“No one starves in Berlin,” replied the Kommandantur.

“Oh, yes, they do,” replied Madame X.  “I know, because the captain who so kindly informed you that I had received a letter from my husband showed me a letter the other day from his wife, in which she spoke of the sad condition of the women and children of Germany, who, whilst not starving, were far from happy.”  Thus she not only had the pleasure of seriously annoying the Kommandantur, but also a chance to get even with the captain who had informed against her, and who is no longer in soft quarters in Lille, but paying the penalty of his indiscretion by a sojourn on the Yser.

The bridge at Meaux, destroyed in the course of the German retreat, has not yet been entirely repaired.  Beneath it rushes the Marne, and the river sings in triumph, as it passes, that it is carrying away the soil that has been desecrated by the steps of the invader and that day by day it is washing clean the land of France.

In the fields where the corn is standing, the tiny crosses marking the last resting-places of the men are entirely hidden; but where the grain has been gathered, the graves stand out distinctly, marked not only by a cross, but also by the tall bunches of corn which have been left growing on these small patches of holy ground.  It has always been said that France has two harvests each year.  Certainly in the fields of the Marne there is not only the harvest of bread—­there is also springing up the harvest of security and peace.

The peasants as they point out the graves always add:  “We of the people know that those men sacrificed their lives that our children might live.  Those who have died in vain for an unjust cause may well envy the men of France who have poured out their blood for the benefit of humanity.”

Looking on the crosses on the battlefield of the Marne, I realised to the fullest extent the sacrifices, borne with such bravery, of the women of France.  I thought of the picture I had seen in Paris of a group of mothers standing at the foot of Calvary, looking out over the fields of small black crosses, lifting their hands to Heaven, with the words—­“We also, God, have given our sons for the peace of the world.”

At Montmirail the real activity of the war zone first became apparent.  We drew the car to the side of the road and waited whilst a long procession of empty munition-wagons passed on the way back from the munition-parks near the fighting-line.  There was a smile on the face of every one of the drivers.  Each of them had the satisfaction of knowing that there was no chance of his returning with an empty wagon, as there is no lack of provisions to feed the hungriest of the “75’s” or any of her larger sisters.

The fact that it is known that there is an ample supply of munitions plays an important part in the “moral” of the troops.  The average poilu has no sympathy with the man who grumbles at the number of hours he may have to work.  We heard the tale of a munition-worker who was complaining in a cafe at having to work so hard.  A poilu who was en permission and who was sitting at the next table, turned to him, saying, “You have no right to grumble:  you receive 10 to 12 francs a day for making shells, and we poor devils get 5 sous a day for stopping them!”