a hurry to stop!" And her face grew
anxious and frightened.

Old Gaston Baudel stepped out of his garden, and joined the group in the
square. "Courage, mes amies," he said. "Even if they do stay awhile,
even if our homes are shelled, what does it matter? France is winning,
and driving the Germans back. That at any rate, is good news."

"All the same," said fat Madame Roland, landlady of the Lion d'Or, "if
they break any more of my glasses, I shall want to break my last bottle
of wine over their dirty heads." And she went off to hide what remained
of her liqueurs and champagne under the sacking in the cellar.

"Let us all go back to our homes," counselled Gaston Baudel, "to hide
anything of value. Even I, with this bandage round my head, can hear how
swiftly they are retiring. There will, alas! be no school to-day. May
our brave soldiers drive the devils from off our fair land of France."

Even as he spoke, the first transport waggons came tearing down the
road, and swung northward over the river. Away in the morning haze, the
infantry could be seen--dark masses stumbling along the white
road--till a convoy of motor lorries hid them from view.

Gaston Baudel sat down in his stone-paved schoolroom to await the
passing of the Germans, and to correct the tasks of his little pupils.
He had given them a _devoir de style_ to write on the glory of France,
and, as he read the childish, ill-spelt prophecies of his country's
greatness, he laughed, for the Germans were in retreat, the worst of the
anxiety was over, and Paris was saved. And, hour by hour, he listened to
the rumble of cannon, the rattle of transport waggons and ambulances,
and the heavy tramp of tired-out soldiers on the dusty road.

Suddenly he heard the clank of boots coming up his little garden path,
and a large figure loomed in the doorway. A German officer, covered with
dirt, entered the room, and threw himself down in a chair.

"You still here, earless dog?" he said, and the schoolmaster recognised
his tormentor of a week ago. "Give me something to take with me, and at
once. I have no time to stop, but I shall certainly kill you this time
if you don't bring me food, and more of that red wine."

Gaston Baudel glanced towards the drawer where he kept his
revolver--though he would have never used it against any number of
burglars--but a sudden idea came to him, and he checked his movement.
With a few muttered words, he hastened off to the kitchen to get fo