“The forts-which-are-so-strong.” She repeats the words after me like a
child. A gleam of hope dawns for an instant on her kindly face, then
fades away. “Supposing he is not fed!” she says with bitter emphasis.
To the Walloon mind, hunger is almost worse than death.
Comforted by my fibs, she goes back to cook the dinner over the black
oven. The oven and Madame are indivisible. I always think of them
together.
I sew on. Suddenly steps are heard approaching from the direction
of Vaux Chavannes. They cease. Something is worming its way with a
curious brushing noise round that piled-up barrier of trees. “It” turns
the corner into the Manhay Street. A peasant is running towards me full
tilt. His face is scarlet, his mouth open with the tongue sagging over
the lips. He rolls from side to side as if drunken; reaching me he
throws up his hands.
“Les Prussiens, les Prussiens!” he shouts, and falls on his face as
though possessed.
We bring him water, we fan him. He revives.
“Three hundred Prussians are at Vaux Chavannes,” gasps the messenger.
The peasants disperse as though scattered by a shell. The village
idiot takes cover in the pig-sty. Germaine is dropped by an agitated
and diminutive nurse and immediately begins to scream. She is forcibly
dragged to shelter. A scuttling and jabbering ensues. One hears the
swish of skirts, the quick tramp-tramp of heavy boots, the sound of
creaking stairs. I drag the fainting man into the hotel, quickly close
and bolt the door, prop him against the wall, and go to the open
dining-room window.
Manhay might stand as a model for “The Deserted Village.” The inn is
silent as the grave, the family of Job-Lepouse is doubtless in the
fields. With me curiosity overrides fear. Even if it entails certain
death I must see the Uhlans come. There is a sharp clitter-clatter of
horses’ hoofs along the Vaux Chavannes road. It stops abruptly at the
barricade. I hear a volley of very German curses, the crash-crash of
weapons and then a mutilated bicycle comes hurtling through the air. I
hear the cry of a man in pain. Some poor devil has been caught....
The Uhlans are in our street. They mass by the Gendarmerie, glare
fiercely round. They have learned the feeling of the countryside in
those barred tree-trunks which have crossed their path. They suspect
a plot and are keen to fight. Charging down the road they come, lance
out, heads erect, the sun glinting a thousand sparks from the rim of
their metal helmets where it is left unprotected by the light cloth
shield. They are not quite so smart as when parading last before their
adoring women-kind. Their horses’ flanks are streaming, their uniforms
dusty. “What splendid men they are!” is my first impression. “This is
just like comic opera,” is my second. But when, at closer range, my
eyes meet those long, sharp lances and that Teuton glare, I confess my
third is funk!
I shall never forget that first moment of invasion. The forest of
lances, the grey steel of pointed revolvers, sobbing women and
frightened children. The desertion of the little village street and
the scuttling of agonised peasants into their houses. The banging and
locking of doors, the sudden silence as they scatter in the stable ...
cellar ... fields. I can see it now.... I shall see it always.
One peasant is not fortunate enough to escape. A Uhlan with an
over-developed (Teuton) sense of humour, pricks him in the fleshy part
of the shoulder with the point of the lance. Having secured a good
hold, the German gallops up and down the village, driving the unlucky
man before him at a furious speed.
The remainder of the troop form up and charge towards us down the road.
They interrupt their dash at the post office. The officer points a
revolver at M. le Précepteur’s head in the ingratiating German way and
asks some question. I swear that M. le Précepteur’s hair is standing on
end in the manner hair so frequently assumes in novels, so very seldom
in real life.
Something grey and cold intercepts itself between me and the sun.
Something cold and grey touches my forehead and a gleaming face comes
on a level with my own. The first contact of that revolver makes my
knees tremble and gives me a cold sensation down my spine. But I do
not budge. My captor neither addresses me nor I him. We simply stare
stupidly at one another. A wasp, attracted by the bright metal helmet
rim, plays about his face. The hand that holds the revolver trembles. I
am almost but not quite amused. Suddenly the weapon is withdrawn. The
troop gather up their reins, canter on through the village and halt in
consultation at the head of the street.
A curious intuition tells me that the Uhlans are afraid ... of our
fear, that those tightly barricaded doors and closed windows suggest
plots—perhaps armed resistance. It occurs to me that it would be wiser
to show ourselves, to feign indifference. In times like these men are
shot for showing the white feather.
I rush out and call the peasants by name. One or two stare stupidly
from the windows, the rest do not budge. Many are in the fields, some
probably in the cellars. I sit down on the _terrasse_ and draw the
little white chair close up to the painted white table. The moustached
postman in the dirty white ducks comes to my side, so does the
poacher, unshaven but ever picturesque in his brown corduroys.
The order has been given to charge. They are coming back, the gallant
Uhlans! Will they shoot us down? We shall know soon enough. I lift my
glass of bock with a rather shaky hand while the postman puffs at his
pipe and the poacher half smiles. He is a feckless, fearless rascal.
Here they come, lances and all. The foremost misses my head by half an
inch. I wince. The soldiers look unutterably fierce as they clatter
past. The last few cover us with their revolvers until they turn
the corner of the road. Clitter-clatter—fainter—then silence. The
postman, ever solemn, turns to me and reaches over an enormous hand.
“Vous êtes—bon soldat, Mademoiselle,” he says, as he rises abruptly
and saunters away down the street, puffing at his everlasting pipe.