Everything is curiously quiet this morning ... in the village. For rustic sounds one only hears the Manhay pig grunting as he wallows with a furious enjoyment in the churned-up mud of a distant field, and the yapping of the miserable imprisoned dog from his box-kennel chained to an old wall. I sit out on the _terrasse_ and begin to sew. Germaine is brought along in her nurse’s arms and looks at me nervously. It is ironing day, and her mother is busy collecting the washing from the garden hedge. Victor plays the good old game of follow-my-leader up and down the street with little René. Madame Job comes out of the inn and leans one hand for a moment on the back of my chair. The other steals up to her eyes. “I can’t help thinking of Albert,” she says apologetically, “my Albert in the forts there below.” She gazes in the direction of Liège, which is hidden behind the distant wooded hills. “Why fear for him?” I ask. “Is he not lucky to be in the forts, the forts-which-are-so-strong.” I know the comforting phrase by heart now. “The forts-which-are-so-strong.” She repeats the words after me like a child. A gleam of hope dawns for an instant on her kindly face, then fades away. “Supposing he is not fed!” she says with bitter emphasis. To the Walloon mind, hunger is almost worse than death. Comforted by my fibs, she goes back to cook the dinner over the black oven. The oven and Madame are indivisible. I always think of them together. I sew on. Suddenly steps are heard approaching from the direction of Vaux Chavannes. They cease. Something is worming its way with a curious brushing noise round that piled-up barrier of trees. “It” turns the corner into the Manhay Street. A peasant is running towards me full tilt. His face is scarlet, his mouth open with the tongue sagging over the lips. He rolls from side to side as if drunken; reaching me he throws up his hands. “Les Prussiens, les Prussiens!” he shouts, and falls on his face as though possessed. We bring him water, we fan him. He revives. “Three hundred Prussians are at Vaux Chavannes,” gasps the messenger. The peasants disperse as though scattered by a shell. The village idiot takes cover in the pig-sty. Germaine is dropped by an agitated and diminutive nurse and immediately begins to scream. She is forcibly dragged to shelter. A scuttling and jabbering ensues. One hears the swish of skirts, the quick tramp-tramp of heavy boots, the sound of creaking stairs. I drag the fainting man into the hotel, quickly close and bolt the door, prop him against the wall, and go to the open dining-room window.