Chasse-aux-espions! A governmental order has come through that we are
to arrest any suspicious-looking person who passes through the village.
We suspect ourselves. We suspect everybody. We are only deterred from
action by one thought. The horror of shooting in cold blood a poor,
blindfolded, unarmed human thing.
The village is thrilled with excitement this morning. A tourist in
tweed suit and knicker-bockers has arrived. He hangs up his soft felt
hat in the hall and follows up his breakfast order with comments on the
war. He has come from Vielsalm. He has spoken with the Germans. The
peasants cluster round him.
“Nice kind fellows the Germans seem,” he says casually, as he walks
into the dining-room and takes his seat.
That is sufficient. The men nudge each other and direct mysterious
glances towards the door. I am invited to arrest him! I murmur that
M. le Directeur and the Bourgmestre have the prior right but that I
shall be delighted to assist. On one condition. If found guilty the
miscreant must be despatched round the corner and not before my eyes.
The Bourgmestre when sent for will not come; I fetch M. le Directeur.
“All unconscious of his fate” the spy is enjoying an excellent meal
of bacon and eggs. He starts up as we enter and turns rather white.
When challenged he opens his pocket-book and shows us his papers with
admirable composure.
Dreadful error! On his card I read, “Monsieur Jottrand, Premier
Avocat-Général à la Court d’Appel, Bruxelles.”
There is a burst of merriment from the peasants. They surge round him.
M. le Directeur shakes him warmly by the hand. I rush to hide myself
behind the big black stove in the kitchen.
The “spy” follows me in a moment later. “I congratulate myself,
Mademoiselle,” he says. “I have never had the pleasure of being
arrested by an Englishwoman before!”
M. Jottrand is tramping his way back to Brussels. He has lost all his
luggage but is quite cheerful. So far he has escaped with his life.
That is something these days.
Soon after he leaves us, German troops arrive in the village and knock
at the doors of every house in Grand-Mesnil. “We give you one hour,”
they say, “to remove those trees on the Bomale and Vielsalm roads.”
A hurried conference takes place between the peasants. I interrogate
one of them in the street next day. “How about those trees?” I ask.
“Oh, we removed them all right,” he answers. “Not quite as the
Prussians intended, however. Un pas de gattes (goat’s path). On a
modest estimate it will take the German army about three years to pass
along in single file!”