“Pardon, 'sieurs,” he said in Norman French, “but could I look through this house?”
“No civilians are permitted here now,” said the major. “How did you get here?”
“I was given a pass to return,” he explained. “Your pardon again, m'sieurs, but I am—I was—the mayor of this town, and this is my house. I mean, it was my house. The Germans came upon us so rapidly we had to leave on but two hours' notice, taking with us very little. Not until to-day could I secure leave to come back. I wished to see what was left of my home—I always had lived here before, you know—and to gather up some of my belongings, if I might.”
“Where did you come from?” asked the major.
“From ————.” He named a town twenty-two miles away.
“And how did you get here?”
“I walked.” He lifted his shoulders in an expressive gesture. “There was no other way. And I must walk back to-night. There is no shelter nearer except for soldiers.”
He looked past us into the main room of the house. Its floor of tiles was littered with dried mud. A table and three broken chairs that had given way beneath the weight of heavy and careless men were its only furniture now. The window panes had been shattered. It was hard to picture that this once had been a cozy, comfortable room, clean and tidy, smartened with pictures and ornaments upon the walls and with curtains at the casement openings, which now gaped so emptily.
“Not much is left, eh?” said the old man, his face twitching. “Well c'est la guerre!”
“I'm afraid your home is rather badly wrecked,” said the major. “Since I came here my men have tried to do no more damage to it than they could help, but Algerians were here before us; and the Algerians, as you know, are rough in their habits and sometimes they loot houses. Do you wish to enter? If so, go ahead. And if you are hungry I would be glad to have you stay and eat with us.”