Boom—boom—boom! It has been going on all day and all night, for the last three days and nights—that horrible cannon at Liège. Madame Job can hardly drag herself down this morning. She feels that each sound may mean the annihilation of her dear Albert. Mlle Irma is crying gently too. My soup is decidedly watery and my omelette impossible. C’est la guerre! A straggling procession of women visits the inn. Most of them have baskets. They have walked many miles in the burning heat. They need bread. Alas! Albert in the fort there below has other things than baking to think about. Besides, there is very little flour. Only just enough for M. le Directeur, the château on the hill and ourselves. Madame Job stands out in the street and wrinkles her forehead at the sight of the familiar words, “Boulangerie Lepouse.” She does not mind the villagers, but suppose the dreaded Uhlans interpret the sign. What will happen to those six black loaves so snugly concealed in the postmaster’s cupboard? M. Alfred mounts a ladder and sploshes out the offending letters till nothing but a few black smudges and a hooded cart in the backyard tell of their once thriving trade in bread. FICTION _v._ FACT We have had no Prussians in the village for quite four-and-twenty hours, so the peasants are becoming almost their normal selves. We walk freely about the street and dare to laugh. Laughter is a rare sound in Manhay these days. We even affect to despise the Germans for not coming on in greater numbers. “Nous avons vu les échantillons, mais où sont les marchandises?” (We have seen the samples, but where are the goods?) asks one village wit. M. Floribert puts his tongue in his cheek and says the Walloon equivalent of “let ’em all come.” René and Victor are showing their contempt for the foe by lassoing imaginary Prussians up and down the street, René as usual acting the unfortunate Teuton who is lassoed, hanged, decapitated, in whirlwind fashion, turn by turn. A group of women sit out under the shady trees in the orchard and talk together as they mend their socks. Some of the older men stroll over to us and spin yarns. An Ardennois legend is spoken of. Anyone could weave a legend round a spider’s web in the Ardennes. But legend-making is really rather out of fashion. Instead we have become military experts in minutiæ. We splay our fingers convincingly upon our tattered maps and say here ... and here ... are the English, there ... there ... and there are the French. They will advance so, and the Germans will retreat so ... until our audience fades away from sheer boredom and we are left to strategise alone.