I wandered along to where the street turned abruptly.  There the ground pitched more sharply to the little river.  There stood an entire half of a house unscathed by fire; it was one of those unexplainable freaks that often occur in great catastrophes.  Even the window glass was intact.  Smoke was coming from the chimney.  I went to the opposite side and there stood an old woman looking out toward the river, brooding over the ruin stretching below her.

“You are lucky,” I said.  “You still have your home.”

She threw out her hands and turned a toothless countenance toward me.  I judged her to be well over seventy.  It wasn’t her home, she explained.  Her home was “la-bas”—­pointing vaguely in the distance.  She had lived there fifty years—­now it was burned.  Her son’s house for which he had saved thirty years to be able to call it his own, was also gone; but then her son was dead, so what did it matter?  Yes, he was shot on the day the Germans came.  He was ill, but they killed him.  Oh, yes, she saw him killed.  When the Germans went away she came to this house and built a fire in the stove.  It was very cold.

And why were the houses burned?  No; it was not the result of bombardment.  Gerbeviller was not bombarded until after the houses were burned.  They were burned by the Germans systematically.  They went from house to house with their torches and oil and pitch.  They did not explain why they burned the houses, but it was because they were angry.

The old woman paused a moment, and a faint flicker of a smile showed in the wrinkles about her eyes.  I asked her to continue her story.

“You said because they were angry,” I prompted.  The smile broadened.  Oh, yes, they were very angry, she explained.  They did not even make the excuse that the villagers fired upon them.  They were just angry through and through.  And it was all because of those seventy-five French chasseurs who held the bridge.  Some one called to her from the house.  She hobbled to the door.  “Anyone can tell you about the seventy-five chasseurs,” she said, disappearing within.

I went on down the road and stood upon the bridge over the swift little river.  It was a narrow little bridge only wide enough for one wagon to pass.  Two roads from the town converged there, the one over which I had passed and another which formed a letter “V” at the juncture with the bridge.  Across the river only one road led away from the bridge and it ran straight up a hill, when it turned suddenly into the broad national highway to Luneville about five miles away.

One house remained standing almost at the entrance to the bridge, at the end nearest the town.  Its roof was gone, and its walls bore the marks of hundreds of bullets, but it was inhabited by a little old man of fifty, who came out to talk with me.  He was the village carpenter.  His house was burned, so he had taken refuge in the little house at the bridge.  During the time the Germans were there he had been a prisoner, but they forgot him the morning the French army arrived.  Everybody was in such a hurry, he explained.