I detached myself from the crowd and stepped behind the rail, horribly conscious of unpleasant scrutiny. My face got hotter and hotter and I could only see a host of uplifted Belgian eyebrows. Even the clerks looked up and stared, unaccustomed as they evidently were to Herr Bauer's benignity. And I had to bear all that humiliation because—well, why?
Having exposed the facts, I will give you the privilege to form your own opinion which will be every bit as good as mine, I know.
11 P. M. My passport signed, sealed and written all over by the Imperial Government, is in my hand. I shall dream of long journeys, of bitter struggles and at last—freedom! Will the daylight never come?
November 7th, Saturday.
Saturday dawned cold, gray and shivery. Madame de M., Monsieur le consul hollandais, and I left the château at eight A. M. I was heartbroken to part from the dear people with whom I had experienced so much and I fancied their eyes looked longingly at the departing automobile. They, too, would have liked to come out into the sunshine of Freedom—how much!
From Liége to the frontier sentries stopped us often, but the consul's much-used passport, framed and glassed in like Napoleon's Abdication or the Declaration of Independence, was very convincing. Half an hour's cold drive along the Meuse brought us to Visé. On approaching it, we did not dream that we were nearing a town and in truth we were not—only the remains of one, for not a single building was standing. I had thought that Louvigné with its one lane was desolate and awful, but here were streets and streets of ashes and crumbled brick—and I seemed to see again the ruins of ancient Troy in Asia Minor, which are not more complete. Someone murmured, "Pompeii." But it is not comparable. The ages have woven about the broken columns of Pompeii a light film of romance and a bit of tender beauty springs up with the tiny, flowering weeds which push their way to the sun between many colored tiles. Here, the tragedy is too new; too crude; too bleeding!
The only living things I saw were a cat scampering down a deserted alley, and one man—half-dazed, looking at what was probably his own ruined home; the only wall to be seen which was, even in part, standing. It must have been an ironmonger's shop, for some black kettles still hung on nails against the stone, and iron stoves in all their bleakness stood up in bold relief on piles of ashes.
When the Germans came to Visé the commanding officer called the people together in the market place and harangued them at length, threatening them with dreadful punishments if they did not do so and so. He felt he had to, doubtless, as the town and the surrounding country are well known centers of the firearms industry; the peasants work in their own homes to a large extent and are very expert in the making of delicate weapons and also in their use.
So, when the sturdy Belgians could not digest another single threat, apparently, somebody fired a shot from the crowd which killed the officer while he was speaking. Then followed that frightful slaughter and the firing of the town, the remnants of which we saw to-day. Nobody on earth will ever know who fired the shot, probably, for the soldiers hate their officers and already German bullets have been found in German soldiers.