No, they had heard me speak in a foreign tongue and all foreign tongues
to them were German!
And so we entered La Ferte.
Doors and windows no longer existed--the former had been dashed to
splinters by the butt ends of guns, while the latter were shattered to
powder and from their apertures swung bed clothing, personal adornment
and household belongings in shreds and tatters--all willfully soiled by
mud and filth.
It was useless to try to drive our cart up the main street, so calling a
passing comrade, my detainers bid him hold my horse until they returned
after having _fait leur affaire_, as they expressed it.
The plate glass windows of every store lay in thousands of pieces below
their sashes, and the entire stock of merchandise whether furniture or
drapery, groceries or dairy products, had been hurled through them into
the middle of the thoroughfare. Above these were piled pell-mell
bedding and chairs, wardrobes and wash basins, all splintered and
broken--the whole making the most pitiable conglomeration I ever hope to
witness. One plucky dealer was already boarding up the great yawning
cavities that were once show windows, and here and there a frightened
female face peeped out from behind the ruins of her commerce.
"Madame Huard!" cried a familiar voice behind me. "_Mon Dieu_--you!"