As I think back it seems to me that not until that moment had it
occurred to us to regard closely the cottages and shops beyond the
clumped trees of the chateau grounds. We were desperately weary, to
begin with, and our eyes, those past three days, had grown used to the
signs of misery and waste and ruin, abundant and multiplying in the wake
of the hard-pounding hoofs of the conqueror.
Now, all of a sudden, I became aware that this town had been literally
shot to bits. From our side--that is to say, from the north and
likewise from the west--the Germans had shelled it. From the south,
plainly, the French had answered. The village, in between, had caught
the full force and fury of the contending fires. Probably the
inhabitants had warning; probably they fled when the German skirmishers
surprised that outpost of Frenchmen camping in the park. One imagined
them scurrying like rabbits across the fields and through the cabbage
patches. But they had left their belongings behind, all their small
petty gearings and garnishings, to be wrecked in the wrenching and
racking apart of their homes.
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