This city is among the most beautiful in France; until recently,
although within range of the Hun artillery, it had been left
undisturbed. In return the French had spared an equally beautiful city
on the other side of the line. This clemency, shown towards two gems
of architecture, was the result of one of those silent bargains that
are arranged in the language of the guns. But the bargain had been
broken by the time I arrived. Bombing planes had been over; the Allied
planes had retaliated. Houses, emptied like cart-loads of bricks into
the street, were significant of the ruin that was pending. Any moment
the orchestra of destruction might break into its overture. Without
cessation one could hear a distant booming. The fiddlers of death were
tuning up.

Early next morning I went to see the Prefet. He is an old man, whose
courage has made him honoured wherever the French tongue is spoken.
Others have thought of their own safety and withdrawn into the
interior. Never from the start has his sense of duty wavered. Night
and day he has laboured incessantly for the refugees, whom he refers
to always as "my suffering people." He kept me waiting for some
time. Directly I entered he volunteered the explanation: he had just
received word from the military authorities that the whole of his
civil population must be immediately evacuated. To evacuate a civil
population means to tear it up and transplant it root and branch, with
no more of its possession than can be carried as hand-baggage. Some
75,000 people would be made homeless directly the Prefet published the
order.

It was a dramatic moment, full of tragedy. I glanced out into the
square filled with wintry sunlight. I took note of the big gold gates
and the monuments. I watched the citizens halting here and there to
chat, or going about their errands with a quiet confidence. All this
was to be shattered; it had been decided. The same thing was to happen
here as had happened at Ypres. The bargain was off. The enemy city,
the other side of the line, was to be shelled; this city had to take
the consequences. The bargain was off not only as far as the city was
concerned, but also as regards its inhabitants' happiness. They had
homes to-day; they would be fugitives to-morrow. Then I looked at
the old Prefet, who had to break the news to them. He was sitting at
his table in his uniform of office, supporting his head in his tired
hands.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"I