Génicourt, his birthplace, devoted to ruin, to the worst ravages, to the fate of those wretched villages whose funeral pyres had blazed like beacons on the horizon, yesterday.
"Come along, sir."
He followed me like a child, adding:
"You, you understand, don't you? You who are a Lorrain too. The captain told me that over there in your direction, towards Lunéville, we have had to retire too, and let them penetrate into our territory...."
It was a striking coincidence—that fact that he told me. I had had a presentiment of it. All night I had confusedly turned this apprehension over in my mind. Eberménil. Eberménil.
How often had I not repeated to myself that I felt no particular attachment to this hamlet where chance, and chance alone, had decreed that I was to be born! I had not set foot in it since I was ten years old. We only kept the estate out of affection for the past. Why did I suddenly have a strikingly clear vision of the white house with green shutters, the big fir beneath whose shade the table was often laid? I called to mind other scenes. The little pond where we always tried to catch the gold fish—I had fallen in twice—the nursery where we fought with Euréka pistols, the croquet lawn, where mother used to play with me against father and Victor—Victor! Mother! O dear shades! Yonder lay my childhood dead, with the vanished beings. This part of the world was for me a unique centre of emotions. I made a vow to go back there and soak myself with its melancholy and charm. But a cloud intervened. What if the old place had been sacked? Perhaps the old fir-tree had fallen! Revolted at the thought, I felt the shock of an individual rancour. My heart contracted. We should see!
DARK DAYS