In the midst of all these people in vehicles and on foot, terrified cattle jostle each other. Some that were in leading have broken loose; others, still tied, cannot keep up, and let themselves be dragged along. Sheep and cows run about the fields or simply stop where they are and begin to graze.
As a result of the increasing difficulty in taking their cattle with them, peasants dispose of them for almost nothing: a cow, forty francs.
The hospital at Quincy, though it cannot be of service to the wounded, will at least, while waiting for them, have cared for the unfortunate refugees. It is distributing soup to three hundred people daily, as well as milk and other food and drink. Tired women stop there to rest a little before resuming their sad journey to the unknown.
They all have a tale of horror to tell—barbarous acts committed by the Germans in the homes these people are fleeing from—acts so terrible that it is almost impossible to believe them. One man tells us that a young boy in his family had both hands cut off by these wretches. "This child," he said, "must have been taken along this road. We started out together, but I was so tired and hungry that I stopped to rest, and got separated from the others. The Boches have destroyed everything I possessed." (I have made inquiries. People tell me they saw at the Couilly bridge a little boy of about seven with both arms wrapped in bandages.)
Supplies of food at the hospital are beginning to give out. The town-crier is sent out to make an appeal to the generosity of the citizens, and once more the kitchen is filled with food.
The town-crier, in conformance with instructions from the Prefect, orders the civil population to carry to the town hall any arms they may have in their possession. Everyone hastens to comply. In their panic, people even carry the ancient arms of their panoplies.
All day long (and for several days back as well) Boche aviators have been flying over us, and seem to be exchanging signals. They come from the direction of Meaux, circle about in large and small circles as far as Voisins, from there they dart in a straight line towards Paris, returning after rather a long flight, still in a straight line in the direction of Soissons, where we lose sight of them. We have noticed this manœuvre several times.
I walked to Esbly this morning in company with a lad of about fifteen who has come with his mother to take refuge in Condé. He told me that, together with several friends whom they brought with them in their motor, they have been fleeing before the enemy all the way from Belgium. "We wanted to go to Compiègne," he said, "but were advised to come here instead, because there was less danger. But here, no more than elsewhere," he added, after a pause, "are we safe. We shall not stay. We leave to-morrow."
"But," I asked, "what makes you think we are in danger here?"