On, on I sped, through the slippery mud, looking neither right nor left, but straight ahead in the hope of recognizing a familiar face or form.
Twilight was deepening when I entered Bezu-le-Gury (our nearest home town), which seemed to show apparently but few signs of pillaging. I did not even dismount to make inquiries, but pedaled on till I reached the summit of that long, long hill that leads straight down to my home. Excitement lent a new impulse to my energy, and my heart thumped hard as I recognized familiar cottages still standing. This raised my hopes and sent me rocket-like down that steep incline.
Still not a soul in sight—no noise save that of the guns roaring in the distance.
But what was that in the semi-darkness ahead of me? A dog? Could it be true? I back-pedaled and whistled—a long, low, familiar howl greeted my ears and brought the tears to my eyes.
And then my poor old beagle hound came trotting up the road to welcome me—his tail wagging joyously and a long frayed cord dangling from his collar.
This was a relief and somewhat steadied and prepared me for what was to come. Through a gap in the trees I caught a glimpse of the roofs below. And so I rounded the corner and started on my last hundred yards.
The broken and tangled grill of our stately gateway told of the invaders' visit. A few paces further and the chateau come into full view.
Yes, it was standing, but only the shell of that lovely home I had fled from but fourteen days before.
Dropping my machine I rushed towards the entrance hall, cast one glance through the broken panes into the vestibule, and turned away in despair.
All the willful damage that human beings could do had been wrought on the contents of my home.