ANYTHING FOR BREAD
TheUhlans are no longer a novelty, they are a frightful bore. One cannot take two steps outside the village without a soldier in that grey-greeny-blue uniform popping up from behind a tree or appearing as if marionetted down from the cloudless sky. Whenever I see one I have to repress a devouring wish to run.
The war has already taught me one lesson. That there is nothing more dangerous than a frightened soldier. The funk of a scared German oozes into his rifle—not his boots....
All the roads from the frontier, in fact the entire Ardennes are being patrolled by these creatures. To-day we have had armoured cars passing to and fro at break-neck speed, manned by soldiers and positively bristling with rifles.
Boom—boom—boom! It has been going on all day and all night, for the last three days and nights—that horrible cannon at Liège. Madame Job can hardly drag herself down this morning. She feels that each sound may mean the annihilationof her dear Albert.MlleIrma is crying gently too. My soup is decidedly watery and my omelette impossible. C’est la guerre!
A straggling procession of women visits the inn. Most of them have baskets. They have walked many miles in the burning heat. They need bread. Alas! Albert in the fort there below has other things than baking to think about. Besides, there is very little flour. Only just enough for M. le Directeur, the château on the hill and ourselves.
Madame Job stands out in the street and wrinkles her forehead at the sight of the familiar words, “Boulangerie Lepouse.” She does not mind the villagers, but suppose the dreaded Uhlans interpret the sign. What will happen to those six black loaves so snugly concealed in the postmaster’s cupboard? M. Alfred mounts a ladder and sploshes out the offending letters till nothing but a few black smudges and a hooded cart in the backyard tell of their once thriving trade in bread.