“Indeed, indeed we have never fired. If you search the village through
you will find we have nothing to fire with.”
“I heard them,” he says sternly.
In the distance a woman is scuttling along, trying to reach a
neighbour’s house in safety. She is so terror-stricken, her progress
is like the gait of a sick fowl. A living example is to hand. I point
towards her. “Look at that,” I say. “The poor women are so frightened
they cry all day long. Besides the women there are only old men and
boys. Their one wish is to get the harvest in in peace. Is that a
crime?”
A conference takes place between the soldiers I gather that our fate is
in the balance. We must be born under a lucky star. We are saved again.
The officer remounts his horse. He and his troop ride off briskly in
the direction of Grand-Mesnil.
They are scarcely round the corner before the entire population of
the village has rushed out carrying every bucket and jug they can lay
their hands on. The old lady, not dead as I expected, but considerably
stupefied by smoke, is saved from the burning house and set under the
hedge to recover. The rest of us form a line and pass bucket after
bucket of water from the pump, in the best workmanlike, fireman style.
The flames have got a good hold and the smoke is stifling, but we all
work with a will and soon subdue them.
A young Belgian, just arrived on a motor-bicycle, says “salle cochons”
under his breath, but does not help in the work of rescue. Later he
confides to me that he is a Belgian spy carrying dispatches. Two days
ago he was at Louvain talking with an officer of the “men in skirts.”
My heart leaps to think they are so near.
“This morning I have come from Liège,” he says. “The German dead were
piled up each side of my path, ghastly lolling corpses, one on the top
of each other.” He puts his hand up higher than his head. “It was the
most awful sight I have ever seen, and then the odour....” And the poor
spy is literally sick in the village street.
I go back to the burnt cottage. Already willing hands have pulled
out odds and ends of still smouldering furniture. The old lady’s
cat, disturbed in early morning slumber, has once more resumed its
accustomed position on the blackened doorstep. Its expression is
cynical and its back arched in a definite anti-Prussian hump. I have
no reason whatever to doubt the accuracy of its language when the next
Uhlan comes along. The young Job-Lepouses who have been foremost in
helping to extinguish the fire, return with me to breakfast. I have
leisure to study their appearance.
Yesterday they were of reasonable size. To-day they look as though they
had undergone a sudden fattening process which has taken effect in the
most unlikely places. For instance, Mdlle Rosa’s right shoulder appears
to be afflicted with a monstrous and most unsightly hump. Madame Job’s
instep almost equals in size the girth of her waist. M. Floribert has
a forearm which would not disgrace a Hackenschmidt. The secret is soon
explained.
“Ha-ha, j’ai mes petites économies,” cries Mlle Louisa, dragging a fat
leather bag from under her skirt.
M. Floribert smiles anxiously. He has numerous treasures up his
sleeves, including his Sunday ties.
Madame Job lets down her stocking with the utmost sang-froid and
displays a leg bound with Belgian paper money and bandaged with some
nice old lace.
The house was stripped bare in those few minutes of pregnant danger.
Linen, books and even bread were transferred to the most remote and
sheltered corner of the vegetable garden. Here they were deposited in
the camion or hooded cart in which M. Albert in the happy days, now
gone, used to distribute the crisp, round loaves to the countryside.
Here, too, hid Mdme la Précepteur, the children and Mdme Job until the
danger had passed by....