the crowd. It was easy to see he was a spy. He seemed to laugh at us. He was laughing at you. I am sure he was the poor man. English soldiers. English soldiers. Oh, you blind of one of two eyes, three-fold idiots. How foolish you have been! They were twelve in number and the village was armed and the men were there and Prussians in flesh and bone as quiet as can be took the high road to Léon. We, quiet too, came back home. There now we had had our warning. Our hearts were still throbbing violently but all the same we plucked up courage again. The English keep watch and ward. Each one laughed at his friend's fright. We thought particularly ridiculous the attitude of one of our neighbors, Martha Thunniard, a tall young woman, ready-cheeked and dark-haired, who at the first shot had rushed headlong on her overloaded barrel. Resolubly she laid hold of it and with her two children hanging onto her skirts flew away bewildered but energetic she knew not where. But she fled straight into the hottest of the fight had one taken place. Nevertheless the passage of the patrol was looked upon as suspicious. We put no trust in this lump of flour, the peasants thought, like La Fontaine's mice. If we hear the guns now it is the right moment for flight. Yvonne ran to Monsieur Lacerbe. When and how were we to go? The messenger came back struck with dismay. Lacerbe refused to take charge of us, the traitor, and he had pledged his word. He alleged he had no places left. Well, what were we to do? Whither could we turn? Could we go on foot tonight? Madame Valen hesitated. She thought it dangerous in this troubled time to run away by night through woods and fields. We will see what tomorrow brings, she said. Mother, tomorrow may be too late, retorted Antoinette. The first thing to do, said I, is to have supper. There is a soup on the table which will give you wings. It was about nine. Hazardous times do not improve punctuality. We sat down to table and had hardly enjoyed a few mouthfuls of the soup I had boasted of when hasty steps resounded in the street. We heard a knock at the shutter. We rushed forward. The Prussians are coming, whispered one of our neighbours. They are ten miles away. They have been seen on their way to Montigny. French officers have been to the mares and have pulled down the flag. Everyone is going. Goodbye, we won't lose time. I am going. You are going. We are going. Go on, o flock of sheep. Our own house is greatly alarmed. Madame Valen does not know which way to turn. Make haste. We must go at once. Get our things ready. Thinking la serbe would take us, we had packed up just what was necessary. And what was necessary meant thirteen bags. We must discard them. Feverishly we unpacked and abandoned the heavy bags. Bundles would do. A little linen, one or two light dresses, cloaks, shawls, a basket filled with food, and we were quite ready. Had I not early in the morning buried in the depths of the garden, a sealed up glass jar full of jewels? And with the gold pieces my mother-in-law had brought from Paris, had I not made a band I wore around my waist? We were ready, no doubt of it. We did not know what to do with the bags we were bound to abandon. We dragged them upstairs to a loft next to my bedroom, thrust them into it all topsy-turvy, and hurriedly heaped up big logs at the entrance. Everything was in order. The dogs were on their chains. We had but to go. Here we are in the street. All doors shut and off we go. We wait one minute to calm our hearts and to drop a tear. Dear little house, white walls, Virginia creepers, when shall we meet again and what will you look like? Let us be gone. It is time for action, not for regret. Our neighbors next door, the couple Tyar, were putting the doggy in their cart already for flight. I have read somewhere that people should help one another in misfortune, and so I blurted out, Oh Monsieur Tyar, I suppose you are driving to the mountains. We are going too. Would you kindly take one of our parcels with you? At a loss what to answer Tyar muttered between his teeth. Already loaded. Don't know which way. That is enough. Thank you, I understand. Another pause, this time at Monsieur Lonaise, my mother-in-law's brother. Stern faced with knotted brows our uncle refuses to go. Not he. He is fonder of his house, of his gardens, and of anything, and the Germans cannot scare him away. He bends on her caravan a glance of mingled scorn and pity, and, ongoing out, Jean-Vierve whispered in my ear as a last protest. He is not a coward. If fear could not enter Monsieur Lonaise's heart, it rained in the village. The whole place was deserted, and we were among the last to go. Here and there a flickering light showed that hasty preparations were still being made in a few houses. Terror oozed from the closed shutters, hostile to the expected foe, and from the doors, which presently the dwellers would half open, to sneak away. At the end of the village, in a yard a lantern moved to and fro, a horse was harnessed, people hurried up and down. Lucky rogues Colette cried out who possessed a cart. That is true, our bundles already seemed too heavy to bear. But full of courage we went on, left the high road, crossed Cerny-les-Bussis, dead, empty, mute. Another struggle, and we were in the open country. Thus we marched on, a strange little train, six women attended by a small boy and two dogs, silent with heavy hearts, and then a voice complained, it is so heavy. Yvonne had taken charge of the dogs and had perhaps the hardest work. For these animals, as soon as they are out of doors, pull on their chain, until they almost tear out your fingers. The road was deserted, nobody in front of us, nobody behind. We were safe from attack. We decided to rest a while. Halt! We gathered our luggage into the middle of the road and sat down in a ditch. Speechless, we looked at and listened to the night. I shall never forget the night of our flight as I watched it in that meadow. Silvery night, studded with stars, lit up by the moon, warm and sweet and so quiet. Fields and meadows, bathed in moonlight, stretched on all sides. Southward, a wood showed like a shadow and from the damp meadows rose a mist which followed the brook. You might have said that large puffs of cotton wool hung in the air upon invisible threads, above which emerged the tops of pollarded willows. Not a sound was heard, only far away a carriage rattled, or a dog barked, and close about us the crickets sang their shrill song. A gob-like presence filled the world, and the serenity of inanimate things contrasted sharply with the mad fear of men which swept us away. On this same night, uniformly kind to all, whole armies marched, dreaming of death and destruction, while thousands of way-worn fugitives wandered on towards uncertainty, misery, despair. Boom! Boom! Two formidable detonations from the Fort of Lannisquah shook the air, and aroused us from the torpor which crept over us. Was it a signal? We did not know. We went on. Go, take up your burden again, hasten, the way is long. We went on, but slowly. We were tired and baggage always retards the advance of an army. Poor snails that we were. The flood was approaching. It had driven us away, and if in our unreasoning prudence we resembled snails, we had not the good luck to carry a house with us. What shelter should we get? Where should we lay our tired heads? We advanced anyhow, our ears pricked, our eyes on the lookout. An alarm, this shadow on the road which moves on, black, apocalyptical it passed by and greeted us without astonishment. Good night, ladies, a beautiful night, isn't it? We recognized old Lulee, a well-known beggar, bent with age, loaded with a wallet full to the brim. Another shadow, a white one this time, crossed our path a few steps farther on. It was a small dog which did not stop, but hurried on his way to Mourni. The times were hard for dogs, too. And then look behind that stack. Two, three, five dark forms? They are people, aren't they? But still more afraid than we, they hid themselves and we passed on triumphantly. Without striking a blow, we crossed the woods and got to the fields again. On approaching Maw en Land Noir, we heard eleven strike. The silvery sound of the bell seemed to drop from a very high tower, from the starry sky perhaps. Here we made a feeble and vain attempt to get a carriage, no one in the streets, the very garret windows were shut up, the doors barricaded. At the end of the village we halted. We were hungry, for the good reason that we had left on the supper table the creamy milk and crusty cake, which were to end our frugal meal. But we had taken with us a few savoury chicken patties, which my prudent mother-in-law had made the day before. We cut slices of bread and butter, and sitting by the wayside made an excellent meal. We were gay, but our gaiety was fictitious. We laughed at a light anxiously flickering behind a shutter. It seemed a prey to nameless terror, and conscious of our own courage, we made merry over it. The poor thing surely believed a German patrol was feasting at the gate. Two hours later we got to Vossel, then to Kauaiakur. We were tired to death and made up our minds to seek shelter. All the barns were full of refugees, all the yards were encumbered with refugees' horses, all the streets were crowded with refugees' vehicles. We, too, were refugees now. Will there be any room for us, we wondered, no matter where, so long as we can rest? We stopped in front of Mademoiselle Honorine's inn. Good accommodation for man and beast. It was just what we wanted. We gave a knock at the door. Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, open the door, please. Just a small room, only chairs to sit down. But none so deaf as those who won't hear. Nothing would have roused Mademoiselle Honorine from her sweet slumbers. At length we made up our minds to rest outside on the threshold of the unrelenting house. An accommodating bench very kindly welcomed three of us. Jean-Vierve and Antoinette wrapped up in their cloaks, stretched on the stony ground of the courtyard. As to myself, I chose for a resting place a flight of steps. Crouching down in a comfortable corner with Pierrot nestled in my arms, I covered our bodies with my shawl, and some in sleep and vein, the stone was very hard. Yet I was comfortable and had no mind to go away. But we soon remembered we were running away and that it was high time for us to be off again. Get up, get up, it is half past two. We rose reluctantly, yawned, cleared our throats, stretched ourselves. Antoinette was so weary and so ill that we had much trouble to move her. At length we were all up. We cursed the household that had behaved so unkindly to the poor wanderers and leaving the inhospitable village we turned to the right. The road wound its way through the woods. The moon had gone down. It was pitch dark. Our hearts quivered with fear. Our eyes searched into the shades of night and we strained our ears like the dogs. The poor beasts disapproved of our nightly expedition and sniffed at tufts of grass with great anxiety. This black mass here lying on the wayside is it a dead body? No, it is but a log. And there those white spots aren't they faces? No, they are birches. Don't you hear a noise of steps? No, it is the breaking of a dead branch. We stopped to take a little breath. We were out of the forest. We had reached the top of the hill. Quite bare it was not really a plateau for the ground spread itself out in large waves. We walked along dragging our luggage up and down the road. Jean-Viev and I carried the heaviest bag and tried many experiments to make it lighter. We put it on their shoulders like an urn, on our back like a sack of flower, like the queen of the turtles we hung it on a stick, of which each of us took an end. From time to time we stopped a minute to change hands or to listen to faraway noises. Then a slight quivering broke the stillness. We thought we heard a distant rumbling. Sometimes there were explosions. Bridges were being blown up. The day was already breaking. A pallor whitened the sky towards the east. We reached Ursel, prettily placed among orchards on the slope of a hill. Worn out, we sat on the edge of the pavement like so many swallows on the edge of a gutter. We were in high spirits. We exchanged jokes, and all of a sudden, Evonne, Evonne, laughter will end in crying. Indeed the poor girl, still half choked with laughter, was now sobbing bitterly. We gathered round her and tried to comfort her. Get up, get up. The inn will be open in a minute and we shall have a cup of coffee. Come. At the first glimmering of the dawn the shop opened a shutter like a fearful eyelid. We went in. The landlady in a dressing gown with her black hair loose over her shoulders dragged herself along and raised her weeping eyes. Oh heavens, they are coming here, aren't they? What an unhappy poor creature I am! What will become of me? And my daughter aged 14 years! What will become of us? The woman's despair amused us and we tried to comfort her. The Prussians will never reach this out-of-the-way place. Perhaps a patrol or two will come and that is all. All the world is seeking refuge in the mountains. Everybody knows the Prussians won't come here. On leaving Ursel we plunged into the misty shadows of a valley. But when we got on the other side it was glorious, dazzling. The sun was just rising and beneath its first beams the country smiled and glistened. The meadows bathed in dew sparkled so decked with gems. The air was mild, nature thrilled with joy, a lark caroled to the sun. Pierrot, drunk with light and space, danced about like a little fawn and we ourselves, for an insect or a flower, for a bush covered with bright berries leapt like goats. Our thoughts were lighter than the soft mists melting in the sun. War, it is but a myth, invasion and idle tale, danger and illusion. Wearing as pangs, mental sufferings all were forgotten. We were young, we were strong, we breathed the fresh air with ecstasy and the splendour of the hour intensified our love of life. Danger is life, war is victory, and blessed be the hand which bestows on mankind black nights and white mornings, dull cares and consoling joys. With light hearts we took to our cheerful road, we marched for one hour and then doubts arose. Mother, you have taken the wrong road I am sure, chevronie is not so far. Yet at a turn of the road we caught sight of chevronie, nestled in verger, crouched in a hollow way. We marveled at the pointed steeple at the red tiles or blue slates of the roofs. So we prepared to make an entrance into the village worthy of us and it. We sat by the wayside and took small looking glasses and powder puffs out of our leather bags. Powder is as necessary to women as to soldiers, isn't it? We did our hair, brushed our dresses and then went down the village street quite smart. We turned to the right and entered the big farm of Madame L'Hoix. Surprise, exclamations, arms lifted up to the sky and then clasped around us in a close embrace. Boundless friendship and endless hospitality were promised us. But tell us, dear cousin, who are all these people we see gathered in your domain? Madame L'Hoix had already given hospitality to 21 refugees in her barns and cart sheds and had received into the bargain certain solid citizens of Léon, persons whom she honored with her friendship and best rooms. We did not allow them to move from their quarters. If mother is provided for, dear cousin, it is all that we want. Don't bother about us. We will sleep in the hay loft. It will be delightful. When these matters were settled we refreshed ourselves. How delightful it was after that painful night to take a bath, to lull in an armchair, to sit at a table where fresh bread, golden butter and transparent jam smiled upon us. We found a charm in the smallest pleasures and thought. Now we are quiet. Now we are in safety. We shall suffer nothing at the hands of the abhorred invader. We shall not see the shadow of their helmets on our walls. We shall not hear the tramping of their horses on our pavements. The booming of their cannon will not roll over our hearts. But what did we hear? We stood up speechless with horror. The street rang with loud cries and those cries were The Prussians! The Prussians! End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Of Six Women and the Invasion by Gabriel Yerta and Marguerite Yerta-Malera The slipper-box recording is in the public domain. Recording by J.L. Baldwin Part 2 Frenchman, I saw thy child who cried alone on the road. I have comforted him. I have reassured thy wife. Thy field lay fallow. I have tilled it. When peace reappears again on earth may thou reap the fruits of my labour. Published in German in the Lillers-Eitung translated into French and reproduced in the Gazette des Ardons. Chapter 4 Placid and heavy on their placid, heavy horses they slowly advanced along the street. Of giant stature they came on revolver in hand with the self-reliance of brutal strength. Their red-edged caps made their hard-featured faces still harder. It was a sight to strike nature herself with horror and hidden behind the muslin curtains we saw bitterly. The guests, huddled together in the dimly-lighted room, were silently weeping. The women crossed themselves and watched over their children as if it were old bogeys steps they heard. The men tugged nervously at their moustaches and shook their fists in the empty air. Our gestures made the poor people uneasy. Heavens the women groaned. Don't show your face at the window. Don't open the curtains. Don't draw their attention to the house. How frank they are, an old woman whimpered. How splendid to be frank like that. As to myself, I could not be so. I suppose she meant courageous, but courage was not in question. We thought of nothing. We felt nothing. We were only looking at the men. We were glaring with all our eyes at a sight that crushed our souls. Grief left a huge void in our hearts. The enemy was there and it was all up with us. I think we had suffered less if we had seen the Germans arrive in a town. A town is always somewhat of a courtesan. It gives a hearty welcome and hospitality to everyone. It is daily a prey to strangers of ill repute. If invasion beats against its walls, if a hostile army crosses its streets, one human flood succeeding so many others, the town scowls at the foe and then loses all memory of him. But there in a small village, hidden in a fold of the French ground, in a tiny hamlet, which a hostile mind never chose for a shelter, the presence of the invaders seems to profane the very grass, and ever after the poor little place will remain an unhallowed spot which bloodshed and years will not purify again. After the horsemen had passed, they rolled along cannon and powder carts whose rumblings set our teeth on edge. Grandmother, look there! cried out Colette. On a powder cart looking very unhappy set the small dog we had met in the meadow. So the Germans had traversed Mourney. They had followed close upon us. At last there came an end to the procession. The street was empty. No one uttered a word, and we ran away to cry to our heart's content. House, yard, barns were all crowded with people. I took refuge in the garden. Nature seemed covered with an ashen veil. The very sun was obscured. Had the radiant morning really begotten this sad noon? Like a wounded animal looking for a dark shelter, I fled to the orchard and crouching down in a corner close to the wall I wept most bitterly without knowing why. Someone called me. I had to go back to life, or rather a life, unknown, unsuspective in which all was changed. The Prussians were advancing through France. On arriving at the house I met only with grief-stricken features and swollen eyes. We had no mind to eat. Only a few refugees already indifferent and the dogs did not lose their appetite. But standing at the dining room windows we saw a sight worth seeing. The Prussians had taken possession of the village and were looking for what they might lay their hands upon. They seemed to think Little Madame Lenu's shop had been created for their own special use, and they set about plundering it according to rule. They went up three steps at a time, got among the groceries, made their choice, and came back, their arms filled with bottles and bags. In short, they carried away all that was eatable and drinkable in the house. They went up and down without interruption, like two rows of ants busy stripping a sack of flour, one row full, the other empty. The grocer's wife, a small woman, dark and pale with large black eyes stood by, unable to withstand the plunderers. She locked the door. The first soldier who encountered that obstacle went to the window, broke a square, turned to the door handle, and muttering threats reopened the door. With a look of despair, Madame Lenu went and fetched an officer who was eating upstairs. Come and see what your men are doing. The officer came, looked round, and declared, and he went back to his lunch. The shop cleared out, the men made further search into the house and discovered a small storeroom which they emptied with equal activity. For the pleasure of the thing, they cut stockings to transform them into socks and spilled ink on petticoats and blouses. The last comers took the trap from the coachhouse, the horse out of his stable, put the horse in the trap, and drove off with a light heart. A bitter disenchantment filled our tired hearts. Nothing would have astonished us. In the afternoon, two soldiers entered the farm, but at the side of the yard, crowded with men and dogs, withdrew. Broken down with weariness, we went early to bed. A ladder about 20 feet high led to a square opening through which we climbed into the hay loft. There, every one of us made a hole in the hay and buried herself in it. Now, in theory, hay offers a soft and sweet-smelling couch. The reality is slightly different. You may find comfort in this bed if you are wrapped up in cloaks and shawls to keep out the cold of the night, but the odor of the hay will make you sneeze. You will soon feel stiff in your legs and hard blades of grass will prick your ankles and your neck. Despite minor annoyances, my companions were very soon slumbering. For my part, I could not sleep. I was feverish, and my golden waistband played tricks and got into my ribs. The slanting light of the moon gave an added pallor to the faces of the four sleeping girls, whose presence on their bed of hay beneath the beams of the loft which spiders had covered with their gray lace was astonishing enough. It seemed as though the four heads had been put there for a whim and the bodies laid down somewhere else. I fell into a dose. I saw hundreds of prushens passed before my eyes laid in with goods and carrying away the very houses. Then there came a multitude of galloping horses which all vanished from my sight and I was asleep. The next day, an impudent sunbeam woke us up by caressing our eyelids. In the barn below, the refugees were bustling about noisily. The first moment after awaking was cruel. We had, as Stendhal says, to learn our misery afresh. One after the other, like fowls getting out of the henhouse, we went down our long ladder and ran off to wash and to hear the latest news. That day also was a day of tears. The villagers frightened to death had not dared to unlock their doors and we heard only in the morning that a French convoy had been taken by surprise and captured by the Germans at Nivea, no more than two miles from Chivrani. Then a scout, a fact completely unconnected with the former, had been killed by the enemy at a crossway near Madame La Croix's house. We went to see the place where the two white roads cross each other. Large reddish spots still marked the ground. Kneeling down we kissed this blood which cried for revenge and from our inmost soul we besought heaven that France should be victorious over her enemy so that her heart's blood might not be shed in vain. Some peasants who had witnessed the scene gave us an account of it. In great numbers the Germans came down the road. All of a sudden two French scouts appeared on the outskirts of the wood, saw the enemy, fired at them and then turned back. One of them was lucky enough to get under cover but the other, severely wounded, was unhorsed and fell down. Stretched by the wayside he made an attempt to get up but his adversaries rushed upon him and in a confused scuffle beat him to death with the butt ends of their guns and rode away at a full gallop. The victim was to be buried that very morning and as we wished to be present at the funeral no time could be lost. When we arrived at the churchyard two men were already digging a narrow grave. The body wrapped in a white sheet was lying on a stretcher. There was no coffin. Soldiers should lie in the soil for which they have died. The red spot beneath his head grew larger little by little and the blood that trickled down made a dazzling reel on the white sand. We approached him with a shrinking heart. With Pia's hands the grave-digger lifted up the sheet to show us the face of the dead man. An aquiline nose and a firm chin were still distinguishable. The rest of the features were clotted with blood and shapeless. Nearly choked with sobs we could not help wondering from which wound the blood had flowed when suddenly the truth flashed upon us at a gesture of the old grave-digger who pointed at what were but the day before the boy's eyes. His eyes, oh you cowards! Villains! They had not only beaten him to death they had put his eyes out. He was defending himself like a brave soldier. He was alone against twenty and they had murdered him. There on the white road in the sunshine they had committed their crime. The shades of night had fallen upon him before he descended to the tomb. Oh vengeance, vengeance! We wept, we cried and nothing could comfort us. We wept over the gallant soldier of France who fell so near us. We wept over all the dead and wounded. And above all we wept, oh narrowness of the human heart over the one soldier we loved whose uncertain fate tortured our hearts. Oh my posy, my treasure, my love, my pride! Have you not asked for a dangerous mission? Have you received your death wound outnumbered in some lonely corner? Have they? The terrifying thought, oh his eyes, his eyes! It was beyond endurance. Crushed with grief I fell senseless. When I came to myself the priest had said the usual prayers and was gone. My companion stood up shedding silent tears. The two villagers gloomily filled the grave and the earth fell with a hollow sound on the poor body. One of the men broke off in the middle of his work and told us of the scout's death. What he said confirmed what we had already heard. Cursed then he cried out and with a gesture of rage seized his spade and began again to fill the grave but we had not done with emotion yet. Do you know that the Germans took 300 prisoners yesterday? Someone asked us. You will see them pass on the road. The churchyard is terraced to the street which runs down a steep hill and thence already we caught sight of a few horsemen closely followed by soldiers on foot. They were French. At the sight of the enemy our grief all of a sudden turned to wrath and madness. Here they were in our own country the very same we saw yesterday no doubt. They were those perhaps who had blinded and killed the scout and they were taking our brothers to captivity. Oh for the power to strike to kill those men to hurl down upon them some of those big stones half loosened by time. We shuddered at the mere sight of them a bantering conceited happy mob. The faces of Yvonne and Antoinette standing among the crosses were wet with tears and convulsed with rage. Hatred was so clearly visible in their eyes that the faces of the Germans grew hard and stiffened as if they had been given a slap in the face. They passed they are gone and now the prisoners are coming. They seemed to have made up their minds to accept the situation. They were hot and talked among themselves in a low voice. The officers drove in a jolting car motionless and spent. We could not see them very well but we could distinguish the stripes on the captain's sleeve and then the cart disappeared from sight of a winding of the road. The way was open we went home and when we were alone Jean-Aviève and I fell into each other's arms and without saying a word wept again inconsolably. Towards the close of the day the garden tempted us. It is a dear old garden full of shade and of old fashioned sweet smelling flowers. It is about four yards above the level of the street and if you sit on the wall as large as an easy chair you can see all that goes on in the street below. Like souls in agony we dragged ourselves along the alleys edged with bucks doleful and weary. From the wall we observed the four points of the compass not oppression in sight. So we began to talk to little Madame Lenu who looked out of her window just over the way. Close to her stood a young girl about 15 years of age whose head framed in a hinker chief tied under the chin was the most exquisite ever seen. Raphael might have drawn her fine features her clear eyes. Even her hands browned by the sun were pretty even her waist was elegant in spite of an unbecoming frock. Oh France you are rich in all treasures and that sweet little maid is not the least of them. The grocer's wife confided her sorrows to us in a bitter tone. Two old men passing by stopped in the street to condol with her then a third person shabbily dressed joined in the talk and from the very first proved interesting. He was a soldier escaped from the yesterday's fight and he told us his adventure in detail. Tuesday he said we slept in our don a small place we had reached at five o'clock in the evening. The horses were not tired and we might have marched on. At least we ought to have been up at three instead of which we set out again at six o'clock and were not bidden to make haste. We did not know that the enemy was treading in our steps. About nine we approached this place quite easy in our minds when we heard the people cry the Prussians to the right about quick quick. Convoys like us are not looked upon as fighting men do you see. We ought to be a few miles behind the front. We were but scantily armed some of us had a revolver and no bullets the others bullets and no revolver. What could we do against the cannon which peppered us from the top of the hill. We were ordered back. The drivers made what speed they could when just at the turn of the road one of the carts managed to tumble down. Those that followed at full speed were thrown down upon it and thus made a barricade which held up all the rest. The guns fired without ceasing. Our captain came up. Nothing to do my lads. We are caught. Be quick. Get a white flag. We looked for a white flag. There was none. At length the white handkerchief was hoisted on a stick and then a troop of horsemen countered down upon us. Lay yourselves in the ditch we heard. The horses pawed our backs and I assure you the Prussians did nothing to hold them back. I will show you. And the man taking off his jacket bared his bruised and swollen back. Still lying in the ditch I noticed close to me the opening of a gutter stone stopped up with mud and grass. I tried to pull it out. It gave way. I got into the narrow passage and cried out to my companion, there is room but for one. It is one safe and sound, he answered, and stopped up the opening of the pipe again. For 26 hours I lay in there with the Germans overhead, never in my life did I think of my wife and children as I did then. I thought I was going to return as I did then. At eleven o'clock when all the noise had ceased I ventured out of my hole. People who were working hard by took me in, dressed my wound and gave me civilian clothes. I hoped to escape to the woods and join the French army again. And so saying the man went away we called him back to slip some biscuits and chocolate into his hand. With a smile he pointed to his full pockets and said, I am well stored you see I will share with the others. Alas he was not alone. The convoy amounted to 800 soldiers. About 15 had been killed. 350 taken prisoners and the rest were hidden in the woods. The boldest or the luckiest might reach the French lines. The others would probably wander about like wild beasts who hide themselves. Would suffer cold and hunger and then after weeks or months of this wretched life they would be caught and sent to Germany unless they were shot. Our thoughts were mournful as death when at nightfall we climbed a second time to the hayloft. We could not sleep. Our anxiety was too great. Were the Germans still gaining ground? Would they sweep onward like a cloud of insects toward Paris whose splendor and renown dazzled and attracted them invincibly? Oh may they burn their wings there and be carbonized to the last one. The next day we went to see the place of the skirmish. The fields on both sides of the road were all covered over with things the soldiers had thrown away. In some places the grass was heaped with knapsacks, papers, clothes, and arms. We tramped on. The road wound its way through meadows and woods and then got into a funnel-shaped valley. Here had been the thickest of the fight. The cavalry came up from behind. There were the guns on the rocks to the right and left. Alas the convoy had really been caught in a trap. The three carts still stood in the middle of the road and the meadows were thickly strewn with soldiers' things, papers, and discarded arms. Colette discovered a beautiful sword hidden in a bush. She quickly put it back again but presently she might come and fetch it. It would be so much gained. A passerby gave us some other details. There was a body here, another there. It was to be feared that a few more dead soldiers were hidden in the wood. On our way back we picked up all the letters, books, and papers which we found, hoping we might later on forward them to the soldiers' families and at the same time tell them news of the unfortunate convoy. We passed through Nuvia and there we saw the ammunition captured the day before heaped up in a yard. Another Cerberus adorned with a spiked helmet watched over mountains of bullets and boxes of cartridges. There was seven million Franksworths at the peasants. Returning to the village, sunk in despondency, we heard the sound of a drum and we arrived just in time to listen to the proclamation which the rural constable read aloud. Arms and clothes belonging to French soldiers must be gathered up and brought without delay to the mayor's house by order of the German authorities, said the reader, a small hunchbacked man, and tears rolled down his cheeks. At Madame La Roise we found a change for the better. The refugees had set out homewards and the friends from Lyon, by taking leave, enabled us to live once more after the fashion of civilized people. With pleasure we stretched our limbs which three nights had stiffened and tired out in a comfortable bed. From that time fate proved merciful and for a few days spared us new troubles and violent emotions. Of course, tears always trembled on our eyelids if some incident happened to revive our wounds, but after so many mental pangs the surrounding peace was a solace to our minds. Life sprang up anew in our hearts and with life spirits. Many a time, was it a reaction, we burst out laughing, broken to mad, inextinguishable laughter? Lisa more than once set us in a roar. Lisa is Madame La Roise maid, a maid who has land of her own, who possesses a mile away, a house, a horse, a dog, and in ordinary times a husband. But as the times we live in are by no means ordinary, Zidore, or he is called Zidore, had joined the army to make war against the King of Prussia. Was Madame La Roise alone? Lisa would discharge with assiduous attention the duties of her place. Had Madame La Roise friends or relations to entertain? Lisa went home again and reappeared only to give herself up to her menial duties. Lisa is a tall woman, clumsily built with a funny, hun-like face. Her small eyes, her high cheekbones, prove that a drop of Asiatic blood runs in her veins. Have I not hinted in a former chapter that Attila may have sent a reconnoitering party down here? But if Lisa has inherited her strong frame and her snub nose from her ancestors, the Huns, to whom does she owe her restlessness and her pusillanimity? No doubt to her great grandmother the Frankish woman who had to submit to the wild Asiatic. For Lisa was not brave, Lisa did not dareface the Prussians. From Léon, Mourni, and other places people fled to Chouvernie. It was then an additional reason for Lisa's fellow villagers to run away farther too. The women had made up their minds to go. As soon as the enemy was described from afar, Lisa's horse, Mutant, and Madame La Roisehorse, Chantilly, would be put to and both fiery steeds, as fiery as their names, would take their mistresses to a safe place. But to last man proposes a cry arose, the Prussians. Lisa heard it snatched up a big loaf in bewilderment and went full gallop towards the forest with her dog at her heels. After her galloped, a troop of her companions just as bewildered. They went down the road struck across the country, cleared the hedges, and plunged into the forest. In the heart of the wood they stopped, blessing their star which had led them to this wild and safe spot. At that very moment they became speechless. The report of a cannon resounded in the air, then a second one, and a full volley followed. The poor wretches had thrown themselves headlong into the valley where the con boys struggled against its foes, and the grapeshot fell upon them without mercy. The harmless troop, however, lifted up its suppliant arms toward heaven, which did not see them at all for the foliage was too thick, and muttered hollow prayers to some silvan divinity which heard them not for the cannon was too loud. Then they ran away and cowered under the bushes. Shells bespattered them fessitiously with moss and earth. They crouched in a hut that happened to be there. A malignant cannon ball carried off a corner of the roof. They stuck close to the trunk of a tree. Merely to tease them, bullets tore off its leaves and its branches which rained gently down upon their heads. The unfortunate fugitives, at last gloomily resigned, sat in a circle and waited for the end in the calm of despair. Then all sounds ceased. They opened one eye, then the other, stretched themselves, got up, counted themselves, and discovered with the greatest amazement they had lost neither one hair, save those which they had torn in terror, nor one button, save those which panting fear had burst from their corsage. These refugees of the forest had no thought of leaving their precious shelter. They ate their provisions which in their prudence they had brought with them, and Lisa's big loaf proved a great success. They spent the night in the hut and slept with one eye open, raising their unquiet heads whenever they heard the tramping of a Prussian horse on the road. In the morning nothing was to be heard. I do not know who was courageous enough to poke her nose first out of the wood. I expect it was the dog. At last, however, our villagers plucked up their courage and with common accord went back to their native hamlet. Madame La Hwa did not receive Lisa exactly with open arms, but with that gentle irony of which she has the secret. Well, well, Lisa, I understand the old lady is too slow, you thought. She will disturb us. She had better stay at home, and so you scampered off. Lisa protested and we laughed and Colette pointed the moral of the adventure. It is very funny, Lisa's story, but don't you think it is just like ours? The Prussians had forced open most of the houses and had anticipated the taxes which they hoped to levy. Fowls, pigeons, geese without number and even plump pigs were absent. At Lisa's house the ravishers had shown a certain modesty. A sack of flour, a few pigeons, one or two ducks only had disappeared. But the intruders had turned the room topsy-turvy. Did they look for treasure? And by a sad whim they had seized upon two photographs whose red plush frames were the ornament of the mantelpiece. Lisa in the garb of a nun and Zidore in a soldier's uniform. For what purpose had they torn up these precious pictures? And Zidore had it taken the first day I saw him. So the enemy had destroyed the fond keepsake of a happy day. Really, the age we lived in was hard and the Prussians heartless. All the world was so firmly convinced of this that everybody stayed indoors as much as possible and ventured reluctantly out of the village for fear of dangerous encounters. No one was bold enough to risk horse and cart on the road since the first soldier that came might requisition both. Happy indeed was the owner who was not compelled to turn back and drive the Prussian to a far off place. Thus it happened that many a villager who having gone out with team and horse for a few hours came back home on foot and alone three or four days later. From this you may see that communication was not easy even between places at no great distance from one another. An old lady seeing the Germans arrive in Chyvrony died of the sudden shock and for several days it was impossible to send the sad tidings to her son who was no farther off than Lyon. Indeed we knew not what was happening in the neighborhood still less at Mourni. The country is overrun with Prussians we were told. So the emotion was great when it was rumored that flower ran short in Chyvrony. For Chyvrony fed two other Hamlets and a great many refugees. Every morning the baker's shop was carried by storm. Every morning the housewives had to wait their turn for an hour to get a loaf. It was a heart-rending sight to see how the baker toiled. His wife did not know which way to turn. His boy knew not what to be at. At this rate the flower sacks would melt away like snow in an April sun. We had to find other sacks or famine would break out in the village. One morning then Liza announced my horse is required to go and fetch flower at Ponteve. In the country the word requisition does not exist. You are required. That is all. Mouton then was required to go and fetch preventer. Very well he could not tempt the greed of the Germans being well stricken in years and somewhat lame. But who will drive Mouton? asked Madame L'Hoi. Well I don't know perhaps me said Liza. You don't say so Liza her mistress cried out. There are many enough left in the village to do that. Now a woman has to stay at home. That is her right place. In the afternoon Liza came back and said in a triumphant tone the blacksmith is driving to Ponteve. I have told them it is not a woman's job. The good creature was delighted with her saying and repeated over and over again. I told them so. It is not a woman's job. Alas how many things women had to take charge of which were not women's jobs. How courageous and hardworking they were the women of the villages. The men had gone to the war and left the harvest un-gathered. The work must be done, said the women and without a moment's rest they bent in toil to the earth. We too did our share. Perched upon steep ladders or hazardous trees we picked thousands of small blue plums which Liza crammed into big bellied casks. After mysterious treatment the fruit was expected to turn into an exquisite brandy pronounced by the well-skilled old gossip secure for every ill. Better than that we shut up with our own hands Madame LaHua's hiding place. For who would have believed it? Her house was not in order. She had buried a cash box full of golden coins in her garden but we thought she had better remove a great many other things just as valuable as money. Besides, she had a hiding place. It was not a fanciful hiding place like ours but a serious hiding place contrived by a workman a past master in digging and masonry. The cellar opens into the arched entrance of the house. In a corner of this cellar is a trap door which lifted up leads to a break-neck flighted steps hewn out in the rock. At the foot of the steps is a smaller cellar which is the hiding place. We took down the other silver linen fine old shawls at which we gazed with envious eyes and then the wine. Not all the wine dear cousin not all they will never believe you have no wine at all. When the trap door was closed we carried down with great trouble a few barrafuls of earth which a skillful hand raked over properly. Then we stamped upon it swept the cellar scattered gray dust over the fresh earth and put old boxes and tubs in the corner. Shrooter than oppression would he be who saw anything here. Alas it was a beast who brought our fine work to nothing. In the course of time we heard that ulans on their way through sugar knee put horses into the cellar. The horses as they are want to pawed and scratched the ground. It sounds hollow cried the Prussians. It sounds wine they went on in a fit of inspiration and then discovered they had been cheated. I do not know what became of the other objects but I know perfectly well the way madame Lachois's wine went. In spite of these interesting occupations we were bored and yet we had discovered in Buconville three miles off a well-stored shop which supplied us with cotton wool and stuffs to give work to our idle fingers. In spite of madame Valen's anxiety we went two or three together and brought back and triumphed what was wanting but we never ventured into the wood and on our homeward journeys we cast side long glances at the sand pit whose green shade always allured us such as the name of a few acres of wood belonging to my mother-in-law where I hope someday to install my household gods. There a brooklet murmurs and hard by shall be my house with a willow charming and majestic an ash lofty and elegant to give me shade. There I shall live happily on milk and honey goats and bees will be mine with my husband and the children which I trust God will grant me. We shall be once more in Arkady. Thus I mused on my way home when suddenly some German troops appeared on the horizon to dispel my dream of Arkady and sent me home in haste to the shelter of the farm. I have said we were bored. Life was chiefly unbearable for want of muse. What was going on? For two days we had heard an echo of the guns. Was there a battle? The first Germans we had seen had told us with a sneer. Paris, Paris within three days we are in Paris. Had the progress of the hotty boars been stayed hope trembled at the bottom of our hearts hope which dared not grow and which we dared not avow. Ten times a day we left our needlework or our book to run to the garden. We listened. A kind of rumbling was all we heard. Was it to the east, the north or the south? Was it a singing in our ears or was it cannon shots? What if we placed our ears to the ground and so we lay on the grass like so many dead bodies and concentrated our whole souls in listening. There certainly is a rambling. This conviction filled our hearts with joy and anxiety and the whole day long we fidgeted about the house. Besides we could not stay forever in Chiffrony we had to make up our minds. Since the Germans are here there and everywhere I said we had better go back home where at least we are comfortable and at ease. In Chiffrony to be sure our comfort is unknown for instance cleanliness does not hold a large place in the people's life though we had transformed the bakehouse into a very decent bathroom. Every evening Pierrot was washed at the pump and pretended to throw the water which deluged him to the bright and passionless moon. As long as the weather kept warm it was pleasant enough but all the same home would be better. But before taking so long a journey we thought it well to think it over at leisure. A word from Monsieur Lonaise settled the matter. There is no danger he wrote. Someone ought to come back the house might be occupied. If one of us went then we would all go. Union is strength. Boldly we had come to Chiffrony by night nine in number including the dogs. Nine in number we would go home by day. We had spent a week in Chiffrony. On Tuesday we had Jean-T put two. Lisa huddled our luggage into the cart helped Madame Valen and Pierrot up and sat on the box. In a few feeling words one and all took leave of our kind cousin and we followed on foot. We walked on without hardy hood casting suspicious glances before and behind. The mere shadow of a helmet would have put us to flight. Besides the horse might be requisitioned and Lisa left us at Bievre and drove home as fast as she could. In Gruyère we met with a big dog almost as alarming as oppression. Percinet is fond of fighting and he cannot bear the sight of his kindred alive. Two days before he had satisfied the search for blood by killing two dogs. At the entrance of Mourney we passed three riders on the road dressed in green booted and spurred with their helmets on. We did not think that mere gendarmes as we heard afterwards they were. They contented themselves with gazing at the dusty weary group that went by. At length we got home. Dear little house it had not altered. Its white walls were still there so was its gray roof. The Virginia creepers shook their branches like arms to wish us a hearty welcome. We threw the gate open. The dogs rushed into the stable at a cheerful bound. Leaving the luggage in the lobby we dropped into the dining room chairs and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. End of Chapter 4