The Place d’Armes was a typical French marketplace and very picturesque.  At one corner of the square stood the town hall with a turret and a very pretty Carillon called “Jolie Annette,” since smashed by a shell.  I asked an old shopkeeper why the Carillon should be called by that name and he told me that in 1600 a well-to-do commercant of the town had built the turret and promised a Carillon only on the condition that it should be a line from a song sung by a fair lady called “Jolie Annette,” performing at a music hall or Cafe Chantant in the town at that time.  The inhabitants protested, but he refused to give the Carillon unless he could have his own way, which he ultimately did.  Can’t you imagine the outraged feelings of the good burghers? “Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle,” the old man continued, shrugging his shoulders, “Jolie Annette ne chante pas mal, hein?” and I agreed with him.

I thought it was rather a nice story, and I often wondered, when I heard that little song tinkling out, exactly what “Jolie Annette” really looked like, and I quite made up my mind on the subject.  Of course she had long side curls, a slim waist, lots of ribbons, a very full skirt, white stockings, and a pair of little black shoes, and last but not least, a very bewitching smile.  It is sad to think that a shell has silenced her after all these years, and I hope so much that someone will restore the Carillon so that she can sing her little song once again.

In one corner of the square was a house (now turned into a furniture shop) where one of the F.A.N.Y.’s great-grandmothers had stayed when fleeing with the Huguenots to England.  They had finally set off across the Channel in rowing boats.  Some sportsmen!

Market days on Saturdays were great events, and little booths filled up the whole place, and what bargains one could make!  We bought all the available flowers to make the wards as bright as possible.  In the afternoons when there was not much to do except cut dressings, I often sat quietly at my table and listened to the discussions which went on in the ward.  The Belgian soldier loves an argument.

One day half in French, and half in Flemish, they were discussing what course they would pursue if they found a wounded German on the battlefield. “Tuez-le comme un lapin,” cried one. “Faut les zigouiller tous,” cried another (almost untranslatable slang, but meaning more or less “choke the lot"). “Ba, non, sauvez-le p’is qu’il est blesse,” cried a third to which several agreed.  This discussion waxed furious till finally I was called on to arbitrate.  One boy was rapidly working himself into a fever over the question.  He was out to kill any Boche under any conditions, and I don’t blame him.  This was his story: