Oh, the peace of Sunday in a little village! And Augustin is better, though he still fights his dressings. It takes the combined effort of the ward to present duty in such an attractive guise that he will not realize he is minding, but it is really the sympathetic Roger who can insinuate comforting comparisons from his own recent acquaintance with pain and the ever-ready Pierre, who with a "courage, camarade," and one free hand to help me, actually put the thing through.
On my way home to lunch I glanced at the clock in the church tower and saw that it was an hour ahead of time, having been made to coincide with Teuton pendulums. This is the second time that it has happened, for the villagers dared to climb up the long stairs and put it back, once, but the soldiers were so ferocious in their threats that—well, one must accept their insolence. Crossing the field I passed the farmer who must have felt considerable perturbation of soul this particular day, for he looked "worrited" and was mowing grass for his poor, thin cows, in a blue gingham smock and a bowler hat. The war is not more vital to anyone on earth than to him, for the soldiers have taken away his wagons and most of his hay for their bedding and they ruined the grass in the orchard where they were encamped.
Soldiers came to the Convent this morning to search for firearms. It appears that the German military authorities are terrified of an uprising among the inhabitants, particularly the factory hands, who will not work for the Prussians and are getting a little restless. One can readily imagine such an apprehension when from a population of 40,000 working men in the vicinity, only forty-two firearms were presented upon requisition. If all the rest are buried in the woods, as many believe, it will only be the story of another inspired "Cadmus, who sowed dragons' teeth and there sprang up an army of armed men."
Madame de H. has left for Brussels. The third auto which was hidden away was brought out and with Count Moltke's laisser-passer and the family's chauffeur, she will arrive safely, we hope, though we shall not rest until the man gets back.
In Liége this afternoon, in front of the University, we saw squares and squares which were burned out by the Germans, and also where those eighteen civilians were shot, following a slight uprising of the people. Madame X.'s niece, who lives quite near there, heard the screams of the women, and such scenes of terror seem even yet to paralyze the population. In the Place de la Cathédrale we saw soldiers pushing people along with their saw-toothed bayonets to disperse a crowd which was gaping, stupefied, at some unusual proceeding.
As we stood there, an automobile, with eight Prussian officers in it, came banging down the street, loose bolts jingling, and was just disappearing around a corner when Madame R. exclaimed "Oh, that's our Reynaud!"
All the automobiles, as well as everything else, have been confiscated by the invaders and it is a common occurrence to look up and see one's own beautiful car bounding along over cobblestones and breaking with its load of soldiers—the motors are driven so hard that in two weeks' time they are practically worthless.
At the beginning of the war, many owners cunningly removed a tiny necessary part of their machines, but in most cases the same owners were given just two hours at the point of the bayonet to find those missing parts, which was not always easy. And the farmers, too, who cut down the big trees across the roads to impede the enemy's advance, had just the same amount of time given them to clear the path again. So you see that one is helpless.
Rumors come from France that the fortified town of Mauberge still resists, but that the Germans are at Compiégne, which is so near to beautiful Paris. It is impossible to believe. Yet we all experienced a feeling of absolute faintness when that report came, for Compiégne, or anywhere within one hundred kilometres of it, is too near. But if—Bon Dieu, keep us from thinking!
There is a possibility of our going to Brussels. Oh, the joy of it! That may find me the means, through the American Ambassador, of getting back to my beloved France.
The youngest gardener, the little one, Charles, who is only eighteen years old, has left for "the front." Not with his regiment, for he hasn't one (this year was to have been his class), but as a private individual who could not stay at home when his country needed him. His old mother, with a little catch in her throat, sent him off proudly, her baby, her petit Charles, to serve with his four brothers, already gone.
But how can he get away with the eye of the arrogant usurper on every corner and road?
A Belgian soldier will play his rôle after his own interpretation. Instead of going off in his best smock and a tiny bundle on a stick, le petit Charles bade us a smiling au revoir in his old blue apron and torn hat. He will wander aimlessly over the hills which he knows so well and, unsuspected, will creep through the friendly hedges into the very arms of hospitable Holland and then, "All's well."
Trains were passing all day loaded with provisions, as well as soldiers and sailors who were sticking on like caterpillars all over the roofs, the sides, the steps and almost the wheels. I saw two of them dancing the tango on the top of one carriage. Then came car after car of prairie wagons, we call them, with voluminous, white, canvas hoods, loaded with provisions; after these, countless, giant cannon decorated with branches, flowers and flags, mounted on open trucks without sides. All this procession was a weird phenomenon gliding by in the sky like a mirage, for the road-bed at the rear of the château is very high and is hidden by intervening shrubs and bushes so that the wheels of the cars are quite concealed. It reminded me of those Amazon warriors in "Die Walküre" who slid up to Heaven so smoothly on their wooden horses at the Opéra in Paris.
Dropping from the poetical plane to common cause and effect, the whole gave the impression of being well lubricated—like the wheels of Destiny which turn steadily on with few jerks or hitches.
The word is said. We are packing our bags to leave for Brussels tomorrow. When I went to the Convent this morning, I found all the soldiers in bed and looking so wretched. Merciful Heaven! What blight could have fallen on our children over night? But it was a farce. They had heard that the officers of the regiment, here, were coming to inspect the wounded with the idea of sending those who are well enough on to Germany as, of course, they are prisoners. So the moment the Germans entered the courtyard, all the blessés—even those who are quite well—hopped into bed with their clothes on, pulled the covers up to their chins and with a wet compress on their heads, looked as ill as possible. It was comical to see; one can be a soldier and comedian at the same time—and even the dear Sisters enjoyed it. But I was paralyzed with fear. They had not thought of another side of the question to which the very impudence of their ruse might subject them.
I was very sad to say good-bye to these brave fellows who have been to all the world such a lesson in bravery and patience during their suffering. One big, lanky garçon—Jean, in fact—was quite undone at our departure. He refused to be consoled with the promise of postal cards in some future era and wept and sobbed, but I managed to understand between the sobs that he was saying, "Mais, Mademoiselle, je vous suis habitué." (But, Mademoiselle, I am used to you.) I do not know if this was meant for a compliment, but I took it as such and wept too.
This morning was spent in finishing packing, which usually is the biggest part of it, I find.
There appears to be violent fighting at Malines, Louvain and Tirlemont. Nevertheless we are setting out from the château, at two o'clock, bag and baggage. Everybody felt sorry to leave the servants (Liégeois) who have been staunch and comforting friends through all the misery of these terrifying times. Will an eager Fate close them in? Let us hope they will absorb the effervescent optimism of the fat old cook who continually reiterates in her awful French, "They cannot hurt me. I am a Hollander."
2 P. M.—Well, off we started. It was a moment I shall never forget, for it was as if we had taken up something solid and heavy (an experience, for example) in our two hands and put it behind us. There were in the party our two autos and Monsieur H. with Signor K., an Italian consul, in his. Monsieur H. has a passport from the military Governor, Field Marshal von der Golz, to go anywhere in Belgium, so we felt very safe to be with him. No ancient stage-coach with a dozen passengers on the top could have made as precarious a flight as our machines, packed and jammed full inside and crowned on the roof with an overhanging cornice of every sort of bundle. You can imagine that there was an idea at the back of our minds of never returning, perhaps, or of keeping what we could in immediate possession.
It was interesting in leaving the city to see the disposition of troops; we passed through Seraing, where are those tremendous Cockerill factories, and soon arrived opposite the famous Fort Hollogne which did such wonderful work in the defense of Liége, August 5th. At present it flies the German flag and but for one or two sentinels pacing near, one would never dream that a tremendous fort was there. Like the others, it is built three stories underground, with just a slight rising of earth defining the cupolas. Along the road on both sides, for miles and miles, lay splendid trees which were cut down for cannon range. Just before arriving at Jauche we met three automobiles with Prussian officers, who shouted "Nicht weiter" and made violent signs which we did not understand. But why "nicht weiter" with the Herr Feld Marschall's permission in our pocket? We soon learned at the railroad crossing. An hour before there had been an alarm and the station had received orders to allow no one to pass, as there was fighting not far beyond in the direction of Tirlemont. Then and there arose a mighty discussion and the esprits of many nations (Belgian, Italian, Russian, French and German) entered into the argument while one meek American looked on at the sparring. Even the little slip of paper ladened with the name of von der Golz in much ink, had no weight. Then we tried another route, that lay right through the heart of a dirty, squalid, little village to Ramillies, the same Ramillies of Louis XIV.'s time, famous in the "Batailles des Flandres." We arrived there by a sudden turn of the road which brought us up standing, onto a bridge spanning the railroad. Below, perhaps two hundred feet distant, was the station, out of which, upon our sudden apparition, swarmed a hundred soldiers in alarm, quite as if the surprising toe of a boot had inadvertently kicked over an ant hill. At Ramillies we were not more successful than at Jauche, for as the officials explained, if we passed the railroad station we were in danger of being caught between two battlelines. So, sadly indeed, we retraced our way and returned in the dark and the pouring rain to a dismantled house and forlorn hopes.
We are in the depths of despair today for we hear that they are fighting at Meaux—Meaux, which nearly is Paris. If I were a French woman I could not feel more poignantly about it. But we always think that it is not true, as we have no real means of knowing—all is hearsay.
A messenger brought news from Monsieur N., "Uncle Maurice," in the Ardennes. It appears that in August when the German troops went through Belgium on foot, the regiment of Count Otto von M. passed his villa. Count Otto is "Uncle M's" nephew—the son of his sister, who married a "high official of the Imperial Court," of whom I have already spoken. So it happened that the young officer went to call on his esteemed uncle, who frankly shut the door in his face. The Count burst into tears and cried, "Uncle, Uncle, won't you speak to me? It is not my fault. When my brothers and I received orders to come through Belgium, we begged other commissions but to no avail."
Certainly not! who better than the Counts von M. who have hunted from childhood, thro' every lane and secret path, to lead the armies thro' Belgium.
Trains are passing with every known thing therein—first thousands of soldiers, then wagons of provisions, cannon, boats for pontoon bridges mounted on wheels ready for unloading, material for building, trucks of hay, portable houses and in one car were hundreds of tiny wheels sticking up which we discovered belonged to wheelbarrows. It is a droll procession, that never ceases before one's eyes. To offset it, we have taken to playing Patience morning, noon and night, and if this monotony keeps up much longer we shall certainly become imbeciles. From time to time, in the trains going back to Germany one sees French prisoners, easy to tell by their red képis, boxed up in cattle cars, peering out from a narrow slit at the top. From the terrace can be heard the dull thud of distant cannon; the fighting is at Warrem, thirty kilometres from here.
Somebody came into possession of a newspaper, the "Figaro" from Paris, dated September 6th. We were delighted to have it loaned us for an hour, greasy and dirty as it was, for in these days a newspaper is the most precious article on earth. It is brought in on a silver tray—then somebody feverishly reads aloud for the benefit of the others, while the servants run out to invite the neighbors to come in and listen. Just as the reader is in the middle of a grand eulogy on glorious victories, etc., an unknown person raps on the door to reclaim the precious journal and we all relapse into a general interchange of impressions, ideas, complaints, inspirations—"They say"; "It appears"; "Why"; "Must"; "Ought"; "Should"; etc. In a German paper we read to-day, they are preparing their men for "slight defeats" by saying that, "The French army is no longer the army of 1870, but one worthy to combat with our own." That was very condescending and was doubtless inspired by the formidable battleline from the coast to Nancy, before their noses.
Natural laws are demonstrating themselves very plainly these days, for when we were sitting on the terrace just before lunch to-day, a curious thing happened—a sound wave, from a cannon shot literally hit our ear drums. I felt as if somebody had struck mine with a padded club. There was no noise, you understand, but we all looked up, aware of the impact at the same moment, so that it could not have been imagination. It must be that the terrible experiences of the past weeks have developed us to a highly sensitized degree, for many things are strikingly clear which were not so before.
Nearly every afternoon we go up over the hill to a high cliff overhanging the river which makes a sounding board for those sounds, which never abate, of a distant battle across the valley.
Heaven above! how are there men enough left after all these weeks of killing to continue a battle? At times the reports come as thick and fast as hail, making one long roar of awfulness, and our hearts sink like lead at the vision it conjures up.
And again, how readily and eagerly hope springs up when the shots become interrupted and the noise fades away a little.
In this wooded spot where we so often go to find out the real truth of things with our own ears, one meets nearly all one's friends from the neighboring villas who have come for the same purpose, morbidly attracted as we all, no doubt, are by these dreadful signs of a world of torture.
We huddle together like sheep lost in the storm, we confide our personal misfortunes and we recount the barbarous tales we have recently heard, the story ever interrupted by fresh evidence of the reviving fury of the never-ending struggle.
When we arrived home we heard that a company of soldiers had arrested, as espions, four or five men who, like ourselves, were taking a little promenade in the wood across the valley. Our liberties are being curtailed more and more. Thank goodness there is a large garden and a private wood to wander in. A month ago the order was that every inhabitant must be in the house and lights out at eight P. M. Now it is seven o'clock and as the days grow shorter it will soon be six or five—and perhaps three. The soldiers are in such a blue fear of being shot that recently in Aerschot all the villagers were put into the church on bread and water. Some of the men were shot before their wives and most of the houses burned. And they say, "the heart of the Imperial Empire bleeds." It is not surprising that it does when one considers what is happening right here at Liége, where houses are burned and innocent men shot for murder. Afterward one finds German bullets in German soldiers, which proves what you will.
What a story we heard to-day—such a pitiful little story of somebody's blue-eyed boy who ran out with his toy gun and aimed it at the passing troops.
They shot him dead, the little fellow, but he will sleep in a hero's grave as truly as another, for his loyal wee might.
A memorable day! We went in the auto to Spa. As we drove out of the court yard we were obliged to let some horsemen pass, who were out for their morning exercise. I think it is somebody's body guard, for we see them often at a distance. There are about thirty of them and at close range they are rather beautiful, that is, their uniforms of spotless white broadcloth with gold trimmings. En route we passed by Fort d'Embourg, which still has some of its cupolas, and Fort Chaudefontaine, which our burned soldiers defended and which is demolished. For miles around the country has been flattened, one may say, from the operation of the cannon and looks as if a cyclone had hurried across it. Every bit of shrubbery has been swept off the soil as if by a blast of magic and the singed earth has a very shorn-lamb aspect.
Our route was a veritable via dolorosa—destruction on both sides, in front and behind. Many houses and trees had eight inch shells half sticking in them which have not exploded and nobody knows when they may. The churches were without fail demolished more or less and the most astonishing thing was to see, again and again, the marble statue of the Christ standing intact on the crumbling remains of an altar. It fills one with awe and reverence to see this figure repeatedly spared by a supernatural power from an otherwise pitiless devastation. We passed through the now famous Louvigné which was entirely burned by the Prussians on their way to Liége. It was the same old story of the "civilians firing on the troops," or rather the excuse of the delinquents to martyr innocent villagers who instinctively took up a rifle to defend their homes, as any one of us would. And revenge came quickly.
As we neared this spot which scarred the face of Nature, we were seized with silent horror. If, in the smiling sunshine and in the quiet of the beautiful country, we shivered at the sight of such destruction and the thought of that dastardly work which marked the destiny of hundreds of human beings, what must the awful realization have been to the inhabitants themselves? Fancy the helplessness of them and their consternation at the approach of a great army bearing down, of men maddened with the love of conquest, of the wild beast seeking what it may devour! Imagine the distant rumbling of wheels, drawing nearer and nearer, the thud of horses' hoofs, the rhythmic tramp of feet, first wafted on the wind, and finally the frightful dread confirmed by a sudden explosion from the forts. Then the arrival—the dark—the noise—the confusion—the terror of the women—the screams of little children clinging to their mothers—the despair of the old ones, ill and bedridden—fire everywhere and men torn from the arms of their loved ones and stood up in a row and shot. What ghastly scenes, illumined still more by those rockets of flame from the forts which cut across the plain to stay the brutal invaders!
I saw a little girl come out from the débris to draw water from a pump—for what? For whom? There did not seem to be a living creature in the vicinity, though perhaps some of the poor things who fled out into the night across the fields for safety, have come back to dig out a little home under the crumbled stone. One or two houses remained standing, which seems a miracle, as pétrole-soaked fire-brands were thrown systematically into every habitation. As we passed, rather quickly, I counted ninety houses in ruins and about half a mile from the road, a magnificent château, a victim as well as the meanest hovel. The façade only was standing, though on approaching directly, the building seemed intact, except for a curious impression of daylight shining through the windows.
Coming back in the twilight the effect of all this misery was accentuated, the sentinels every few hundred yards were more suspicious than ever and when we came upon a few isolated "Hussars de la Mort" with the death's head leering out from those elegant fur turbans, I thought all was finished. Happily the men were more peaceable than their aspect.
Spa, the lovely, indolent ville d'eaux, which we visited, was filled with the "military" and bristling like a porcupine with saw-edged bayonets and pointed helmets.
The doctor has gone to Neufchateau in the Ardennes to bring back the French and Belgian wounded. I wish I could have gone with him, for we seem so useless here now that our soldiers are well, and the days are long, since the wild excitement of a giant army on the wing has cooled down. "On the wing" is not an idle expression when we remember those forced marches and how they lashed the poor artillery horses which galloped and strained in the traces without making much impression on the wheels. It was rather like that famous chariot race in the play, "Ben Hur," when the landscape rolled around too fast for the horses. Certain Imperial Esprits have doubtless already arrived, but without the baggage—an item somewhat important.
May the Fates preserve beautiful Paris! There is a dear little French sister at the Convent (this Sisterhood was transferred from Metz after the War of 1870) who says that we must pray the Blessed Virgin every day to "écraser (smash) les Allemands," and she says it so fervently that one does not observe the lack of Christian spirit.
Very little is passing through the city at present except perhaps this eternal line of trains, and oh, how we are thirsting for news! Can you imagine, dear people at home, you who have hundreds of newspapers, how we are straining every nerve to know the real truth of things as they are, to pierce through this thick wall, with which an arrogant despotism has cut us off from the whole world? But we cannot. It is wadded on both sides with deceptions and our only privilege is to surmise. What poor things we are, in truth, though born and reared in the common independence of the age. Everywhere (else) the poorest farmer has his one old horse to take him to and fro, where he will, and he has his acre of God's country, where he may muse in the sun or dream with the stars, while we, conquered by numbers, must walk in a straight line without loitering and we must go into our houses at seven P. M. and close the door. Do you think that is amusing?
We heard five booms of cannon in an hour this morning and bad and inhuman as it sounds, we were quite pleased—any little sign from an outside world that one lives, one breathes, to drag us out of this inertia, this eternal silence!
There was quite a demonstration in Liége yesterday when they brought back from Neufchateau some Belgian and French wounded. The people all shouted, "Vive la France." Today we have a new military governor, who has given the order to shoot, without hesitation, any person attempting such an indiscretion again.
The scene of operations is gradually swinging back into Belgium and the stories of atrocities are increasing. The sacking and burning of Louvain, with its art treasures and its world-famous library of rare books and old manuscripts, is only another blot on a shield already stained. In fact, it is said that the general who permitted it is most discontented with himself for having been so stupid and that he has been relieved from active service on account of ill health.
Monsieur Max, the burgomaster of Brussels, has been taken prisoner and is in confinement at Namur, because he was not able nor willing to meet the demands of the Prussians, who want gold. We hear that the women of Germany have been required to give up all their jewelry, except wedding rings, for fighting money.
We went again to Spa in the auto. Passing again through the pitiful village of Louvigné, we saw, in a meadow, the graves, covered with wayside flowers, of the farmers who were shot. The soldiers picked out forty of the villagers, stood them up in a line, then shouted, "Save yourselves." Thirteen were shot in the back and the rest escaped. What words to find for this barbarism? But is it barbarism and not rather the refined cruelty of civilization? Is it not better then to remain a primitive, with a beautiful faith in the Sun-god?
The siege of Antwerp has begun. Here is a dialogue between the Kaiser and his belle armée.
K. "I need Antwerp."
A. "Your Majesty shall have Antwerp, but we need five hundred thousand men."
K. "You shall have them."
Does this explain the fantastic array of soldiers, sailors, the old, the young, grandfathers and infants, the simple rank and file and the elegant regiments of H. M. that are continually trailing on to the battlefield?
The servants are dismantling the house today, putting all the art treasures in safety—tapestries, silver, portraits, paintings, rugs, fine china, furniture, dresses, furs, books, linen—in fact everything of value. All this is to be taken off for safekeeping and sealed up,—maybe, in the crystal caves of the river nymph, Aréthusa. Madame X. does not like to imagine the Haus Fraus parading in her sables.
A man in the city saw some circulars ready for distribution that were printed by the German War Office, saying that in case of retreat of the army, the inhabitants of Liége would have six hours to evacuate the city.
All that horror over again? Oh! this is a more terrifying thought, even, than the advance of an army.
Madame de H. managed to get through to us a letter from Brussels by messenger. What dreadful things are happening, what curious things! Three kilometres from her château on the other side of Brussels is an old feudal castle which has been occupied for the last two years by an Austrian family. These people were never very neighborly, preferring their own society evidently and spending all their time and interest in repairing the dilapidated walls of an unused wing of the château. This had turned out an endless task, as it appears, continued for weeks and then suddenly and unaccountably stopped for days, only to be feverishly recommenced. But of course, people round about, accustomed to the varying energy of workmen in general were not puzzled at this. At least this was the explanation given and, in truth, it began to look as if the old place would live its given quota of days and crumble away still unfinished.
Twenty-four hours after Germany declared war on France and had already crossed the frontier into Belgium, the Austrian family disappeared in the night, taking with them their household goods. The next day Belgian authorities seized the property and found a complete arsenal under the walls with a net-work of tunnels burrowing far into the earth in all directions.
During the last forty-eight hours, hundreds of cattle cars have been going back to Germany and we were very curious as to their contents. Unhappily, we have been enlightened.
Some of the villagers at the station, this morning, looked into one car and saw that it was full of dead human bodies, tied together in threes and packed tightly side by side in rows. Is that not too horrible for words? It is better not to be too inquisitive these days, for there is horror enough on the surface of things.
The Germans have already taken some of the forts of Antwerp, although the country surrounding the outer belt line of forts has been purposely inundated, which does not, however, prevent the operation of big field cannon.
About fourteen of our wounded at the Convent Ambulance were sent to Germany today as prisoners. We went to see them off and found the poor things absolutely overwhelmed. Against the fear of cold and imprisonment, they put on as many clothes as possible—two suits of underwear, two pairs of socks, two pairs of trousers, coats, shirts, sweaters and waistcoats—until they looked like stuffed partridges. Poor, feathered brood, with pinioned wings! At three P. M. our (usually) gay boys were led out of the court, two by two, like convicts, a Prussian at the head of the column and a Prussian at the foot.
Oh, these Belgians are brave and they know how to obey, which may be the very secret of their greatness. It is glorious to see the respect with which even grown men accept the advice of their aged parents, for at the moment of peril to their honor and their country when the old father had said to his son, "My boy, it is time to lay down the hoe and take up the sword," he had answered, simply, "Oui, mon père," while the women brought out the sword and buckled it on with a tearless Godspeed.
That is the way the Belgians went to war and that is the way they will sustain themselves to the glorious end.
To-day, two months after that horrible battle of Sartilmont, we found a Belgian soldier's cap lying in the middle of the path in the woods. It seemed like a human thing and stirred me to the profoundest depths. I never thought that clothes could take on life and a personality all alone, but they do. Has its owner been in hiding all these weeks or is he lying yet unburied among the friendly trees? In these places where Death has walked so boldly one feels his accompanying presence at every step.
Monsieur B., a man of seventy years (Madame X.'s brother-in-law), was taken as hostage yesterday at Spa. Fortunately for him, he was allowed to sleep in the hotel, but can you imagine what the anxiety of those twenty-four hours was? Every voice in the street, every foot-step in the corridor—!
From the top of the mountain all day a continual booming was heard, distantly transmitted through the air. It was so incessant and with such vivacity, one could easily imagine two armies all mixed up into one. The Red Cross trains bear witness to tremendous battles somewhere—but where? We hardly know how to contain ourselves in this absolute ignorance of what is happening in the world. We rush upon and tear to bits, like beasts of prey, the least little piece of news that comes straggling within reach and if, by chance, someone comes into the court, it is enough for all the family, including the servants, to rush to the windows in excitement.
The soldiers who are in the garage had the delicate idea of killing a cow therein, which they did, and dismantled the animal then and there. The next day they dressed themselves in Belgian uniforms, stripped from the dead, and had themselves photographed before the château. We noticed their laughing and pointing to the attic windows of the house, and we finally discovered that they had festooned strings of sausages, of their own recent make, from the window sills, to ripen.
A Baron de S. spent the night here, and told us of the ravages made by the passing troops at his château down in the country. They had buried a Frenchman in one corner of the garden and two Germans in another and nothing was left but the house. All engravings and paintings were cut with a sword; silver platters were melted in a lump in the court yard; meat was cut up on a beautiful salon table; shoe polish was rubbed on another; pipes in the kitchen and bathroom were cut to flood the rooms; every glass in the house was broken and all the linen carried off except the handkerchiefs.
Baron T., another friend of the family, came to lunch. He told us of his cousin, who was one of the unfortunate victims of the sack of Louvain. This aged man (seventy years) with a thousand others, was obliged to walk for twenty-four hours with nothing to eat or drink and arms stretched up straight over their heads. The poor man, fainting with fatigue, asked permission of the soldiers to put his hands behind his neck, but this grace was denied, and after some hours more all the company was pushed into a cattle train and for eight days taken over the country, as far as Cologne, and at last released in Brussels, almost demented.
When this Monsieur—of whom I speak, found himself free again he made his way, laboriously enough, to his brother's house in Brussels.
The maitre d'hotel opened the door and, seeing this haggard, bootless individual, who was weakened with fatigue and dazed from his recent horrible experience, did not recognize him, naturally enough, and refused him admission until the old gentleman got his poor scattered brains together enough to prove his identity. This is the story as we have it first-hand. Can it then be possible that the others we heard are true, too?
I have been advertised! like a stray dog, and what a feeling of importance it gives one. A peculiar looking document with the Embassy seals of Paris and Brussels on it, arrived from the American Consul in Liége enquiring if such a person as "Me" still exists.
Well, rather, I should say. Fancy one's coming all the way on foot from Brussels to find out that!
Masses of soldiers and cannon passing today and news from Brussels is bad. The worst must have happened! "Antwerp, the untakable." How is it possible in a few days, with fifty-two forts in triple line? We were so depressed we could scarcely eat dinner, when about nine P. M. came the news, from a man of affairs who is just back from Brussels, that the rumor is false. We shall sleep tonight after this hope and the end of the world is not today, anyway.