VIII
4 September, 1914.
THE booming of cannon is still very near.
Scarcely anyone is left in the neighborhood. The butcher has gone. Fortunately, the baker is staying, and as long as the flour holds out we shall have bread.
If this state of isolation lasts long, it is proposed to kill and divide up the pet horse to feed those who are still here. Poor beast! I hope we shall not come to that pass. I feel a sort of gratitude to him.
The few people still remaining in Quincy and Voisins seem to make one big family. We live almost in common. The town-crier, Marin, with the help of Pron, the road-maker, kill and distribute an ox that was left behind by a refugee. Mirat, the carpenter, goes a long distance now and again to get provisions of some kind, and so renders us a very great service. Everyone is doing something to help everyone else,—holding his neighbor by the hand, as it were.
But we must try to find some sort of shelter, in case, owing to our position, we should be exposed to a bombardment.
Near by are deep spacious wine-cellars, which with their massive arches look like vast cloisters. We prepare provisions and carry them to these cellars, so that we can take refuge there if need be.