My friend Serval added: 

“It was by way of reprisal that the Germans destroyed the chateau of the district, which belonged to me.”

I thought of the mothers of those four fine fellows burned in that house and of the horrible heroism of that other mother shot against the wall.

And I picked up a little stone, still blackened by the flames.

EPIPHANY

I should say I did remember that Epiphany supper during the war! exclaimed Count de Garens, an army captain.

I was quartermaster of cavalry at the time, and for a fortnight had been scouting in front of the German advance guard.  The evening before we had cut down a few Uhlans and had lost three men, one of whom was that poor little Raudeville.  You remember Joseph de Raudeville, of course.

Well, on that day my commanding officer ordered me to take six troopers and to go and occupy the village of Porterin, where there had been five skirmishes in three weeks, and to hold it all night.  There were not twenty houses left standing, not a dozen houses in that wasps’ nest.  So I took ten troopers and set out about four o’clock, and at five o’clock, while it was still pitch dark, we reached the first houses of Porterin.  I halted and ordered Marchas—­you know Pierre de Marchas, who afterward married little Martel-Auvelin, the daughter of the Marquis de Martel-Auvelin—­to go alone into the village, and to report to me what he saw.

I had selected nothing but volunteers, all men of good family.  It is pleasant when on duty not to be forced to be on intimate terms with unpleasant fellows.  This Marchas was as smart as possible, cunning as a fox and supple as a serpent.  He could scent the Prussians as a dog can scent a hare, could discover food where we should have died of hunger without him, and obtained information from everybody, and information which was always reliable, with incredible cleverness.

In ten minutes he returned.  “All right,” he said; “there have been no Prussians here for three days.  It is a sinister place, is this village.  I have been talking to a Sister of Mercy, who is caring for four or five wounded men in an abandoned convent.”

I ordered them to ride on, and we entered the principal street.  On the right and left we could vaguely see roofless walls, which were hardly visible in the profound darkness.  Here and there a light was burning in a room; some family had remained to keep its house standing as well as they were able; a family of brave or of poor people.  The rain began to fall, a fine, icy cold rain, which froze as it fell on our cloaks.  The horses stumbled against stones, against beams, against furniture.  Marchas guided us, going before us on foot, and leading his horse by the bridle.

“Where are you taking us to?” I asked him.  And he replied:  “I have a place for us to lodge in, and a rare good one.”  And we presently stopped before a small house, evidently belonging to some proprietor of the middle class.  It stood on the street, was quite inclosed, and had a garden in the rear.