He was a true prophet. Next day there was a sudden fall in the temperature of the invaders. Something unforeseen and dreadful seemed to have happened, and caused the Germans to abandon those conciliatory methods which they have usually adopted in places they have occupied. I have always been slow to accept stories of atrocities—having heard them told about every army—and I have never reported one without giving my authority and having a written and signed statement. But what I am now about to describe I have seen with my own eyes. On Sunday afternoon the German soldiery made the discovery that brigandage is one of the privileges of war. They broke into every house and shop, burst open all doors, ransacked every room from cellar to attic, searched every cupboard and drawer, tore up letters and account books, and carried off every portable article of any value. Beton-Bazoches—when they had gone through it—looked as if an earthquake had struck it and left only the empty shell. The hotel that sheltered and fed the General was not spared. A uniformed ruffian rode up to the door and called loudly for Madame, who promptly appeared, and had a revolver clapped to her cheek. “The key to the wine cellar!” demanded the ruffian. In the twinkling of an eyelid the cellar was emptied, and several hundred bottles of champagne and other wine—if there is any other wine—were at the throats of the German soldiers. The same thing happened elsewhere. Stores and _cafés_ were cleared of their stock of wines and liqueurs in bottle and barrel. What the soldiers could not drink or carry away they spilt. “Pas une bouteille! Pas une bouteille!” cried the distracted mayor as he showed me over the devastated cellars of his son-in-law, who had gone to the war. “Pas une bouteille!” He emphasised his ejaculation by biting his thumb. “I gave a dozen bottles of good old wine for the sick and wounded,” said the dame of the inn, “but the brigands drank it, laughed in my face, and said, ‘Krieg guerre nichts payer.’” The result of this orgie was that hundreds of German cavalrymen were dead drunk on Sunday, and that fourteen did not recover from their debauch until the French arrived at Beton-Bazoches. A French dragoon, wandering through the town and hearing snores that sounded like a whole battery of artillery in action, stuck his lance into what looked like a huge parcel wrapped in a blanket. To his amazement the parcel stirred. Another prod of the lance, and there came out of the blanket the head of a bearded Uhlan. One more touch of cold steel, and the mouth opened with a roar of laughter.