Midway between Hombleux and Canizy, at the crossing of the highway, stood on one side a Calvary, and on the other a demolished farm house. The lane here emerged from a hollow, so that both objects rose distinctly against the sky. About the Calvary, the poplars were shattered by shell-fire; back of the farm sloped an orchard, whose every tree had been lopped. Across the road and into the fields ran a zig-zag trench, where could be found even yet blue coats and rusted helmets; the line of defence evidently for the highway, against the German advance. A square declivity, formerly a clay pit, perhaps an hectare in area, bordered road and trench. Its banks were green with grass, and in the bottom land was a little orchard. At one side, half-hidden, was a hut.
A solitary farm is rare in these rural communities, where the houses as a rule cluster in villages. I was undecided at first as to whether the Farm of the Calvary belonged to Hombleux or Canizy. But in the yard were two obvious reasons for calling and inquiring. Higher than the hut rose a heaped hay stack; at its base the apples from the orchard had been gathered in a mound of red and white. I ran down the path, too steep for walking, and knocked at the door. It was opened by a gaunt, dark man of perhaps forty-five. At a table sat his wife paring apples; and in a corner, quite unabashed, his daughter, pretty Colombe, finished lacing her bodice before she stepped forward to greet me. So small a room, in any of our villages, I had never been in. A double bed took up all the space except for a border of about two feet. The roof was so low that the man seemed to have acquired a perpetual stoop.
“Entrez! entrez!” was the hospitable entreaty; but not seeing how this might be possible, I remained on the threshold.
“I come from the Château,” I began.
“But yes, you are one of the Dames Américaines, eh! We have often seen you cross the fields. Colombe, here, goes to the sewing class with you.” Colombe smiled a recognition.
“I should have called before, perhaps; but I was not aware that a family lived in so small a place, until I saw the smoke from the chimney to-day.”
“Yes, it is small,” admitted the wife.
“A Boche hut, eh!” agreed her husband. “Yonder, across the road is my farm. Not one stone left; all destroyed. I have asked for a baraque.”
I measured the interior with my eyes. “You would not have room for another bed——”