The Uhlans are no longer a novelty, they are a frightful bore. One
cannot take two steps outside the village without a soldier in that
grey-greeny-blue uniform popping up from behind a tree or appearing as
if marionetted down from the cloudless sky. Whenever I see one I have
to repress a devouring wish to run.
The war has already taught me one lesson. That there is nothing more
dangerous than a frightened soldier. The funk of a scared German oozes
into his rifle—not his boots....
All the roads from the frontier, in fact the entire Ardennes are being
patrolled by these creatures. To-day we have had armoured cars passing
to and fro at break-neck speed, manned by soldiers and positively
bristling with rifles.
Boom—boom—boom! It has been going on all day and all night, for the
last three days and nights—that horrible cannon at Liège. Madame Job
can hardly drag herself down this morning. She feels that each sound
may mean the annihilation of her dear Albert. Mlle Irma is crying
gently too. My soup is decidedly watery and my omelette impossible.
C’est la guerre!
A straggling procession of women visits the inn. Most of them have
baskets. They have walked many miles in the burning heat. They need
bread. Alas! Albert in the fort there below has other things than
baking to think about. Besides, there is very little flour. Only just
enough for M. le Directeur, the château on the hill and ourselves.
Madame Job stands out in the street and wrinkles her forehead at the
sight of the familiar words, “Boulangerie Lepouse.” She does not mind
the villagers, but suppose the dreaded Uhlans interpret the sign.
What will happen to those six black loaves so snugly concealed in the
postmaster’s cupboard? M. Alfred mounts a ladder and sploshes out the
offending letters till nothing but a few black smudges and a hooded
cart in the backyard tell of their once thriving trade in bread.