Manhay might stand as a model for “The Deserted Village.” The inn is silent as the grave, the family of Job-Lepouse is doubtless in the fields. With me curiosity overrides fear. Even if it entails certain death I must see the Uhlans come. There is a sharp clitter-clatter of horses’ hoofs along the Vaux Chavannes road. It stops abruptly at the barricade. I hear a volley of very German curses, the crash-crash of weapons and then a mutilated bicycle comes hurtling through the air. I hear the cry of a man in pain. Some poor devil has been caught.... The Uhlans are in our street. They mass by the Gendarmerie, glare fiercely round. They have learned the feeling of the countryside in those barred tree-trunks which have crossed their path. They suspect a plot and are keen to fight. Charging down the road they come, lance out, heads erect, the sun glinting a thousand sparks from the rim of their metal helmets where it is left unprotected by the light cloth shield. They are not quite so smart as when parading last before their adoring women-kind. Their horses’ flanks are streaming, their uniforms dusty. “What splendid men they are!” is my first impression. “This is just like comic opera,” is my second. But when, at closer range, my eyes meet those long, sharp lances and that Teuton glare, I confess my third is funk! I shall never forget that first moment of invasion. The forest of lances, the grey steel of pointed revolvers, sobbing women and frightened children. The desertion of the little village street and the scuttling of agonised peasants into their houses. The banging and locking of doors, the sudden silence as they scatter in the stable ... cellar ... fields. I can see it now.... I shall see it always. One peasant is not fortunate enough to escape. A Uhlan with an over-developed (Teuton) sense of humour, pricks him in the fleshy part of the shoulder with the point of the lance. Having secured a good hold, the German gallops up and down the village, driving the unlucky man before him at a furious speed. The remainder of the troop form up and charge towards us down the road. They interrupt their dash at the post office. The officer points a revolver at M. le Précepteur’s head in the ingratiating German way and asks some question. I swear that M. le Précepteur’s hair is standing on end in the manner hair so frequently assumes in novels, so very seldom in real life.