Then suddenly came the war. One morning Senlis was filled with the blue-coated, red-trousered soldiers of France. An hour or two later they had gone, marching northwards. Some days passed, and they returned, hurrying southwards, weary and worn, with ragged, soiled uniforms, some bleeding and bruised, but none dismayed. Then there was a lull, and breathless townsmen came hurrying to the mayor with the terrible news that the Germans were coming! The mayor and the curé bade the people be calm, and do nothing to resist or hamper the enemy. They listened to his words, and gave up their hidden guns. Soon afterwards sixty thousand Germans marched in, seized the mayor as a hostage, and for two days remained in the town, mingling with the people, playing with the children, and behaving themselves well.
All this time there lay hidden in the attic of a house overlooking the main street six dusky sons of Algeria, soldiers of France, who had been trapped by the coming of the Germans. Their rifles were in their hands, and there was revenge in their hearts. There they lay, waiting for a chance to strike a blow against the enemy.
The chance soon came. The Germans paraded one morning, ready for their southward march. The mayor was released; the word was given, and the blue-gray legions tramped through the streets. As the rear of the long columns passed the Algerians in the garret aimed their rifles and fired. Six loud reports were heard, followed by two shrieks of pain and two heavy thuds on the cobbled road below.
"Halt!" The Germans turn and re-enter the town. The mayor is led out and shot; parties are told off to fire the place; petrol bombs are thrown into the houses; the railway station is destroyed; fierce flames spring up, and the smoke of burning homes rises to heaven. In a mile and a half of streets only three small cottages are spared.
Jean Bauer at the prison sees the flames approaching. He shuts himself in and waits. Nearer and nearer come the roar of the fire and the hoarse shouts of those who are destroying the place. Suddenly, as he begins to think that the prison will be spared, crash!—a bomb bursts through the roof. Bricks and beams fall about him, and a cloud of dust arises. He is pinned beneath the débris, and cannot move. He shouts; no one hears. For a day and a night he lies amidst the ruins. At last his feeble voice is heard, and kindly hands tear away the bricks and beams, and rescue him. A few days' care, and he is well again. But Senlis is a wilderness of desolation. It can never be the same again.
The town of Meaux, on the Marne, was also in German hands for a time. Meaux is a very interesting city, with a cathedral dating from the twelfth century. In 1681 a very celebrated man, named Bossuet,[112] became bishop of Meaux. He was one of the most eloquent men who ever lived, and fully deserved to be called "the golden-mouthed." Not only was he the first of French orators and one of the greatest masters of French prose, but he was brave and fearless as well, and strove earnestly to make men appreciate the littleness of earthly greatness and the greatness of heavenly joy.
When the Germans entered Meaux they found that the bishop was a man after Bossuet's likeness. The mayor and the chief officials had left the city, but the bishop remained. He was entreated to fly, but he replied, "My duty is here. I do not think the enemy will hurt me; but if they do, God's will be done. I cannot leave my cathedral or those of my flock who remain." The brave bishop met the German general, and obtained a promise from him that the invaders would behave well. They did so. Meaux owes its preservation to the good bishop.
