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QUIET DAYS 185
several times, and maybe greets the old women standing alone
or with their children in the doorways, one of them may
occasionally nod pleasantly and answer " Bon jour, mon-
sieur," but the next one hardly takes any notice. The hrst
may be well off and hope to see her menfolk once more, the
other is probably brooding over her grief and sorrow, for she
knows nothing, has nothing, and has lost all hope. Those
who cook, bake, wash, mangle and " do " for the Germans
are always contented, at least on the surface. The storm has
already travelled past them. Whatever they do, they cannot
change their fate and must make the best of what is left.
One would have to be of stone, were one not to feel pity also
for the old men. Here come a couple slowly walking across the
square. Look at their wrinkled faces, their careworn features,
their sharp profiles, black eyes and great grey moustaches. They
are very plainly dressed and wear felt hats on their heads.
They walk bent after their day’s work, if they have had any.
Look at the corners of their eyes in profile, with all their lines
showing, and watch the moist glance and forlorn expression of
the eye. These eyes have ceased to cry and see no light ahead.
But ask for once the old people if they wanted the war and if
they think it is for France’s good. No, they, the old men
and the women of all ages, bear no blame for the nameless
misery that is now spreading over France.
I cannot tear myself away from the window. The bizarre
life outside is running its even course. In the centre of the
square, inside the lamp-posts and the iron railing stands the
great Turenne on his stone plinth, scarred and green with
age. He stands there like a ghost and an anachronism, and
looks down with imperturbable calm on those dim distant ages
whose blood-drenched waves are lapping round his feet.
Everything that has been destroyed by the French in order
to render the German advance more difficult, and everything
that has been laid waste by the ravages of war itself has long
since been mended by the German Army and its organisation.
The railways are running, new bridges replace the wrecked
ones, telegraph and telephone lines have been laid down, water-
systems have been repaired and the elecftric light is now burn-
ing as brightly as ever in times of peace. Times of peace !
It seems as if an eternity had flown since those days. The
clocks in the houses have stopped, there are no French hands
to set them going. The great clocks in the church towers alone
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