grace of the Almighty
alone; gaze upon whole rows of tables no one of which had the requisite
number of legs; behold mere skeletons of chairs, whose seats or backs
were missing; sofas where gaping wounds displayed the springs; huge
piles of plates each one more nicked or cracked than its predecessor;
series of flower pots which fell to pieces in one's hands if one were
indiscreet enough to touch them.

"I don't see the point in straightening things out so often"--was my
casual comment.

"Why, Madame, what on earth would we do about the inventory when peace
comes, if we were not to put a little order into our stock?" was the
immediate reply.

I was sorry I had spoken.

Among the other numerous places of interest was the store of a dealer
in haberdashery and draperies. An honest, well equipped old fashioned
French concern, whose long oak counters were well polished from
constant use. The shelves were piled high with piece after piece of
wonderful material, but not a single one of them had been exempt from
the murderous rain of steel; they were pierced, and pierced, and
pierced again.

"So pierced that there is not a length sufficient to make even a cap!"
explained Madame L., "but you just can't live in disorder all the time,
and customers wouldn't like to see an empty store. Everything we have
to sell is in the cellar!"

And true enough this subterranean existence had long ceased to be a
novelty, and had become almost a habit.

From the basement windows of every inhabited dwelling protruded a stove
pipe, and the lower regions had gradually come to be furnished almost
as comfortably as the upper rooms in normal days. Little by little the
kitchen chair and the candle had given way to a sofa and a hanging
lamp; beds were set up and rugs put in convenient places.

"We live so close to the trenches that by comparison it seems like a
real paradise to us," gently explained Madame Daumont, the pork
butcher. Her _charcuterie_ renowned far and wide for its hot meat
pates, ready just at noon, had been under constant fire ever since the
invasion, but had never yet failed to produce its customary ovenful at
the appointed hour.

"At the time of the battle of Crouy," she confessed, "I was just on the
point of shutting up shop and leaving. I'm afraid I was a bit hasty,
but three shells had hit the house in less than two hours, and my old
mother was getting nervous. The dough for my pates was all ready, but
I hesitat