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  SIX WOMEN AND THE INVASION




  MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
  London. Bombay. Calcutta. Madras
  Melbourne

  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  New York. Boston. Chicago
  Dallas. San Francisco

  THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
  Toronto




  SIX WOMEN
  AND THE INVASION

  BY
  GABRIELLE & MARGUERITE YERTA

  WITH PREFACE BY
  MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

  MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
  ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
  1917




  COPYRIGHT




PREFACE


This little book gives a very graphic and interesting account by an
eye-witness--who knows how to write!--of life in the occupied provinces
of France under the daily pressure of the German invasion. There are
many repulsive and odious incidents recorded here of the German
occupation, but, mercifully, few "atrocities," such as those which make
of the French Governmental Reports, or that of the Bryce Commission,
tales of horror and infamy that time will never wash out. These pages
relate to the neighbourhood of Laon, and the worst brutalities committed
by German soldiers in France seem to have happened farther south, along
the line of the German retreat during the battle of the Marne, and in
the border villages of Lorraine. But the picture drawn of the Germans in
possession of a French country district, robbing and bullying its
inhabitants, and delighting in all the petty tyrannies of their military
regime, is one that writes in large-hand the lesson of this war. "There
must be no next time!" If Europe cannot protect itself in future against
such conduct on the part of a European nation, civilisation is doomed.

And that this little book under-states the case rather than over-states
it, can be proved by a mass of contemporary evidence. I pass for
instance from Madame Yerta's graphic account of the endless
"requisitions," "perquisitions," "inquisitions," to which the
inhabitants of Morny in the Laonnois were subject in 1915, to a
paragraph in this week's _Morning Post_ (Tuesday, September 18), where a
letter found upon a German soldier, and written to a comrade in Flanders
from this very district, gleefully says: "We take from the French
population all their lead, tin, copper, cork, oil, candlesticks, kitchen
pots, or anything at all like that, which is sent off to Germany. I had
a good haul the other day with one of my comrades. In one walled-up room
we found fifteen copper musical instruments, a new bicycle, 150 pairs of
sheets, some towels, and six candlesticks of beaten copper. You can
imagine the kind of noise the old hag made who owned them. I just
laughed. The Commandant was very pleased."

No doubt the Commandant was of the same race as the Von Bernhausens or
the Bubenpechs, whom Madame Yerta pillories in these lively and
sarcastic pages. It would be too much indeed to expect that any
Frenchwoman who had passed through fifteen months of such a life should
write with complete impartiality of her temporary masters. She would be
less than human were it possible. Yet in the sketches of the two German
officers "Barbu" and "Crafleux," billeted on the "six women," there is
no more than a laughing malice, and an evident intention to be fair to
men who had no evident intention to be cruel. But of the bullying
Commandant, Lieutenant von Bernhausen, and of the officer, Lieutenant
Bubenpech, who succeeded him as the absolute master of the French
village which is the scene of the book, Madame Yerta gives us portraits
in which every touch bites. The drunken, sensual manners of such men,
combined with German conceit and German arrogance, make up a type of
character only too real, only too common, to which throughout the
districts where the Germans have passed, French experience bears
inexorable and damning witness.

It is clear, however, that these six brave women--Madame Valaine, her
four daughters and her daughter-in-law, the writer of the book--were
well able to take care of themselves. The tale of their courage, their
gaiety, their resource under the endless difficulties and petty
oppressions of their lot, lights up the miserable scene, kindling in the
reader the same longing for retribution and justice on a barbarian race,
as burnt in their French hearts.

Madame Yerta describes for us how neighbours helped each other, how they
met in the farm kitchens, behind their closed doors and windows, to pass
on such news as they could get, to pray for France, and scoff at the
invader; how they ingeniously hid their most treasured possessions, how
they went hungry and cold because the Germans had robbed them of food,
clothing and blankets--(they are doing it afresh at this very moment in
occupied France and Belgium!)--and how village and town alike would have
starved but for the Spanish-American Relief Commission.

The result is a typically French book, both in its lightness of touch
and in the passionate feeling that breaks through its pages. The old
Latin civilisation makes the background of it--with its deeply rooted
traditions, its gifts of laughter and of scorn, its sense of manners and
measure, its humanity, its indomitable spirit. When the writer at last,
after fifteen months of bondage, sees once more the fields of "la douce
France," she puts simply and sharply into words the thoughts and
sufferings of thousands--thousands of ill-treated, innocent and
oppressed folk--to whom, as we pray, the course of this just war will
before long bring comfort and release.

Her book deserves a wide audience, and will, I hope, find it.

                                                       MARY A. WARD.

  _September 1917._




CONTENTS


                       PAGE
    PART I.               1
    PART II.             67
    PART III.           241




PART I


"It is no longer the pillar of fire. It is the pillar of cloud, it is
the dark shadow of invasion that approaches."




CHAPTER I


As you know only too well, in the year 1914 war set Europe on fire. That
is to say, you the men made war, and we the women had but to comply. Let
us be honest and true: whereas you, heart of my heart, now gone to fight
for your country, wished for this contest with the enthusiasm, spirit,
and rage of youth, I wished for it too, but with terror, anguish, and
remorse. Such is the difference.

The Place? The Ile de France, the part of my country blessed among all,
sweeter to my eyes than the most loudly sung; and in the Ile de France,
Morny, a village of the Laonnois, situated on a level plain. At ten
miles' distance, to the west of Morny, Laon is perched on a steep low
hill. To the north, fields and meadows stretch out as far as the eye can
reach, and towards the south, the forest of St. Gobain makes a long dark
blot on the landscape; beyond, a blue line of mountains closes the
horizon like a wall. This peaceful scene, with its green meadows,
fertile fields, rich forests, villages nestling among orchards, with its
good-humoured tenants wrapt up in a love of their country, sums up the
treasures of the Ile de France. But it is also "the seasoning of the
French pie, this rotten ferment whose canker-like nature, frivolity,
inconstancy, and folly, have spread into the noblest parts of France."
You were not aware of this? No more was I, but I learned it from
Hummel's _Geography_, published in 1876 for "German families," and it is
a conviction that Teutonic babies imbibe with their mothers' milk.

The _dramatis personae_? Six women, I have said. My mother-in-law, her
four daughters, and I. Let me introduce them. Mme. Valaine, my
mother-in-law, charms by her gentle dignity and by her handsome face,
still young under waving grey hair. As to her daughters, when they all
were little girls in pinafores, an old woman once cried out at the sight
of their childish beauty, "One is prettier than another." To which my
husband--at that time a teasing schoolboy--retorted, "One is naughtier
than another." We do not believe this last assertion. I will only
maintain that their beauty has grown with them.

Genevieve, the eldest, is my favourite sister, another me; and for a
long while we have not been able to do without one another. A supple
shape, a lovely expressive face fringed with golden hair, clear eyes
between black eyelashes, added to a fine intellect and well-poised
faculties, make of her a privileged being. Her steadfast character
always deals straightforwardly, whereas mine, just as tenacious, does
not disdain manoeuvring.

Her sisters are tall and graceful. Yvonne has large black eyes, a tiny
mouth, and splendid golden locks. She is the musician of the family;
thinks nothing better in the world than the harmony of sweet sounds, and
lives only for her art. Antoinette bears proudly an imperial beauty and
a bachelor's degree, which she has recently carried off. As to Colette,
the pet child of the family, by turns charming and execrable, she counts
seventeen summers, and rejoices our eyes with the sweetest face ever
seen, a rose-bud complexion, and cornflower eyes.

Two representatives of the opposite sex intrude upon this company of
women. My husband first. He is the tallest, the handsomest of the sons
of men. "When I see him, I think I behold a young god," said one of our
friends a few years ago; and I shall not cheapen these terms of praise
by any description of him. If I confide to you that he is growing bald
on his temples, be sure you don't go and tell him so; the loss is due to
sojourns in Saigon and Panama; for this half of myself is a true
globe-trotter, and has seen the whole world--without me alas! He is a
man of great learning, and is deeply skilled in philology and theology.
Such as he is, I adore him, and think it better to own it honestly, for
fear my partiality might remain unperceived. The other specimen of the
sterner sex, with whom I have to deal here, is a small Parisian boy,
nine years old, owner of the most flippant tongue. By a stroke of
carelessness he was sent to us for a fortnight, and like many another
has now to stay as a prisoner on account of the Invasion.

Out of common politeness I have not yet mentioned my own person. The
task of describing it is hateful. Of this self fortunately there is not
much--fifty kilos at the utmost. In other words, I am slender. I have a
pink and white complexion and very long auburn hair, a small
insignificant nose, a large mouth, and serious eyes. I am generally
called "Grandmother," in memory of a time when we acted _Little Red
Riding Hood_. My husband always calls me Mr. Monkey, your Poisonous
Ladyship, or Mrs. Kid, vexatious names, truly, for a woman. We live in
Paris the greater part of the year, but it is with pleasure that the
whole family meets every summer in our country-house at Morny, to spend
its holidays.

When, about the 20th of July 1914, Genevieve, Yvonne and I arrived in
the dear old place, my husband and Colette had been enjoying it for a
fortnight; my mother-in-law and Antoinette were expected shortly. We had
taken with us little Pierre Prat, whose mother, a good friend of ours,
could not leave Paris for the present, and the health of the interesting
boy required the country. We had hardly exchanged the usual kisses, and
renewed our knowledge of the place, we were hardly seated at the
dinner-table, when Colette cried out: "Oh, grandmother, how lovely!
Fancy, there will be a war. The day it is declared I shall dress like a
boy and become a soldier!"

"Of course, you will cut your beautiful locks, besmear your cheeks, and
there you are. But tell me in earnest, Posy, do you think there will be
a war?"

I suppose my husband has a name of his own, but no one knows it. For the
whole family he is "Brother," and I call him "Posy."

Now Mr. Posy thought war unavoidable, and began to expound the reasons
that strengthened his opinion.

A little tired of the journey, happy to be again in the country, I
listened to the deep sounds of the dear voice I had not heard for the
last fortnight, but gave little heed to the meaning of his words.
Besides, I was so sure there would be no war at all! We began to lead a
blissful life; we enjoyed walks in the large garden, and praised the sun
and the green. What delightful holidays we would have! The mere thought
of it led to lyrism. O Nature! O Idyll! O blessed rest!

At first nothing happened to trouble our peace. It will be remembered
that the newspapers were rather encouraging. Optimism prevailed; my
husband alone talked of an impending conflict; but he wished it so
eagerly that I thought he might be mistaken in his prophecies. "War is
talked of every year," I said; "it is but a summer topic."

On the 26th of July there were alarming rumours, confirmed the day
after. We then began to talk of war, to talk always about that, to talk
of nothing else. Colette herself held no other conversation, and from
her crimson lips dropped no other words than mobilisation, armament,
concentration.

I shall never forget the night when troops crossed the village. I saw
war that night, war, the man-eater, the great killer, war himself. The
hour was grave. France was preparing to withstand her enemies, and was
sending her armies to protect the frontiers. Troops marched through the
village the whole night. First came the foot soldiers, who filed off to
the strains of the "Marseillaise" and the "Chant du Depart." Leaning out
of my window, in a nightgown, I tried to catch sight of something, and I
saw only a black flood, endlessly rolling on. The sight of this dark
mass which marched on and sang was striking indeed. The young voices had
an accent of resolution and rage, and gave the impression that all
hearts throbbed as if by one impulse. The men knew they were marching on
to death, and they sang as the volunteers of '92 may have sung.
Sometimes there was silence, and nothing was to be heard save the sound
of steps as rhythmical as a heavy shower.

As the first battalion passed, my husband laid his book aside, lifted up
his head, and declared: "There can be no more doubt of it now." And
resuming his Henri Houssaye and his cigarette, he buried himself again
in his reading. I was not so easily resigned to the situation. A
certitude had seized upon me too. "It is war." I was trembling like a
leaf, shaken by the wind, and I could not master my emotion. I was not
frightened, I felt easy in my mind, but my body--was it due to primeval
memory, to misgivings, or to the terrible thought that has been handed
down from wars of yore? I do not know--but my frightened body was
trembling convulsively.

When I was not leaning out of the window, I thought, lying by the side
of my husband: "War is coming, may God protect us!" I clasped his dear
head in despair, I kissed him in an agony, and said over and over again:
"War will carry him off." And I thought: "All over France the roads are
covered with troops, and thousands of women, close to the man they love,
are listening to the steps of the soldiers and the rumbling of the
cannon; broken-hearted, they kiss an adored face, and with bitter tears
repeat: 'War will carry him off!'"

Cavalry followed infantry; then came gunners, cannon, and powder-carts.
The heavy pieces rolled on with the noise of thunder, and shook the
house to its foundations. It was about three o'clock in the morning. A
cold mist fell as if reluctantly from the cloudy sky. The night was less
dark, and the moving forms passed slowly like shadows before my sight,
horses, cannon, and gunners wrapt up in their cloaks. Dark in the dark
haze, the outlines of men and animals seemed to sketch a new dance of
death, in the midst of which the grim monster might have appeared at
any moment. I was so deeply impressed by this phantasmagorical marching
past that I almost expected to see Death go up behind a gunner or get
astride a cannon. I felt intensely that I was seeing war, war and death.
War, the terrible tyrant, was marching along, and nothing would impede
his progress.

Still more foot soldiers. The men sing no more. Dawn is unfavourable to
enthusiasm. You set forth in the evening sanguine of success, seeing at
the end of the road Victory, Triumph, and Glory. But when morning comes,
dark and cold, your exaltation sinks. Not that you feel less resolute,
but behind the brilliant phantoms your fancy had conjured up the night
before, you see grimacing slaughter and death and fire.

Day broke bright and clear. In the sun's lively beams all fears melted
away. There will be a war? Be it so. The men will go and fight, and we
too will do something for France. The following week was a medley of
enthusiasms and sadnesses. At last war and revenge were no more mere
words; at last Germany would be crushed. Too long our enemy had wronged
us; we would wreak a tardy but fearful vengeance for our still unavenged
disgrace, for grievous humiliations daily inflicted on us.

O revenge, O sun, you rise, and your first rays make our hearts sing
like the granite of old Egypt. We lived in a fever. War, which
approached, cast its shadow before, but it was a bright shadow, the
shadow of Glory, of more than human courage, of manifold heroism. It was
the pillar of fire which, shielding our hearts from the enemy and the
terrors to come, hid them from our eyes. The passing breath of
enthusiasm quickened the beating of our hearts. As to myself, I put a
good face upon the matter, but all the time I thought with anguish: "It
is war. I shall be alone.... War will sever us from all we love, blood
and tears will be shed everywhere. May God save France, and have pity
upon us!"

On the 2nd of August war was an unquestioned fact: mobilisation was
proclaimed. My husband has served in the Navy, and had to go to
Cherbourg the next day. We then began preparations for the departure of
our sailor, who increased my cares by saying over and over again: "Don't
expect me to remain in the Navy, there is nothing to do there. I will be
sent to the east of France, and see the white of the Prussians' eyes."

The luggage being ready, we went for a stroll in the village. War was of
course the one topic of the day. To qualify them for the toils of Mars,
the men had duly sacrificed to Bacchus, and their patriotism was none
the less fiery for that. Most women were silent. Many had cried their
eyes quite red. One day more, and they would be alone with groups of
small children. A very young woman, almost a girl, declared with a toss
of her light hair: "Bachelors who have but their own body to care for
ought to go and fight, that's right, but fathers of a family!..." Her
neighbour next door, Mme. Turgau, nodded assent. She had a baby in her
arms, and was pensively listening to her husband who, hot with anger,
was speechifying not very far off. In his quality of orator, he
discoursed not only upon Germans, but upon spies also. In the morning
two Germans had been arrested in Laon, and the day before a man who was
going to blow up a bridge had been shot. But look! Two strangers
appeared at the corner of the street. All faces grew serious, and
Turgau, advancing towards the men, demanded their papers. When they
refused to show them, the crowd grew nervous, and Turgau thought himself
insulted. Cries and bad names filled the air, until the soldiers,
astonished at the uproar, took the culprits away to examine their
papers.

The lover of justice came back home greatly pleased with himself. People
gathered round him, and declared: "Policemen, gendarmes, all humbug!
Fortunately we are here to maintain order." And all together they went
to the next inn, and from the adventure drew this moral lesson: No more
strangers, France for Frenchmen!

Pleasant and peaceful, the last evening was drawing to its close, the
last of many evenings that will never come again. The following morning
I went to the station with my husband. There was a large crowd on the
platform. The men, high in spirit, seemed delighted to go off to the
army. Silent and gloomy, the women stood close to their husbands, and
their eyes betrayed a sadness past remedy. Then came the train, full of
soldiers of the reserve, singing at the top of their voices. All get
into the crowded carriages, a whistle is heard, the train moves forward.
A last kiss, a last handshake. The dear face leans out of the window, my
eyes raised up towards it, until its features disappear and vanish in
the distance. It is all over; he is gone; they are gone. Towards Glory,
towards Death! Who knows? I came back home, forlorn and sad. In vain
Colette's endearing words and Genevieve's warm affection awaited me;
love had deserted the house.

The following days glided by tiresome and empty, but fortunately we soon
found an occupation. A regiment of artillery was formed in the
neighbourhood. Two batteries were quartered in Morny, and willing
needlewomen were required to put the uniforms of the soldiers into good
condition. Very well. There are no opportunities for high deeds, let us
be content with small ones. We put together needles, scissors, and
thread, and thus armed ran to the school where other women were already
working. And what work! We were told to shorten trousers, to let jackets
out, to sew stripes, and to stitch numbers on collars and sleeves. A
noisy and merry activity prevailed in the yard. When off duty, the
soldiers gathered about the big nut-tree, whose shadow protected the
needle-women from the sun. Harmless jokes were exchanged, and Germany of
course had to bear the brunt of them. There was a tailor, a giant with a
jolly face, who declared that he would get all he wanted on the other
side of the Rhine, and for a ball of thread or a missing button would
send you straight to Berlin. These good-natured and simple ways were all
the more touching on account of the dangers which lay ahead. And, what
we highly appreciated, the soldiers behaved like gentlemen. We spent
many hours with them, and never heard a rough or coarse word. For
truth's sake, I must say their Captain kept a sharp look-out upon his
men. He was about forty-five, had nice eyes and a kindly face. We heard
his name, and found out that he was a famous man, whose works we greatly
admired. We had common friends too, and it was not long before we became
real comrades, and told him how eager we were to be of some use to our
country.

"Don't you think we might nurse a few wounded soldiers in our house?" we
asked.

The Captain was good enough to like the idea.

"All right," he said, "if your rooms are large enough and airy."

"Come and see yourself."

The Captain came first alone, and the day after with two Surgeon-Majors.
They made calculations, and then declared that we might receive thirty
soldiers. Two empty houses our neighbours offered out of kindness would
contain twenty other beds. Fifty soldiers would compose quite a
sufficient ambulance, and to our heart's delight we might devote our
strength to the wounded.

"In Laon, they will be only too pleased to send you convalescents," M.
Vinchamps told us; "plenty of patients will soon fill the hospitals; and
a doctor from the town will come every day to tend your invalids."

This medical visit did not remain the only one M. Vinchamps paid us.
About nine o'clock, his day's work over, our new friend came round and
knocked at the window. Our talk was chiefly on war, the only topic we
took an interest in.

"Men are good for nothing," M. Vinchamps said; "courage is their only
gift. That is why I am delighted with the present war. At peace, men are
out of their right element."

"Then you must improve the occasion, and make the best of it, for
certainly there will be universal peace after the present war, and you
men will be for ever out of your element."

No one answered, and our silence called up a picture of dead and wounded
stretched upon a plain where a battle had taken place. And again we
talked of Belgian courage, of that heroic Liege which had to face such
fearful odds, and did not yield to brute strength. We likened the
storming party to the turbulent waters which beat furiously against a
<DW18>. But we knew the <DW18> was strong, and would not give way.

The Germans were not highly appreciated by Captain Vinchamps.

"They are not intelligent," he declared.

"But----"

"They are not. I do not deny their qualities. They are fine imitators,
but no creators. They make good use of others' inventions, and derive
benefit from discoveries they would be unable to make themselves. Their
talents--quite practical--are not what is called intelligence. Cuvier,
Pasteur, Lamarck have no rivals on the other side of the Rhine, and
their work no equal. Besides, consider that for fifty years our
neighbours have thought of but one goal: a victorious war."

"But that is very important just now."

"Never mind. Intelligence will get the better of brute strength and
crush it."

The mere thought of victory sent a thrill of rapturous joy through our
hearts.

On going out through the yard, lit up by the moon's rays, the Captain
listened to the whistle of the trains, and said with a smile:

"Food for powder!"

At full speed the trains rolled on both lines day and night; the food
for powder went by without ceasing.

Food for powder!

And yet the expression is not right. For the soul of every man was
awake. At the call of war all men were ready to fight and to die; all
shouted "victory," in the assurance that it would come to us.

In the village our confidence met some distrust. Mme. Tassin, who acts
as housekeeper when we are away, tossed her grey head.

"I was young when I saw _them_ for the first time in '70. What shall I
do at my age if they come here now?"

Genevieve was filled with horror at the mere suggestion. In the farm
near by Mme. Lantois expressed the very same unreasonable fears. "Do you
think we shall have them here?" she asked a young lieutenant, who was as
bitterly disgusted as we were.

Meanwhile our gunners were ready from head to foot, and their horses
from mane to hoof. We heard the last exhortations of the Captain to his
men, and the next day we got up at four o'clock in the morning to see
them off. It was magnificent. The sun shone in triumph upon the martial
train; the flower-covered cannon had a good-humoured air; the horses
pawed the ground; and the gunners had not smiles enough to throw to us,
nor caps enough wherewith to salute us.

Captain Vinchamps, before he took leave, introduced his horse. It was a
"skittish" little mare, he thought, clever and sweet-tempered. Once more
we wished him success, and once more hoped that the war would spare him
and his men; and all, soldiers, officers, and horses, galloped off, and
were soon hidden from our sight amid the poplar trees in the sun and the
dust.

The last soldier had departed. The village was empty of men, and the
women from sunrise to sunset were working in the fields. We led an
uninteresting life. In fact we did not live in Morny, but in Belgium
where our soldiers were fighting. Our overburdened minds looked forward
passionately to the result of the first conflict. What was going to
happen?




CHAPTER II


First came a letter from my husband. He had written it in the first
fever of war. The letter was a week late, and he marvelled at the
splendid eagerness and union of France. "'Tis the world upside down," he
wrote. "In my detachment, out of 1200 seamen, not one was missing or
drunk on getting to Cherbourg. As to myself, I am more decided than ever
not to go to sea. I will see the Prussians face to face. Yesterday I had
a talk with a field officer, and he promised to get me an interesting
post. That is a good thing; I now depend only on him."

I thought I saw him rubbing his hands with satisfaction. An interesting
post! It means, doesn't it, to run into jeopardy, to seek after perilous
missions? Oh, dare-devil! oh, heart of stone! Wrapped up in his joy, he
has no thought for the pangs of those whose hearts are hanging upon his
life!

Soon after there arrived unexpectedly Mme. Valaine and Antoinette,
whose journey had been greatly delayed by the mobilisation. We had got
but scanty news from Paris, and listened in amazement to their
descriptions of the capital, the fine frenzy of the soldiers leaving for
the front, the plunder of German shops, and then in our turn told them
the little that we had seen in the country.

When our stories and greetings were finished, it was time to prepare
rooms for the travellers.

I will seize upon the occasion to give a short description of our dear
old house. Notched like a saw, the gabled front presents a row of
shutters, which, like grey eyelids, secure us from indiscreet looks. To
the right and the left two large iron gates, always carefully closed,
lead one into a paved yard, the other into a narrow road, planted with
trees. The side of the house, looking out on the high-walled garden,
throws off the reserve in which the front is shrouded; windows and doors
are always wide open to the air, the sun, and the creepers, whose
branches penetrate even the rooms themselves. Inside, a passage
separates the house into two parts, the dining- and the drawing-rooms on
one side, and on the other the bedrooms and the kitchen. Genevieve,
Colette, and Mme. Valaine have their rooms downstairs. Upstairs the
attic has been cut up pleasantly into three. Outside, parallel with the
house, a small building opens into the yard, containing a wash-house, a
room--the small room--a coach-house, a stable, and the whole is topped
by an attic.

The house--this does not allow of discussion--is too small, or the
family is too large, and Antoinette, who wanted a room to herself,
declared: "I will settle in 'the small room,'" and we could not get it
out of her head, although we enlarged,--with some complacency--upon the
dangers she might run alone by night.

"The walls are high, the doors strong. I am not afraid, and then there
are the dogs."

Indeed, Gracieuse and Percinet, the collies we dote on, live next door,
and have sharp sets of teeth which they show to all intruders.

"Grandmamma," said Antoinette the next morning, "last night, about
twelve...."

"The proper time for crimes."

"I was startled out of my sleep."

"You were dreaming of the Germans."

"No, no. Some one was in the attic above my room."

"There you are! A spy! Have you run him in?"

"Without joking, Grandmamma. I heard steps quite clearly."

"Do you know that deserters are