the left bank of the river, skirted the forest. Faint premonitions of
spring already appeared; catkins drooped upon the hazels, primroses made
patches of sulphur in the woods, and one almost expected to see the
blackthorn in blossom. Silver birches gleamed against the purple haze of
the more distant woodlands. The road ran straight as an arrow. As we
neared Senlis I was struck by the complete absence of all traffic upon
the roads; no market carts came and went, neither did any wayfarer
appear. Not a wisp of smoke arose from the chimneys above the screen of
trees. We passed up a double avenue of elms--just such an avenue as that
along which M. Bergeret discussed metaphysics and theology with the Abbe
Lantaigne--yet not a soul was to be seen upon the _trottoir_. A brooding
silence hung over the little town, a silence so deep as to be almost
menacing. As we entered the main street I encountered a spectacle which
froze my heart. Far as the eye could see along the diminishing
perspective of the road were burnt-out homes, houses which once were gay
with clematis and wisteria, gardens which had blossomed with the rose.
And now all that remained were trampled flower-beds, tangled creepers,
blackened walls, calcined rafters, twisted ironwork, and fallen masonry.
And this was Senlis! Senlis which had been to the department of the Oise
as the apple of its eye, a little town of quality, beautiful as
porcelain, fragrant as a rose, and as a rose as sweet. As I looked upon
these desecrated homes it seemed to me that the very stones cried out.

In all this desolation we looked in vain for any signs of life. It was
not until we sought out the house of a captain of dragoons, a friend of
my companion the Comte, that we found a human being in these solitudes.
The house was, indeed, a melancholy ruin, but by the gate was a lodge,
and in the lodge a concierge. He was a small man and middle-aged, and as
he spoke he trembled with a continual agitation of body as though he
were afflicted with ague. He led us into his little house, the walls of
which were blackened as with fire and pierced in many places with the
impact of bullets. And this was his tale.

One afternoon early in September--it was the second day of the month, he
remembered it because there had been an untimely frost over night--he
heard the crackle of musketry on the outskirts of the town, and a column
of grey-coated men suddenly appeared in the street. An officer blew a
whistle,