On the Edge of the War Zone | Page 7

in one direction is at the Iles-lès-Villenoy, and in the other at Meaux.
So, as the Germans could not have crossed the Marne here, the canal
bridge was not destroyed, though it was mined. The barricades of loose
stones which the English built three weeks ago, both at the bridgehead
and at a bend in the road just before it is reached, where the road to
Mareuil sur Marne turns off, were still there.
The road along the canal and through Mareuil is the one over which the
German cavalry would have advanced had von Kluck's army succeeded
in crossing the Marne at Meaux, and it was patrolled and guarded by
the Yorkshire boys on September 2, and the Bedfords from the night of
the 3d to the morning of the 5th.
The road from the canal to the river, separated here by only a few yards,
leads through a wide avenue, across a private estate belonging to the
proprietor of the plaster quarries at Mareuil, to a ferry, beside which

was the lavoir. There is a sunken and terraced fruit garden below the
road, and an extensive enclosure for fancy fowl.
The bank of the river showed me a sad sight. The wash-houses were
sunk. They lay under water, with their chimneys sticking out. The little
river piers and all the row-boats had been smashed and most of them
sunk. A few of them, drawn up on the bank, were splintered into
kindling wood. This work of destruction had been done, most
effectively, by the English. They had not left a stick anywhere that
could have served the invaders. It was an ugly sight, and the only
consolation was to say, "If the Boches had passed, it would have been
worse!" This was only ugly. That would have been tragic.
The next day I had my first real news from Meaux. A woman arrived at
Amélie's, leading two dogs tied together with rope. She was a music
teacher, living at Meaux, and had walked over thirty miles, and arrived
exhausted. So they took her in for the night, and the next morning Père
harnessed Ninette and took her and her weary dogs to Meaux. It was
over two hours each way for Ninette, but it was better than seeing an
exhausted woman, almost as old as I am, finishing her pilgrimage on
foot. She is the first person returning to Meaux that we have seen.
Besides, I imagine Père was glad of the excuse to go across the Marne.
When he came back we knew exactly what had happened at the
cathedral city.
The picturesque mill bridges across the Marne have been partly saved.
The ends of the bridges on the town side were blown up, and the mills
were mined, to be destroyed on the German approach. Père was told
that an appeal was made to the English commanders to save the old
landmarks if possible, and although at that time it seemed to no one at
all likely that they could be saved, this precaution did save them. He
tells me that blowing up the bridge- heads smashed all the windows,
blew out all the doors, and damaged the walls more or less, but all that
is reparable.
Do you remember the last time we were at Meaux, how we leaned on
the stone wall on that beautiful Promenade des Trinitaires, and watched
the waters of the Marne churned into froth by the huge wheels of the
three lines of mills lying from bank to bank? I know you will be glad
they are saved. It would have been a pity to destroy that beautiful view.
I am afraid that we are in an epoch where we shall have to thank Fate

for every fine thing and every well-loved view which survives this war
between the Marne and the frontier, where the ground had been fought
over in all the great wars of France since the days of Charlemagne.
It seems that more people stayed at Meaux than I supposed. Monsignor
Morbeau stayed there, and they say about a thousand of the poor were
hidden carefully in the cellars. It had fourteen thousand inhabitants.
Only about five buildings were reached by bombs, and the damage is
not even worth recording.
I am sure you must have seen the Bishop in the days when you lived in
Paris, when he was curé at St. Honoré d'Eylau in the Place Victor Hugo.
At that time he was a popular priest--mondain, clever and eloquent. At
Meaux he is a power. No figure is so familiar in the picturesque old
streets, especially on market day, Saturday, as this tall,
powerful-looking man in his soutane and barrette, with his air of
authority, familiar yet dignified. He seems to know everyone by name,
is all