But the ruin of his cathedrals, his galleries, his schoolhouses, his
libraries, his farmhouses, his vineyards and orchards, is the least
of sorrows of the Frenchman. In a little village near Ham dwelt a
man who had saved a fortune for his old age, 100,000 francs. When
the invading army, like a black wave, was approaching, he buried his
treasure beneath the large, flat stones that made the walk from the
road up to the front step of his house. Then, with the other villagers,
the old man fled. Many months passed by, while the Germans bombarded
the village. At last the German wave retreated, and once more the old
man drew near to his little village. There was nothing, nothing left.
After a long time, he located the street, which was on the very edge of
the town, but could not find the cellar of his own house. Great shells
had fallen. Exploding in the cellar, they had blown the bricks away.
Then other shells had fallen hard by and blown dirt that filled up what
once had been a cellar. The very trees in front of his house had been
blown away and replaced by shell pits. In one of his reports Ambassador
Sharp states that the aged man had up to that time failed to locate his
house, much less his buried treasure. But what trifles light as air are
houses in contrast with other forms of desolation!