The next day, they were able to move Father Meraut to his own home.  In spite of the excitement and strain, he seemed but little the worse for his experience, and the happiness of being again with his family quite offset the effect of his dangerous journey.  Mother Meraut was a famous nurse, and when he was safely installed in a bed in a corner of the room which was their living-room and kitchen in one, she was able to give him her best care.  There he lay, following her with his eyes as she made good things for him to eat or carried on the regular activities of her home.  Pierre and Pierrette sat beside his bed and talked to him, or, better still, got him to tell them stories of the things that had happened during his brief stay in the Army.  Pierre brought the little raveled-out dog, with which he was now on the friendliest terms, to see him, and Madame Coudert also came to call now and then, bringing a cake or some other dainty to the invalid.

If only the Germans had gone from their trenches on the Aisne, they and every one else in Rheims would have been quite comfortable, but alas! this was not to be.  The Germans stayed where they were, and each day sent a new rain of shells upon the unfortunate City.  The inhabitants grew accustomed to it, as one grows used to thundershowers in April.  “Hello! it’s beginning to sprinkle,” they would say when a shell burst, spattering mud and dirt upon the passers-by.  Signs appeared upon the street, “Safe Cellars Here,” and when the bombardment began, people would dash for the nearest shelter and wait until the storm was over.

Pierre and Pierrette played out of doors every day, though they did not go far from their home, and had no one but each other to play with.  Pierrette made a play-house in one corner of the court.  Here in a little box she kept a store of broken dishes, and here she sat long hours with her doll Jacqueline.  Sometimes Pierre, having no better occupation, played with her.  He even took a gingerly interest in Jacqueline, although he would not for the world have let any of the boys know of such a weakness.

When the shells began to fall, they would leave their corner and run quickly to the cellar.  As Father Meraut could not go up or down, his wife stayed in the kitchen beside him.  In this way several weary weeks went by.  Mother Meraut went no more to the Cathedral.  There was nothing there that she could do.  The great, beautiful church which had been the very soul of Rheims and the pride of France was now nothing but a ruined shell, its wonderful windows broken, its roof gone, its very walls of stone so burned that they crumbled to pieces at a touch.  Even the great bronze bells had been melted in the flames and had fallen in molten drops, like tears of grief, into the wreckage below.  All the beautiful treasures—­the tapestries, wrought by the hands of queens, and even the sacred banner of Jeanne d’Arc itself—­had been destroyed.