"It was in the garden of the Procès family that the worst was done. It was Hélène Procès, you remember, who was insulted by the German soldier. The grandmother, 78 years old, Miss Laure Mennehand, the aunt, who was 81 years old, the mother, 40 years old, and Hélène, who was 18, ran down the garden. They placed a little ladder against the low wire fence which separated their back yard from their neighbor's. Hélène was the first one over, and turned to help the older women. The Germans had followed them, and riddled the three women with bullets. They fell one on the other. Hélène hid herself in the cabbages. "That same evening some of the villagers went with me to the garden. The women looked as if they were sleeping. They had no trace of suffering in the face. Miss Mennehand had her little toilet bag, containing 1,000 francs, fastened to her left wrist, and was still holding her umbrella in her right hand. Her brains had fallen out. I collected them on a salad leaf and buried them in the garden. "We carried the three bodies to their beds in their home. In one bed, as I opened it, I saw a gold watch lying. From Monday evening till Wednesday morning, the bodies lay there, with no wax taper burning, and no one to watch and pray. By night the Germans played the piano, close by. "'Your people fired on our soldiers,' said a Captain to me next day. 'I'll show you the window.' "He led me down the street, and pointed. "'It is unfortunate you have chosen that window,' I replied to him; 'at the time you started burning our village the only person in the house was a paralytic man, who was burned in his bed.' "It was the house of Jean Lecourtier, 70 years old. "In front of the Poincaré house, I met a General, who, they said, was the Duke of Württemberg. He said to me: "'I am glad to see you, Curé. I congratulate you. You are the first chaplain I have seen. Generally, when we get to a village, the mayor and the curé have run away. We officers are angry at what has taken place here. You have treated us well.' "'Perhaps you will be able to stop the horror,' I said to him. "'Ah, what can you expect? It is war. There are bad soldiers in your army and in ours.' "The next day I saw him getting ready to enter a magnificent car. His arm was bandaged. "'You are wounded, General?' I asked him. "'No, not that,' he answered. "'A strained ligament (_entorse_)?' I asked. "'No,' he said, 'don't tell me the French word,' He opened a pocket dictionary with his unhurt hand, wetting his finger and turning the pages. "'It is a sprain (_luxation_),' he said. "That is the way they learn a language as they go along. "'You are leaving us?' I asked. "Yes, I am going to my own country to rest." The afternoon had passed while we were talking. We rose to make our good-bys.