“No—­what?”

She suddenly grew white.

“Quick—­out with it, woman!”

She hesitated.

“Is H.—?”

“Non, not that, Madame, but a quarter of an hour ago it was noised about that the enemy are still retreating, and that we were pounding into their headquarters—­le chateau de Villiers.”

I felt myself whitening.  The woman saw it, and catching me by the arm.  “Come, come,” she said.  “You’re tired; perhaps it isn’t true, so many false alarms have been launched.  Come and have a cup of coffee—­you’ll excuse our back room—­it’s all we have left.”

I gladly followed her, picking my way through what had once been one of the most enticing of provincial pastry shops, the good soul apologizing all the time, as if she had been responsible for the damage.  As she prattled on, though my own brain was swimming I now and then grasped such phrases as three days of looting, two days’ bombardment.  As she passed me a cup of coffee, she explained that the invaders had not been satisfied with violently appropriating all personal articles which they had found to their liking, but after having drunk all the wine in the cellars, they had willfully cut open the bags of flour and thrown it pell-mell in every direction.

“And, Madame, they got into my reserve of eggs—­five thousand of them—­” she wept, “five thousand!  All my winter’s store.  I wouldn’t have minded if they had eaten them but to see them purposely crushed and wasted.  Two of those wretches spent half a day bringing them up from the cellar in their helmets, and then dragging me out, would hurl them at the walls and windows, savagely rejoicing in my distress!”

I couldn’t remain indoors—­I had but one thought—­get to Villiers or see someone who knew for certain what had happened there.

Again I crossed the shop, paddling through that sticky yellow slime in which bits of furniture and clothing floated like croutons in a gigantic nauseating omelet.

Outside, towards the end of the street that opened on to the quay, great animation reigned.  A bugle sounded and I could hear the tramp of soldiers’ feet.

“Look!” cried my friend.  “Look, all that is left of the Institut St. Joseph, the pride of La Ferte.”

Across the river between the broken spans of the bridge, my eye fell upon the gutted remains of what had once been a most exquisite bit of eighteenth century architecture.  The mansion which had sheltered Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette on their eventful return from Varennes, was now a smoking pile of ashes!

“And to think we had to do it!  Oh, curse their hides!” muttered an elderly man close to my elbow.

“We?”

“Yes.”

“?”

“Why, when they had to get out of here they crossed the Marne, destroyed the bridge and entrenched themselves in the houses along the bank.  The English caught them like rats in a cage, but at what a price!  One fellow that’s rowed across says he can bear them moaning, but you bet they can rot there before we’ll go to ’em.  Begging your pardon for the language!”