"I feel quieter now, my house is in order."
It was as much as to say that all she set store by had disappeared; the family had hidden, buried, and walled up whatever they had been able to hide, bury, and wall up.
Our guests of yesterday's dinner had told us that the owners of a northern farm had unpaved a yard, dug a huge hole, huddled in pieces of furniture and pictures, and then filled up and repaved it. This farm could await the invaders: it was in order. But our house was not in order—that was obvious enough.
"You have here," said our visitors, "a beautiful Empire clock. It would be a great pity to have it sent to Germany."
"And this lovely console table—and those vases...."
A few minutes after the two officers, with whom we were gravely discussing, asked:
"Where is our friend Laison?"
"In the garden with Colette, digging holes...."
"Is he? then we will too."
And soon after, our visitors, in their shirt-sleeves, seemed to strive who would dig hardest; and we, just as busy, ran in all directions, and brought in objects of every kind.