They simply asked--one of them spoke French, and perhaps they all
did--where they were, and were told, "Huiry, commune of Quincy." They
looked it up on their maps, nodded, and asked if the bridges on the
Marne had been destroyed, to which I replied that I did not know,--I had
not been down to the river. Half a truth and half a lie, but goodness
knows that it was hard enough to have to be polite. They thanked me
civilly enough and rode down the hill, as they could not pass the
barricade unless they had wished to give an exhibition of "high school."
Wherever they had been they had not suffered. Their horses were fine
animals, and both horses and men were well groomed and in prime
condition.
The other event was distressing, but about that I held my tongue.
Just after the Germans were here, I went down the road to call on my new
French friends at the foot of the hill, to hear how they had passed the
night, and incidentally to discover if there were any soldiers about.
Just in the front of their house I found an English bicycle scout,
leaning on his wheel and trying to make himself understood in a
one-sided monosyllabic dialogue, with the two girls standing in their
window.
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