He stood there, a simple fisherman, as a protest against the
failure of civilization and the cowardice in the hearts of men. I lifted my
hat to him.
Close to Paris, too, in little market gardens and poor plots of land,
women stooped over their cabbages, and old men tended the fruits of
the earth. On one patch a peasant girl stood with her hands on her
hips staring at her fowls, which were struggling and clucking for the
grain she had flung down to them. There was a smile about her lips.
She seemed absorbed in the contemplation of the feathered crowd.
Did she know the Germans were coming to Paris? If so, she was not
afraid.
How quiet it was in the great city! How strangely and deadly quiet!
The heels of my two companions, and my own, made a click-clack
down the pavements, as though we were walking through silent halls.
Could this be Paris--this city of shuttered shops and barred windows
and deserted avenues? There were no treasures displayed in the
Rue de la Paix. Not a diamond glinted behind the window panes.
Indeed, there were no windows visible, but only iron sheeting, drawn
down like the lids of dead men's eyes.
In the Avenue de l'Opera no Teutonic tout approached us with the old
familiar words, "Want a guide, sir?" "Lovely ladies, sir!" The lovely
ladies had gone.
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