The jade Rumour mocks our faith at every turn. We begin by swallowing each new idea with delicious open-mouthed credulity. The Germans have already conquered Antwerp ... England ... the world. Our cruisers have been sunk _en masse_. All the French generals have been shot. Someone has launched a projectile from an aeroplane and destroyed the entire Teuton army at one fell stroke. We sit out boldly on the hotel _terrasse_ after this last glorious item of news and sip our coffee with brave show. Only the entry of some noisy Uhlans suffices to scatter us and rumour at the same time.... “Do be quiet!” says M. Job testily later in the day. He is worried by his children’s nervous chatter as they wander restlessly about the dimly lighted rooms. He has been working in the nursery garden all through the hot hours and is a little annoyed not to find his supper ready. Mdlle. Rosa slips a soft white hand into her mother’s wrinkled one and rubs her slender nose affectionately against the elder woman’s cheek. Even in war-time she does not forget the teaching of the Good Sisters of the Orphelinat de St. Joseph. She repeats in a dreamy childish voice: “Te souviens, Maman. Qui que le bon Dieu garde, eh bien il le garde ... bien” (Remember, Mamma, he whom God watches over He guards well). So we go to bed consoled. THE “TERRIBLE” FRENCH! This is a gala day. Company to lunch! The Tax-collector has walked here from a small town thirty miles away, en route for Aywaille, another twenty, where he intends to fetch his son from school. “Quelle désastre que cette guerre,” is his opening remark as we fraternise over the vegetable soup. I agree. He draws something from his pocket and throws it across to me. It is a bullet. He shows me a large blister on his finger. “I was over-zealous for that keepsake this morning,” he says, laughing, “and tried to pick it up when it was red hot. There was a fight raging round my little house before I left. Picture to yourself a patrol of Uhlans breakfasting in the hotel-barn opposite. A company of French ride up and demand if the enemy is within. The innkeeper answers, trembling, ‘No.’ ‘The truth!’ thunder the Frenchmen, covering him with revolvers. He confesses. _Mon Dieu!_ What a scene! The French force the innkeeper and his son to set fire to their own barn, and when at length the Germans come out, one by one, stifled with smoke, they calmly pot them off, as if they were so many rabbits. Stay! One Frenchman rushes in before the fire has done its work. He dies a moment later, shot through the heart. I found on him two letters, to his mother and his sweetheart. Such letters!” “The French are very brave,” I say. “I tell you they fight—not like men but—_comme les démons_. They don’t ride up as the Uhlans do. They just‘appear’ like lightning or earthquake or any other phenomenon and then—phew—_le déluge_.”