It was said in France that no German could resist a clock, and that the dearth of clocks after the war is quite noticeable. To prove the contrary, and to applaud the officers who had lived in Petit Val (and there had been many hundreds of them), my clock was ticking away as of old on my mantelpiece.
Having finished packing the things to take with me, I wished to have a look at protected Petit Val.
The "unavoidable destruction" had been interpreted in a very liberal sense.
The salon was a sight never to be forgotten. The mirrors which paneled the whole of the east wall were broken, as if stones had been thrown at them; every picture had been pierced by bayonets. The beautiful portrait of the Marquis de Marigny (the former owner of Petit Val and brother of Madame de Pompadour) had vanished. Instead of the Aubusson furniture we had left, which, I suppose, has been transferred to other homes, I found two pianos, one grand (not ours), two billiard-tables (not ours), some iron tables, and some very hard iron chairs (certainly not ours), annexed, I should say, from a neighboring café.
The library, formerly containing such rare and valuable books, is now a bedroom—the shelves half empty, the books scattered about, some of them piled up in a corner and used as a table. Henry said that, when any one wanted to light a fire or a pipe, they simply tore a page out of a book. What did they care? Was it not one of the "exigencies of war"? The frames and glasses of the engravings were broken; but, fortunately, all the engravings were not ruined.
You remember Mrs. Moulton's boudoir, where all was so dainty and complete? The soldiers had converted it into a kitchen, and at the moment we were there they were cooking some very smelly cabbage à la tedesco.
My pretty pavilion! If you could have seen it!
Evidently the all-powerful flag had not protected this, for it was without doors, windows, and parquets. The only thing in it was a dear little calf munching his last meal before being killed. To make it look more like a slaughter-house, there were haunches of beef hanging on the Louis XV. appliques, which had been left on the walls to serve as nails. Fresh blood was dropping from them on the sacks of potatoes underneath.
The officers had coffee served under the charmille.
I was glad to get something to sustain my sinking heart. Henry and I took a sad walk through the park. The once beautifully kept lawn is now like a ploughed field, full of ruts and stones.