“Es ist unsere pflicht” (It is our duty). In front of M. le Précepteur is a little travelling-bag with a shirt and a few collars. I think he would go on packing if Madame would not insist on half-throttling him with her embraces every other minute. “It will only be for a short time,” I say comfortingly to Monsieur le Précepteur. “Only for the duration of the war,” says the Prince. “The duration of the war!” But I am determined to look on the bright side. “He will have nothing to eat,” moans Madame between her sobs. “He will live well,” asserts the Prince patiently. He would take his prisoner off at once, only he does not wish to precipitate more scenes. Live well! What a mockery. The German soldiers have themselves told me that the civilian prisoners only get bread and water during the term of their imprisonment. I remember the words of my Belgian friend, the Tax-collector, when I asked him if they ever killed civilian prisoners. “Kill them? No, indeed,” he said nonchalantly. “They give them too little to eat. That is all.” I go into the little kitchen at the back and grope in the cupboard for bread and for butter to make tartines for M. le Précepteur. An officer comes in and coolly appropriates some eggs in a wire-work basket. “Fresh eggs,” he says appreciatively. “Will you leave the poor woman nothing?” I ask fiercely. He sets them on the table one by one and slinks back to the outer room. “Come,” says the Prince. Half fainting, Madame flings her arms round her husband’s neck for a last embrace, then falls back moaning into a chair. He kisses Germaine and Victor, then walks out into the sunlight and looks round him, half dazed. We shake hands, but with such a lump in my throat I cannot say a word. The postmaster, carrying the little brown bag, walks off in the direction of Malempré between the Prince and his brother. The soldiers form up behind. The procession is soon lost to sight behind the tree trunks.... The Germans have quite a lust for prisoners to-day. After lunch the word goes round that the Bourgmestre is being sought for. At first they cannot find him. Perhaps he is hiding ... in a cellar ... somewhere. Presently he is brought along. He looks shrunken and very white. Poor man, I am afraid he has heard rumours of the bread-and-water diet. He, too, is led off under military escort in the direction of Malempré.... At Grand-Mesnil they have already secured 12,000 francs from the Caisse Communale. Gold-thirsty brutes! There is a panic-stricken cry in the village. The worst has happened. The beloved Curés are here, jogging along in a little armoured tumbril such as those in which one pictured folk passing bravely to the guillotine in revolution time of old. They suffer no indignity of bound hands or bandaged limbs. The swarming lines of troops remove all need for that.