And jumping up on either side of me, one of them took the reins and started forward.  This being taken for a spy was an altogether new and very disagreeable sensation.

“But, gentlemen,” I protested calmly, “I’m known in this place.  If there’s an inhabitant left I’ll be identified in a second.  How green you’ll feel if you drag me before an officer and find you’re mistaken!”

They were unrelenting.

I invoked my identity card.

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!”

I turned and recognized my pastry baker’s wife.

“Oui, moi; arretee.”

“Arrested!”

“Yes, unless you will be good enough to inform these gentlemen who I am?”

“Est-il possible!  Est-il possible! Why, of course, I know you—­how dare they!”

“You see,” I said, turning to the auxilaires.

But they were inflexible, bidding my friend follow on if she could swear to my identity.  She obeyed, but our group had attracted the attention of a couple of small boys who darted out of an alley way like rats from a cellar, calling, “L’espionne—­l’espionne!”

Thank fortune, at that instant we came upon an officer, whom I accosted at a distance, explained my case and produced my card and my pastry baker.  He understood in a moment, and hastily discharged my custodians.

“I cannot scold them.  They’re over zealous, but we’ve been so horribly betrayed all along.  You understand, I’m sure.  Please accept my apologies, Madame!”

I bowed and he departed.  Then I turned to my friend.

“You’ve heard the news, I suppose, Madame?”