From windows lace curtains and draperies hung out over the fronts of the houses.  Everywhere shattered doors, broken cupboards, drawers thrown open where the inhabitants had thought to try to save some of their cherished belongings, but had finally fled leaving all to the care of the soldiers, who protect the property of the inhabitants as carefully as if it were their own.

It would be difficult to find finer custodians.  I was told that at Bobigny, pres Bourget, there is on one of the houses the following inscription worthy of classical times: 

“The proprietor of this house has gone to the War.  He leaves this dwelling to the care of the French.  Long live France.”  And he left the key in the lock.

The soldiers billeted in the house read the inscription, which met with their approval, and so far each regiment in passing had cleaned out the little dwelling and left it in perfect order.

From the citadel we went down into the trenches which led to the lines at Thiaumont.  The heat in the city was excessive but in the trenches it was delightfully cool, perhaps a little too cool.  We heard the men make no complaints except that at times the life was a little “monotonous”!  One man told me that he was once in a trench that was occupied at the same time by the French and the Germans.  There was nothing between them but sand bags and a thick wall of clay, and day and night the French watched that wall.  One day a slight scratching was heard.  The men prepared to face the crumbling of the barrier when through a small hole popped out the head of a brown rabbit.  Down into the trench hopped Mrs. Bunny, followed by two small bunnies, and although rabbit for lunch would have improved the menu the men had not the heart to kill her.  On the contrary they fed her on their rations and at night-fall she departed, followed by her progeny.

From all the dug-outs heads popped out and the first movement of surprise at seeing a woman in the trenches turned to a smile of delight, since the Poilu is at all times a chivalrous gentleman.  One man was telling me of the magnificent work that had been accomplished by his “compagnie.”  I congratulated him and told him he must be happy to be in such a company.  He swept off his iron casque, bowed almost to the ground, and answered:  “Certainly I am happy in my company, Mademoiselle, but I am far happier in yours.”  The principal grief of the Poilus appeared to be that a shell two or three days before had destroyed the store of the great “dragee” (sugared almond) manufactory of Verdun.  Before leaving the manufacturer had bequeathed his stock to the Army and they were all regretting that they had not been greedier and eaten up the “dragees” quicker.