The beds were made over subterranean caves, the wardrobes
were make-believe doors, in every corner was lurking an assassin. This
traitorous nation, which was arranging its ground like the scenario of
a melodrama, would have to be chastised. The municipal officers,
the priests, the schoolmasters were directing and protecting the
sharpshooters.
Desnoyers was shocked at the indifference with which these men were
stalking around the burning village. They did not appear to see the fire
and destruction; it was just an ordinary spectacle, not worth looking
at. Ever since they had crossed the frontier, smoldering and blasted
villages, fired by the advance guard, had marked their halting places on
Belgian and French soil.
When entering Villeblanche the automobile had to lower its speed. Burned
walls were bulging out over the street and half-charred beams were
obstructing the way, obliging the vehicle to zigzag through the smoking
rubbish. The vacant lots were burning like fire pans between the houses
still standing, with doors broken, but not yet in flames. Desnoyers saw
within these rectangular spaces partly burned wood, chairs, beds,
sewing machines, iron stoves, all the household goods of the well-to-do
countryman, being consumed or twisted into shapeless masses. Sometimes
he would spy an arm sticking out of the ruins, beginning to burn like a
long wax candle.
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