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—Encore un autre petit frère?

—Oui, un petit belge.

[What, another little brother?

Yes, a little Belgian.]

One after another, if you listen, the Village mothers will tell of their return; with what hope against hope they looked for some trace of vanished husbands, sons and daughters; with what despair they realised the utter ruin. “My cat,” said one, “was the only living thing I found. She was waiting for me on the doorstep.” But those were fortunate who found even the door sills remaining to their homes. Those who were shelterless took possession of some semi-habitable corner of their neighbour’s outbuildings, or even of cellars, and furnished them with what they could find. As I went about among them, in an effort to supply immediate needs, I was continually told: “That cupboard, you understand, is not mine. I am taking care of it for Mme. Huillard, who is with the Boches. When she returns, I must give it up.” “This bed,”—a very comfortable one, by the way—“belongs to M. de Curé, whom the Germans made prisoner.” “Those blankets an English soldier gave me.” “This stove”—in answer to a query as to whether a new one would not be appreciated—“well, to be sure, it has no legs, but one props it with bricks, et ça marche, tout de même!” The boast of the Prussians in regard to their handiwork was true: “Tout le pays n’est qu’un immense et triste désert, sans arbre, ni buisson, ni maison. Nos pionniers ont scié ou haché les arbres qui, pendant des journées entières, se sont abattus jusqu’à ce que le sol fût rasé. Les puits sont comblés, les villages anéantis. Des cartouches de dynamite éclatent partout. L’atmosphère est obscurcie de poussière et de fumée.”[4]