e narrow winding streets.
It was apparent that the limited population of Bourg did not in the
least mind being scattered by their Mayor, for the children shrieked
with delight, and although you see few smiles in the provinces of
France these days, and far more mourning than in Paris, at least we
encountered no frowns.

The heroine of Bourg is Madame Dugas. Once more to repeat history:
Before the war Madame Dugas, being a woman of fashion and large
wealth, lived the usual life of her class. She had a chateau near
Bourg for the autumn months: hunting and shooting before 1914 were as
much the fashion on the large estates of France as in England. She had
a villa on the Rivera, a hotel in Paris, and a cottage at Dinard. But
as soon as war broke out all these establishments were either closed
or placed at the disposal of the Government. She cleaned out a large
hotel in Bourg and installed as many beds as it was possible to buy at
the moment. Then she sent word that she was ready to accommodate a
certain number of wounded and asked for nurses and surgeons.

The Government promptly took advantage of her generous offer, and her
hospital was so quickly filled with wounded men that she was obliged
to take over and furnish another large building. This soon overflowing
as well as the military hospitals of the district, she looked about in
vain for another house large enough to make extensive installations
worth while.

During all those terrible months of the war, when the wounded arrived
in Bourg by every train, and household after household put on its
crepe, there was one great establishment behind its lofty walls that
took no more note of the war than if the newspapers that never passed
its iron gates were giving daily extracts from ancient history. This
was the Convent de la Visitation. Its pious nuns had taken the vow
never to look upon the face of man. If, as they paced under the great
oaks of their close, or the stately length of their cloisters telling
their beads, or meditating on the negation of earthly existence and
the perfect joys of the future, they heard an echo of the conflict
that was shaking Europe, it was only to utter a prayer that the souls
of those who had obeyed the call of their country and fallen
gloriously as Frenchmen should rest in peace. Not for a moment did the
idea cross their gentle minds that any mortal force short of invasion
by the enemy could bring them into contact with it.

But that force wa