“Prince Albrecht Joachim, one of the Kaiser’s sons, was here and I talked with him,” said the Mayor, who thought we should enjoy a morsel from court circles in exchange for a copy of the _Écho de Paris_ which contained the news that Prince Albrecht had been wounded later. The mayor looked tired, this local man of the people, who had to play the shepherd of a stricken flock. Afterwards, they said that he deserted his charge and a lady, Mme. Macherez, took his place. All I know is that he was present that day; or at least a man who was introduced to me as mayor; and he was French enough to make a _bon mot_ by saying that he feared there was some fault in his hospitality because he had been unable to keep his guest. “May I have this _confiture_?” asked a battle-stained French orderly, coming up to him. “I found it in that ruined house there--all the Germans had left. I haven’t had a _confiture_ for a long time and, monsieur, you cannot imagine what a hunger I have for _confitures_.” All the while the French battery kept on firing slowly, then again rapidly, their cracks trilling off like the drum of knuckles on a table-top. Another effort to locate one of the guns before we started back to Paris failed. Speeding on, we had again a glimpse of the landscape toward Noyon, sprinkled with shell-bursts. The reserves were around their campfires making savoury stews for the evening meal. They would sleep where night found them on the sward under the stars, as in wars of old. That scene remains indelible as one of many while the army was yet mobile, before the contest became one of the mole and of the beaver. Though one had already seen many German prisoners in groups and convoys, the sight of two on the road fixed the attention because of the surroundings and the contrast suggested between French and German natures. Both were young, in the very prime of life, and both Prussian. One was dark-complexioned, with a scrubbly beard which was the product of the war. He marched with such rigidity that I should not have been surprised to see him break into a goose-step. The other was of that mild, blue-eyed, tow-haired type from the Baltic provinces, with the thin white skin which does not tan but burns. He was frailer than the other and he was tired; oh, how tired! He would lag and then stiffen back his shoulders and draw in his chin and force a trifle more energy into his step. A typical, lively French soldier was escorting the pair. He looked pretty tired, too, but he was getting over the ground in the natural, easy way in which man is meant to walk. The aboriginal races, who have a genius for long distances on foot, do not march in the German fashion, which looks impressive, but lacks endurance. By the same logic, the cayuse’s gait is better for thirty miles day in and day out than the high-stepping carriage horse’s.