Chapter IV: Part 4

Let us now turn to the terrible state of affairs under which the unfortunate inhabitants of these quaint towns of Northern France are suffering. In the book of Octave Beauchamp, "Le Tour de France aux Cités Meurtries," is the following letter (which I translate roughly) of Leonie Godfroy, a nurse, known as "Schwester" God-froy:

"During the night of the 28th to the 29th of August, the Mayor of Noyon advised the people, that as the situation had become critical because of the approach of the German army, all those who could do so should leave the town to escape the terrors of the invasion."

L' Ancien Eveche: Noyon

"In one of my school books, I remember a picture which, when I first saw it, filled me with horror. It represented the Exodus of the Gauls at the approach of the Huns, and was drawn, I think, by Gustav Doré,--the women half naked, dragged away by the savage soldiers; the terrified and crying children; the old men and women hurrying away, some empty-handed, others laden with all manner of objects which at any other time, or under different conditions would have seemed ridiculous, but which coupled with their terror, became pathetic. This picture now was enacted by my unfortunate fellow townspeople in their attempt to escape from the dangers of the bombardment and acts of the invaders. Crowds were running towards the railway depot, not realizing that the cars were already crowded to suffocation with half fainting women and terrified children. Others sat beside the ways, wailing and wringing their hands; here and there sat groups silent, staring as if they had lost their senses!

"The forests outside the town were filled with hiding, terrified women, and here the Uhlans gathered on the morning of the 30th, after the invasion and occupation of Noyon. During this flight from town many women became mothers by the roadside, and lay there helpless until attended to by the German Ambulance Corps. The Germans arrived on the 30th of August. They entered Noyon after having fired three great shells into the city, which met with no response. The silence of death was over the town, save for the howling here and there of an abandoned dog, shut indoors.

"We, the staff at the hospital, gathered about the president of our committee, with clasped hands, vowed solemnly that come what would, we should remain at our post, to do our duty to the end. With us stayed some courageous young women nurses, and several of the attendants.

"Some hours before we had received at the hospital some dozen or so wounded English soldiers from the front. We were in the midst of our work with these, when there came the sound of violent banging on the front door. Two Uhlans burst in past the attendant and entered the court.

"Catching sight of us ranged about the cot of a wounded soldier, these pushed us aside, examined the condition of the wounded men in the room and without saying one word to any of us, hurriedly took their departure.

"From this instant our wounded were prisoners of war, and must resign themselves to all the circumstances of such state. The smallest resistance (of course there could be no resistance whatever on their part, wounded unto death as they were) would be visited upon us all; we would be shot in groups, and the hospital burned. Shortly after this a 'section' (so-called) entered the hospital without any formality, pistols in hand. The officers at once commandeered the autos in the court, and demanded our entire supply of gasolene.

"Behind these advance soldiers, the German troops began to defile past the windows in plain sight. Then came weary men covered with dust and grime of the march, demanding food and drink. Some of these threw themselves upon the cots beside the lesser wounded, and seemed instantly to fall asleep.

"We were soon unable to reply satisfactorily to the questions of the officers. They asked us, Frenchmen, how we found the French; if the English were numerous; if they had burned the bridges. We answered as well as we could, and as briefly as possible without giving them offense. The rooms being full, we placed foot tubs in the court, and attended to them. For the most part they impressed us filled with a great anxiety, even fear...." (Here follow allegations that are untranslatable--ignoble--they are omitted.)

"We saw from the windows regiments of men in gray passing in great disorder, the men covered with dust and grime, and not always keeping step. Great army wagons passed, the drivers of which slept nodding on the seats. Some we saw fall as the wagons lurched. The horses seemed spent, and only kept going because of heavy blows and prods from bayonets.

"This army of invasion resembles more an army in retreat. Imagine the state of affairs in this little city of Noyon, once so happy and peaceful, now resounding with the noise of the great guns of the Germans both day and night--nights of terror!

"All the grocery shops are pillaged and gutted, so also the pharmacies and the bazaars.

"Many of the houses are turned into something like shops for the barter of objects stolen by the soldiers in the town. In these furniture, silver, objects of art and linen are exchanged and packed up to be sent to Germany. The inhabitants are commanded to deposit with the 'Kommandantur' not only all firearms, but also all photographic cameras and telephone instruments in their possession. All pigeons in the town have been killed to prevent their being employed as messengers by the people. In occupying Noyon, the Germans have attempted to strip the place thoroughly of everything of value. Their hospital ambulances, called 'lazarets,' are used to gather in the proceeds of their thefts.

"There is one at the theater, and others in the most important establishments. Here all that is collected by the soldiers each day is taken. The wine cellars have been emptied, it is said, and large quantities shipped to Germany. It has for days now been impossible for us to get a bottle of wine for our patients."

Retable in the Cathedral: Noyon

"In the great bombardment now going on of Noyon by the French endeavoring to drive out the enemy, the _faubourgs_ have suffered greatly; that of d'Amiens, the boulevards and the Rue d'Oroire particularly. The gas works and the depot are both destroyed, as well as the military casernes. I have heard the officers say how much they admire the French cannon, and the artillery corps. They frequently repeat in our hearing the ancient 'blague'--the Germans and the French should be friends--they will be sooner or later--they should unite for the good of humanity and for the downfall of England!--From officer to soldier this is the shibboleth. It does not ring true! Now and then there are visits from princes and dignitaries, accompanied by tremendous excitement and troops blazing with color, bands of music, and all intended to impress and encourage the dusty, dirty troops of soldiers who are continually coming from and going to the front, and lend a factitious animation to the town. Each day the German 'Etat Major' sends out the 'communiqués,' which are placarded all over town. The people of Noyon who remain pay little attention to them.

"They do, however, study and commit to memory the rules of circulation. For instance, it is dangerous for one to pass twice on any given day in the same street; to stand talking with a friend without plausible reason, or to go to the railway station or walk upon a public promenade without permission. In the evening all are ordered to be in the house by four o'clock. The town is plunged in inky darkness at night, for the gas house and works are destroyed. Those who must have light use candles, but the price of these has risen beyond all belief. All lights at night are carefully hidden by blinds and heavy curtains, for at the least ray of light seen by the German patrol, suspicion is cast upon the inmates, and a 'crime' of this sort invariably brings arrest and a night in confinement under guard at the 'post' or even the risk of being sent to Germany. I have seen young and old, a priest and a sacristan thus sent away.

"Often even a gesture misunderstood by a patrol results in the banishment of the offender over the border into Germany.

"The Mayor of Noyon has carried on the difficult tasks entrusted to him with great skill and remarkable courage. Many times his administrations have placed him in grave danger, but so far he has not suffered for his demands for justice towards his unfortunate fellow townsmen.

"Every Sunday mass is celebrated in the untouched part of the Cathedral. A Protestant service also is given following it. The troops attend in two detachments, and the sight of these two bodies at once in the Cathedral is sufficiently curious, and certainly most unusual.

"In the afternoon the officers arrange a sort of concert, at which artists who are unlucky enough to be here are expected to perform. These are usually melancholy affairs.

"When the town was first occupied by the Germans, in September, 1914, it was to the Cathedral that they sent their prisoners for confinement. The inhabitants were ordered to bring provisions for them, but were not allowed access to them. It was necessary to intrust the food they brought to the sentinels, and no one knows whether the food reached the poor prisoners or not.

"As for the Cathedral, I can say truly that the two great towers were constantly used by the German soldiers as posts of observation. Our glorious dead have been laid at rest at the foot of an immense cross erected outside the town.

"The Germans have prepared for their dead a large 'fosse' in the middle of a field. An armed picket guard assists at the interments of both French and Germans, at which military honors are scrupulously observed and given. These ceremonies, often under the heavy fire of the great guns of the French, have made an impression upon me that I shall never forget.

"The morning of the 17th of October, as I was engaged in renewing the dressing of a lieutenant s wounds, two German policemen brusquely entered, and called out 'Schwester Godfroy!'

"Hearing my name I turned and prepared to follow the two men, but these rough men, deeming my movements not quick enough, seized me by the arms and pushed me towards the stairs leading to my chamber. In the hallway I perceived my companions, each grasped by a 'gendarme.' An officer and five men pushed me with them into my chamber and locked the door; then these men, with a brutality impossible here to describe, ransacked my bed, ripped open the mattress and pillows, after which they turned the contents of my valise out on the floor, threw my clothing about; even breaking off the legs of my '_table de nuit_' to see if I had not letters or papers hidden therein. I kept my temper, remaining quiet.

"Seeing me so calm seemed to render them furious at finding nothing to incriminate me. My trunk in a corner of the room attracted their attention, and they roughly ordered me to open it. I made them understand that there was no key to it. One of them wrenched off the lid with his saber, to discover that the trunk was empty. They then questioned me minutely, after eyeing suspiciously several German newspapers lying on the table.

"'You speak German, and you refuse to admit it; but do not mistake--you and the others--we know you to be Belgians, and if you can get to Paris, it is not for the purpose of caring for the wounded...'

"This seemed so foolish to me that I refused to answer.

"For at least ten minutes they bent over my poor papers, my little souvenirs, and a piece of paper money which they examined minutely, thinking to find state secrets, I suppose.

"Afterwards, when they returned my money, they kept five or six letters which I had preserved and kept by me as dear relics, precious letters from my mother and sisters... Their gross impoliteness made no outward impression upon me, but the instant their attention was attracted from me, and they turned their heads in another direction, I threw adroitly in a corner of my valise, which remained open beside me, a small packet which I carried in the waist of my dress. In this I had written a sort of diary of my experiences since the beginning of the war, together with accounts given me by wounded Frenchmen of their personal impressions of the combats in which they had been wounded; a few sketches and such matters, all innocent of any military value, but which, if found upon me, would have but one quick result... I pushed the valise farther under the table with a stealthy movement of my foot. The men then left the room, shutting the door behind them. Almost instantly two horrible 'Schwestern' entered without knocking, and proceeded to undress me, examining even the lining of my clothes for concealed papers--Of course they found none. My companions suffered the same indignities at the hands of these horrible creatures, who seemed to us more brutes than women. When they had gone, and I was sure that no one observed, I again concealed the packet of papers in the waist of my dress as before."

Of her further adventures I can give no more here. She was taken away from Noyon shortly after the experience just related and sent to a detention camp of Holzminden in Germany with her companion nurses. Her experiences there were remarkable, and after serving with faithfulness until the following April, she was sent to Rastadt, the fortress, from which she obtained permission to leave, and return to Noyon by way of Switzerland. She finishes by writing: "Now, after more than a year has passed, I am once more in our dear little cottage, among those whom I had thought and feared never to see again. Alas--the war continues. Certainly I dreamed that war was very different from what I found it to be, and if my health returns to me, as I hope, I shall resume my work. I have seen the soldiers in the midst of battle at the front; I have attended them in the ambulances with undreamed of wounds; I have listened to and received their agonized confidences, and attended them to the end. They are all heroes to me... I have known them in captivity, famished for food, insulted, brutalized by their captors. Our brave boys!

"Their courage, the grandeur of their souls, their indifference to pain in the face of duty, imparts to me something of their courage which inspires me.

"A country defended by such an army has no right to doubt final victory.

"(Signed) Leonie Godfroy."

Hotel de Ville: Noyon

One revolts at these terrible pictures and accounts of the ravages of war in this former peaceful town, now so ravaged by the German army. Its picturesque town hall with the emblazoned coat of arms below the turret, where those flocks of white pigeons paraded the coping, cooing in the sunshine--now a mass of blackened ruin, behind a vast hole in the ground in what was once the town square, marking where one of the great shells fell and burst; and the shattered towers of the gray old Cathedral, the roof of which is gone, leaving the debris filled interior open to the rainy gray cloudy sky. Where now are the throngs of happy, apparently care-free peasants who thronged the "place" before the flag-hung old Town Hall that morning we last saw it in September, 1910?...

The Patron Saints' day--a day dear to the peasants. This festival which takes place but once a year, is an event in the peasant's life. On this day he invites his friends and his relatives to his house, each in turn. In such communities throughout France, where the church still preserves authority, the priest earnestly endeavors to protect the peasants from the wiles and temptations of sin--this is one of the few days when dancing is allowed. Thus in each section of the country or province the occasion is given a different name, although the circumstances of its celebration do not differ greatly.

In the North of France the day is known under the name of "La Dricasse," in the East as "La Rapport," in Savoy as the "Vogue"; in Touraine as the "Assemblée"; as the "Ballade" in Poitou; as the "Frairie" in Angoumois; and as the "Pardon" in Brittany.

The day before the fête, long lines of wagons with peddlers and mountebanks arrived in the "place" and each took up its station upon a position marked out with white stones, according to whatever license has been allotted to the showman at the Town Hall. There was no disorder whatever, no dispute with the _Sergeant de Ville_, whose word is law. The wagons were unpacked in the light of flaring naphtha torches under the excited eyes of the gamins who formed a wondering, pushing ring about the workmen until driven away by the police.

One may believe that during that night the peasants slept lightly for thinking of the joys of the feasting and dancing of the morrow. At dawn of day the chimes in the cathedral awakened them. Soon they thronged the streets, the men dressed in new blouses, or treasured wedding coats, the girls all in unaccustomed finery of stiff skirts and Sunday headdress.

All go to mass on a day of this sort as a sacred duty. The old Cathedral was crowded to the doors with the people; sitting and standing. Late comers fared badly and remained at the porch. Even there, they knelt piously at their devotions.

But it seemed to us that the whole congregation was nervously excited and impatient to be gone. We could not hear the words of the priest's sermon, but undoubtedly he counseled them to keep sober and to beware of the attractiveness of sin.

When the Amen was chanted how quickly the peasants left the old church! How they hastened to the square, where already flags were flying all about, and where the mountebanks were shouting out the attractions of their tented shows; where the booths displayed their attractive collections of brassy jewelry; and the firemen were gathered bravely in their brazen horsehair-plumed helmets, all ranged about the absurd diminutive fire pump, two feet in height and mounted on four twelve-inch scarlet wheels. How innocent, even pathetically ludicrous it seemed, yet what a charm it all had for us.

Everything was calculated to attract and excite the desires of these simple people, who know nothing of the luxuries to which free born Americans are so accustomed.

Here in the open square sharp-eyed Semitic merchants from Paris unpacked their paniers and heavy cases of cheap clothing, gaudy ribbons and flimsy varnished furniture, over which the women and girls crowded and pushed excitedly, fingering their lean purses, containing their hard earned "francs," and eagerly bargaining for the usually worthless articles. The "barkers" called out loudly the merits of the shows, before which, on elevated board platforms, hard faced girls in tights and motley clad buffoons paraded. Tinsel and glitter never failed to attract the peasant, and the clashing cymbal and the loudly beaten drum gives him delight.

Here, before the old Town Hall, built three centuries ago, a modern moving picture tent was set up, with a large sign over it reading thus: "Cinema--Américain. Phonograph--Edison. Entree f. 1.50"--but the peasants did not yet know what this meant and they seemed dubious about it. The fortune teller, however, was highly successful, and his long green canvas covered wagon was surrounded by an eager waiting crowd of women; the men did not seem to care for it.

An itinerant quack dentist, in a magnificently varnished open carriage hung with flags and diplomas from the "Crowned Heads of Europe," was extracting "an aching tooth," from the mouth of a frightened boy, who leaped away from the carriage, as the quack held up the offending tooth in a glittering forceps before the astonished eyes of the peasants. Spitting out blood, the boy, holding his jaw in his hands, and surrounded by other admiring "gamins," went away behind the back of a cart; following him I was just in time to see him display a bright new one franc piece to the others who were grouped about him. They all jumped away at my approach.

"Did your teeth ache badly?" I asked him.

"No, M'sieur, not at all, but he offered me one good silver franc for it, and _Mère de Dieu_, what would you?--a franc is a franc--and I have plenty of teeth left!"

In the gorgeous carriage stood the loud mouthed "quack" flourishing the teeth in the silver plated forceps, and calling for "amateurs" to come forward and have their teeth out.

There were booths filled with sweets about which the children lingered most longingly, and others where "fritters" were cooked in evil smelling grease, which were eagerly bought and consumed in large quantities by the young fellows and their girls.

The various small inns and drinking-places were filled to suffocation the whole day long. From the open windows and doors came the sounds of loud singing, mingled with the raucous tones of barrel organs, and the jingling of glasses and bottles. There was much shouting and laughing on the part of the peasants, who on ordinary occasions are serious enough, if not morose. That night the festival was in full swing. The two large "merry-go-rounds" with their gaudily painted wooden lions, tigers, and horses, were whirling about in blazing circles laden with excited boys and screaming girls, to the groaning strains of large barrel organs, filling the air with noise. These merry-go-rounds were ornamented thickly with squares and diamonds of mirror glass, and these made a magnificent whirling show in the square. There was, too, the town orchestra vainly endeavoring to play the popular music, and finally there were some sputtering fireworks, followed by a speech by the Mayor, and a "retraite aux Flambeaux," consisting of a dozen firemen with oil lamps, which, preceded by a drum corps, made the round of the adjacent streets.

After seeing this we returned to our little Hôtel du Nord, for it was near to midnight, but all night long the festivities went on in the square, and in the small dancing halls.

We thought it all most quaint, even somewhat pathetic then.

But the act of the aggressor which has swept away this pretty little town, leaving nothing but blackened, fire-eaten walls, and driving a simple innocent people into exile is nothing short of a crime against humanity.

Of the ruin wrought in the neighborhood of Noyon and Lassigny by the Teutons before they abandoned this part of their line a correspondent (_Le Matin_, Paris) states that it is difficult to speak without entering into details of the most sordid character.

What were once charming streets in Lassigny are now covered with masses of rubbish discarded by the Germans when they plundered the city. The beautiful old fifteenth century church, which was the Mecca for thousands of sightseers in times before the war, has been reduced to a heap of stones. Along the road from Lassigny to Noyon the spectacle of ruin is the same. Suzoy and many small villages were too far from the French lines to be damaged by the heavy artillery fire, but they bear, nevertheless, many traces of the barbarian rage. All furniture that could not be carried off by the Germans was battered and broken to prevent its use even for firewood.

Much of it was piled in heaps along the road and burned to ashes. In some parts of the road the French found carts loaded with household furniture which the Germans in their haste were unable to move or burn. Farm implements, curtains, carpets and most of the household goods of the villages were smashed and in some cases covered with offal.

At Noyon the houses have suffered comparatively little damage. The most noticeable wreckage was done in the vicinity of the bridges which had been blown up to prevent and delay pursuit. At some places the Germans exploded bombs and mines in the middle of the roadway, causing immense holes and ridges. The Cathedral is ruined; likewise the notable and remarkable old Town Hall, but the quaint old fountain in the Square has by some good fortune escaped damage. In March, 1917, on their departure from Noyon, the Germans delegated a staff of officers to visit the different banks in the town.

Several prominent citizens were brought along to accelerate the work of pillage, and the officers compelled the opening of all safes. Even the minute objects whose chief value lay in sentimental attachment were taken by the Germans.

Securities, jewelry and silver in the banks, amounting to $500,000 approximately, were taken before the town was evacuated.

M. Poiret, mayor of the village of Pimpres, who was separated from his family two years ago, and compelled to remain at Noyon, says of his treatment by the Germans: "The humiliations we had to put up with are indescribable. During the last few weeks our physical discomforts became unbearable. There was neither meat, nor coal, nor vegetables, nor fat. In addition the Germans cut all the mains, so that we had no gas. They were constantly requisitioning what little we had. They took even the bells from the ruins of the Cathedral, and the old Town Hall, and last week the great organ in the church (Sainte Chapelle of the old Bishop's Palace) was removed.

"We were joyous when we heard that the Germans were preparing to leave on Friday night. We were told to remain indoors on penalty of being shot if we stirred outdoors.

"During the night the Germans blew up mines in the streets and dammed up the river Verse so as to flood the town. The evacuation began the following night (Saturday) and was finished by daybreak.

"On Sunday at 11 o'clock the sight of French cavalry coming up the street toward my house was the most 'gorgeous' spectacle I have seen for more than two years."

During the nights of March 16 and 17, two companies of German infantry arrived at the village of Ham, where there was a famous château (tenth century) of the Counts of Vermandois and later of the family of Coucy. The infantry remained until the following day, pillaging systematically, under orders of their officers, everything in the neighborhood.

The ancient Château of Coucy furnished them with considerable valuable booty, and here four officers burned and broke up all the furniture they could not carry away. The château was in the form of a rectangle flanked at each corner by a round tower, and with great square towers on the north and east. The round tower at the northeast angle which rose from the canal was the work of Louis de Luxembourg in 1490. and was called the "Tour du Connetable," and bore above the portal the motto of its founder, "Mon Myeul." Its walls were of tremendous thickness and strength. The whole lower story was an immense hall of hexagonal form, and it had a number of strange pits, called furnaces, which were to be used to blow up the castle in case of capture. In this château many notable personages had been confined; for instance, Jeanne d'Arc; Condé, the Huguenot leader; Jacques Cassard of Nantes; and Prince Napoleon, after his failure and capture at Boulogne in 1840. This great and historical château they wantonly destroyed; after sacking it they blew it up with cases of explosives placed in the walls.

The officers took away from their sleeping quarters in the town all chairs, bed clothing and even the smallest toilet articles. Some of the soldiers excused their acts to the townspeople by informing them that all this was done "by order of the Emperor."

General von Fleck, commanding officer of the army corps stationed at Ham, took everything in the house he occupied from the cellar to the roof, using a wagon to carry away the objects. "After the wagon had gone with the last chair in the house, the general found himself in need of one on which to write a letter, so an orderly was dispatched to get one at the Mairie."

MEAUX

|THE little town of Meaux on the banks of the Marne is only thirty miles or so from Paris, and was remarkable for its old mills on the bridge over the river bed, behind the Hôtel de Ville, as well as for the beautiful cathedral of St. Etienne. The beauties of the town could best be appreciated from the shady walk along the river side. Here were great shade trees overhanging the roadway, through the branches of which one got glimpses of the cream colored tower of the old cathedral, above the red tiled roofs of the town, all against a summer sky of pale blue.

Upon reaching the town, there were the two bridges over the Marne, both of them covered with some old mills with high wooden walls and quaint buttresses; almost theatrical and unbelievable in these practical days.

The town had about twelve or thirteen thousand inhabitants, and was busied with a trade in grain. Some rather handsome boulevards seemed entirely out of key with the rest of the town, but there were the remains of an ancient chateau of the Counts of Flanders, built during the thirteenth, or maybe the twelfth century, accounts differ, which seemed much more in keeping with the place, and a most delightful little hotel called the "_Trois Rois_" from which it was hard to get away, so ideal were its comforts, and so moderate its charges.

Meaux, says history, was the refuge of the noble ladies of France in the Jacquerie revolts of the thirteenth century, when the horrors of the rebel persecutions at Beauvais commenced. Once having reached the shelter of its walls, they dared not leave, and remained prisoners until the terror ended. Here remained the Duchesses of Orléans and Normandy among others no less famous and prominent, so that intrepid warrior, the Captai de Buch, accompanied by the Earl of Foix, gathered together a force of armed men for their rescue.

All the roads leading to the town, from Paris, from Beauvoisie, from Valois, were filled with bands of peasantry, all bound for the town, which they had heard contained great treasure. Arriving at Meaux, de Buch and Foix were welcomed with great joy, for the peasants had begun to pillage wherever they could. Then ensued a great slaughter in which the marauding peasants were rounded up and killed like rats by the armed warriors. "They flung them in great heaps into the river. In short, they killed upwards of seven thousand; not one would have escaped if they had chosen to pursue them."

Meaux, too, is famous for a great siege during the wars of Henry V, when he camped before the town walls in 1421. Monstrelet says, "The King of England was indefatigable in the siege of Meaux, and having destroyed many parts of the walls of the market place, he summoned the garrison to surrender themselves to the King of France and himself, or he would storm the place. To this summons they replied that it was not yet time to surrender, on which the King ordered the place to be stormed. The assault continued for seven or eight hours, in the most bloody manner; nevertheless, the besieged made a most obstinate defense, in spite of the great numbers that were attacking them. Their lances had been almost all broken, but in their stead they made use of spits, and fought back with such courage that the English were driven back from the ditches, which encouraged them much."

Eventually, however, not receiving help from the Dauphin, upon which they had counted, they capitulated to Henry's soldiers.

Under the treaty which followed, they agreed: "On the 11th day May, the market place, and all Meaux was to be surrendered into the hands of the Kings of France and England."

As a warning to the people against further insurrection the leader, one Vauras, "the bastard," who had in his career killed many English and Burgundians, was hanged, drawn, and quartered before the walls of the town.

After this, King Henry, who was very proud of his victory, entered the town in great pomp and splendor, remaining for some days with his princes and attendants, and left after giving orders that the town walls should be rebuilt and all other damages repaired.

The ancient building called the "Evêché" near the cathedral was the residence of Bossuet, the famous preacher, in 1681. He was nicknamed the "Aigle de Meaux," and renowned for his eloquence, even at a time when France was rich in such genius. Bossuet stood head and shoulders even above such contemporaries as Mas-silon and Bourdaloue, Arnauld, Fleury, and Fénelon. It was really he who established the privileges and liberty of the Gallican church.

Here in the little green garden behind the gray walls of the "Evêché," he sat, mused, and wrote his essays upon the encroachments of Papacy, which destroyed the remnants of Pope Innocent's power in France.

In his later years he remained in seclusion here at Meaux, leading the life of a simple parish priest, and here he died "full of honors and beloved by all," and was buried in the church in 1704. A handsome statue by Ruxtiel was erected in his honor on the south side of the choir.

Old Mills: Meaux

Here, too, was a fine kneeling statue of Philip of Castile, dated 1627.

But the great point of attraction for the stranger at Meaux was the bridge and the old timbered mills which overhung it, and the curious greeny water of the river Marne.

I could not ascertain what gave the water its green color; it did not seem natural, yet there were apparently no dye works near at hand--none of the inhabitants whom I questioned seemed able to answer my question; they had never noticed it, they said.

The morning upon which I made my sketches of the ancient mills and the old bridges, there were two of them over the river, the sky suddenly darkened, and a heavy shower of rain fell. I took refuge in the open doorway of one of the old mills, and sat on the lower step of a ruinous dusty steep stairway leading upwards into mysterious deep shadows. Somewhere in the interior sounded the rhythmic beating of heavy machinery, but save for this, the "drumming fingers of the rain," and an occasional tinkle of a bell high up in the tower of the cathedral, there were no signs or sounds of life. Meaux is not a large town, neither is it a very lively one, but it is charmingly situated. Were it farther away from Paris, I doubt not that it might attract the tourist, for it has a most delightful public promenade along the river Marne which is entered immediately before the railway station. But up to the time of the outbreak of the great world war, Meaux was comparatively unknown to the foreigner tourist, and were it not for the old mills of which I had heard, I should not have stopped there. The cathedral treasury possessed copies of nine of Raphaël's cartoons, and included two of the three "lost" ones, described as "Martyrdom of St. Stephen and Conversion of St. Paul." There were also copies of frescoes by Guido Reni and Dominichino, an "Adoration of the Magi" after Champaigne and an "Annunciation" after Stella. I had made notes concerning these in my pocket diary and as I sat on the step in the old doorway of the dusty mill, I mused over the pages while the raindrops fell outside.

All at once the door swung to slowly, and when I tried to open it, I found that it was fast and would not yield. There was no sort of knob visible in the gloom, nor was there any aperture in the door through which light could come. There seemed to be light somewhere above, so I mounted the steps, which stopped abruptly before another closed door which, however, was not fastened, for it yielded at once to my touch. There was a small window here of four panes thick with dust, through which some feeble light came. More steep steps led upward, and I continued to mount, judging that I should soon come to some sort of room where there were men at work.

But at the top of these stairs was a similar door and more steps, and still another flight brought me into an immense empty room with an uneven floor, the planks of which were loose here and there and gave alarmingly to my weight. Overhead huge beams crossed and recrossed the dimness, and on these beams perched countless numbers of rooks, who uneasily regarded my intrusion. The windows--there were five of them--I could not reach from the floor, nor could I by jumping up, try as I might, reach the sills, so that I might see out. Backwards and forwards I passed, and then along the blank wall which I judged adjoined the neighboring mill, seeking a doorway. I could find none. Finally I found a small door, not more than three feet from the floor in the blank wall. This was fastened by a hasp and opened readily. I got down on my hands and knees in the dust which lay thickly, and crept through it into a second large dim room, almost the counterpart of that which I had just left, save that it was lighted by only one window and this without glass. It, too, was high up in the wall like the others.

In the very middle of the uneven floor was an unguarded opening through which the heavy ropes of a pulley hung. I lost no time in feeling my way carefully down the steps at one side which were without any rail to hold on to. I found that there was a ladder here by which I might descend, which I did at once, but with some misgivings as to where it might land me.

Now I heard voices from below and, reassured, I put foot to the ladder. In a few moments I was on the floor below, but as I was about to walk away from the ladder in the darkness towards an opening on the farther end, I bethought me to put out a foot carefully to try the floor. To my horror there was no floor there, and retreating I lighted a match and threw it before me. The feeble flame was enough to show a great black chasm where I had thought to step a moment before, and the hair on my scalp rose in fright at my escape. I shouted aloud for help--I heard running footsteps--and right beside me a door opened letting in a flood of daylight and the figure of one of the millers, who regarded me with openmouthed astonishment, as well he might.

When I had explained my predicament, he and the other men who gathered about were loud in their expressions of wonder at my escape from a terrible death, for had I but stepped a foot farther, I had fallen forty or fifty feet into a sluiceway from which they vowed I never could have escaped alive. I invited all hands over to the café, and there I gave offerings to Bacchus in honor of my escape which were eagerly consumed by the millers of Meaux.

Cathedral: Meaux

M. Georges Montorgueil, writing in "La Cités Meurtries, 1916," his account of the early days of terror in Meaux, gives a picture of the old priest who so devotedly and courageously shepherded his little flock of women and children, helpless before the invasion and destruction of the town by the Germans:

"Where, meanwhile, was the venerable priest, an old man of seventy-five years, the Abbé Fossin, whose age and gray hairs was no protection, to him, nor the eighteen unfortunates who were seized with him by the Germans and thrown into jail, under the most atrocious circumstances, not matched by any of its most ancient barbarities when the Germans were known as 'Huns.'

"The Abbé Fossin kept a Journal of events during the tragic hours preceding his arrest:

"'5th of September, 1914. Saturday.

"'I read my breviary. An aéroplane passed above my head. The bodies of two pilots killed by a bomb were taken to the cemetery. A group of captured French soldiers are passing. "L'église en ambulance." The prisoners of Guerard have gone. All the electric lights in the town are out.

"'6th September. Sunday.

"'A bad night. Impossible to say Mass or hold funeral of the two aviators in the cemetery because of the falling shells. The cannonade began at nine o'clock and lasted until five o'clock without interruption. We are under a very rain of fire! The batteries of the Germans, placed behind the presbytery, have been located by the English. I believe my last hour has arrived. The din is frightful! I have thanked God that I am protected.

"'7th September. Monday.

"'The battle has recommenced. Still impossible to say the Holy Mass. I paid a visit to the Germans in the Church. These are the most terribly wounded. They gave me their hands. They are badly off. I cannot give them bread; all I had, all the fruits of my garden have disappeared! I have nothing left!--'

"The diary ends here. Here was a holy man of venerable years of known truth and great charity, visiting his enemies to give them what he had, his prayers. He had nothing else to give. He was fatigued for lack of sleep. He was hungry, but he had nothing to eat. All he had in his meager house and small garden had been either taken away or destroyed. Witness now his recompense: less than an hour after he had written those last notes in his diary, the Germans had seized and dragged him before a wrathful German officer.

"He was charged with having climbed the tower of the cathedral to signal to the British lines. He who so suffered from rheumatism that he could hardly walk from his doorway to the church, a few paces away, by the aid of a cane. He was insulted by the officer, the soldiers who held him up before his questioner spat in his face. At length his shoes and clothes were stripped from him, and with great brutality he was thrown into a cellar, where he spent the night, with some potato bags to cover him. In the morning the door above was flung open, and a number of captives were thrown down the steep steps of the cellar way. These were Milliardet, Jourdin, Vapaille, Therré, Croix, Eugene Leriche, Lacour, Jules Denis, Berthelemy Denis, Merillon, Combes, Mesnil, Liévin, Faure and his son, aged fifteen, who was baker's boy in the village of Vareddes, and known under the nickname of 'Marmiton.'

"To this group the Germans added later in the day Paul Lebel and Vincent Denis, arrested because the latter called out to a German soldier, 'Eh, well, old man, you are not yet at Paris!'

"On Saturday, without feeding them or allowing any one to visit them, all these unfortunates were divided into several groups, and surrounded by soldiers, hustled along the road to Lizy-sur-Ourcy, where they were halted.

"They numbered now fifteen in all, not counting the old priest, the Abbé Fossin.

"Père Leriche, who was himself seventy-four years old, relates that the Abbé, who lay prostrate on the ground beside him, said to him in a low voice, 'I believe that they are going to shoot me--take my watch and breviary, and try and get them to my family.' When the march was resumed the Abbé could not walk fast enough to suit the soldiers. He was pushed and struck by them, his soutane was torn to ribbons. Finally they threw him into a wagon which they seized on the road. In this he lay groaning. He died a short time later, and was left beside the road. The heat was atrocious; thus they marched, the younger ones sustaining the elders, through the long hours to the rear, without water or food, insulted and beaten constantly by their captors.

"At Coulomb, Père Jourdain fell in the road, unable to continue the march. He was immediately dispatched by a revolver shot.

"At Chézy-en-Orxois, another old man, Milliardet, eighty years old, was similarly disposed of. Any complaint was the signal of death. Both Terry and Croix were shot for whistling.

"Old Eugene Menie, who halted on the edge of a deep ditch, was struck by the butt of a gun in the hands of one of the soldiers, and his neck broken--they threw him into the ditch and went on.

"Père Liévin, aged sixty-one, who had heart disease, could not keep step with the others; he was purple in the face, and his eyes stuck out so comically that it amused the soldiers, who finally shot him and left his body at the cemetery gate in Chauny."

These are only haphazard extracts from the records of that terrible month of September, 1914, when unfortunate Meaux was the very center of affairs. Elsewhere we read of the aspects of the streets after each successive bombardment, the telegraph hanging in festoons on the footways, the trunks of huge trees felled by cannon barring the way; the carcasses of animals lying about amid strange débris, such as heavy leather shoes, broken guns, sticks and barrels, empty tin cans, torn and ragged clothing clotted with blood, strange piles of still smoking ashes containing small bones, and over all the odor of burning petroleum.

The houses with wide open doors and sashless window frames; gardens uprooted and despoiled; walls thrown down, and strewn about an immense quantity of broken glass bottles. These were the streets of Meaux, which I had explored on that peaceful morning in August, 1910, and made the sketches of the old bridge with its clustered mills, the fire blackened beams now hanging in grotesque ruins over the water of the little green river.

The bombardment began on Monday, the 7th of September, 1914. The first of the German shells fell upon the town at eleven in the morning, in the direction of the fauburg St.-Nicholas, then in the fauburg St.-Faron.

The bombardment followed the line of the railway. In the cemetery the ancient tombs were scattered in all directions; ten shells destroyed the hospital. The Grand Seminary fell next. Of the one hundred and twenty shells which on this Monday fell in the town, the first five did the greatest damage. Whole lines of houses were thrown down and set on fire. This lasted until six in the afternoon. The next day shells began to fall again in the early morning. The cathedral was encircled by shells, which did great damage, but by a special Providence with the exception of an enormous hole in the roof, and the destruction of the venerable cloisters, the ancient cathedral escaped the fate of its neighbors.

This is the chronology: Wednesday, September 2, the exodus; Thursday, the town lay deserted and helpless; Friday, the organization of all the available defensive forces; Saturday and Sunday, the battle; Monday, the bombardment; Tuesday, the enemy driven off, and the town saved.

SENLIS

|FROM the railway station one could see the towers of the cathedral and the old church of St. Pierre, above the heavy trees of a short avenue which led to that part of the town, where formerly stood the old ramparts--and to the Porte Royale.

The best and most picturesque part of the town, of interest to the antiquary, was the western end, and here were tortuous and delightful crooked narrow streets, quaint little gabled houses, old mossy walls surrounding luxuriant gardens, and some remains of the remarkable chateaux of a bygone period.

Ancient stronghold in past centuries, it had become a little old sleepy town given over to churches and the priesthood. Of the ancient Gallo-Roman fortifications there were still to be seen, up to the outbreak of the war in 1914, sixteen of the Roman towers in a fair state of preservation. A small river, the Nonette, passes through it, winding most exquisitely. Situated some thirty-five miles from Paris, and on the edge of the Champagne district, its character could be best appraised from the charming public promenade along the river's bank, lined with fine trees and offering vistas of great picturesqueness.

The old cathedral dates back to the early days of the thirteenth century; its lace-like gray tower, covered with exquisite Gothic ornamentation, was a source of delight to artists and antiquarians. Usually covered with scaffolding, the tower was in a constant state of repair, but the spidery scaffolding seemed not at all to detract from the charm of its lines.

One of the architects in charge explained that the vaulting and the first stage of the choir, the "triform ambulatory" had been removed because of cracks developing in the masonry, but this alteration did not seem to have resulted in any loss to the interior artistically. Indeed, as it stood in 1910, the choir elevation was a most exquisite example of thirteenth century construction and design.

Ancient Ramparts: Senlis

Lying in the midst of the great forest lands of Chantilly and Hallette, Senlis, until the dissolution of the Carlo-vingian Empire, was the place of royal residence, and even thereafter, to the time of Henry of Navarre, the kings of France preferred it to all others. The Castle was built upon the site of the Roman Prætorium, the ruins of which were pointed out to tourists. The ancient Roman ramparts which still in part surrounded the town were also shown, and the walls were said to be thirteen feet thick. "They enclosed an area, oval in form, one thousand and twenty feet long from east to west and seven hundred and ninety-four feet wide from north to south. At each of the angles formed by the broken lines of which the circuit of two thousand seven hundred and fifty-six feet is composed, stands or stood a tower; numbering twenty-eight and now only sixteen, they are semicircular in plan, and up to the height of the wall are unpierced. The Roman city had only two gates; the present number is five."

The old cathedral was both curious and fascinating, as well as of great beauty. Begun in 1154 on really enormous lines, its original plan was never carried out for want of funds. Century after century it had been rebuilt, altered, extended and replanned, until it had become, as an American architect of renown styled it, "an epitome of French architecture from the middle of the twelfth to the middle of the fifteenth century."

Its companion unfinished, the great southwest tower is of the thirteenth century, and is said to be "unsurpassed by no other spire in France for subtlety of composition and perfection of detail."

One of its beautiful "crocketed" pinnacles was shot away in the bombardment by the Germans in 1915, and the loss left the world poor indeed.

It is certainly a strange sensation for us to watch from a distance the continuous destruction of the great works of art of the world, powerless to prevent it. For us all this loss is personal, poignant, unexampled; a horror that nothing can palliate nor time soften.

The ancient Renaissance tower of St. Pierre had been used as a public market, and also as a cavalry barrack because of its ruinous state. In form it was most curious, being very short and too wide for proportion. While the prevailing style was flamboyant, it contained a certain amount of early Gothic work of considerable interest and value. I regret that I did not make a sketch of it when I was there, for the scene at early morning with the crowds of market people, and the vegetable stalls all about, and rising above them the bare gray walls of the nave and the choir, formed a picture of much quaintness.

The glory of the old cathedral of "Notre Dame" was the beautiful spire upon the southwest tower. Of infinite grace and lightness with its detached pillars, it rose from an octagonal base which supported a sort of canopy in pyramidal form, the whole adorned with a wealth of delicate carving and tracery, and pierced by high dormer lancet shaped windows, about which flew clouds of ravens or starlings.

The great door in the west front reminded one of that at Chartres, and was adorned with figures of Our Lord and the Virgin, some of the figures of the angels being of remarkable character and grace. Inside in the ambulatory, behind the altar, are some of the twelfth century Romanesque capitals, and elsewhere are found other evidences of Roman influence.

All accounts agree that this beautiful edifice has now been entirely destroyed by the invader (1917).