Most of the inhabitants had fled, but the farmers and
shopkeepers had remained. At intervals, the German batteries, searching
round with apparent aimlessness, would drop a score or so of shells about
the neighbourhood; but the peasant, with an indifference that was almost
animal, would still follow his ox-drawn plough; the old, bent crone,
muttering curses, still ply the hoe. The proprietors of the tiny
_epiceries_ must have been rapidly making their fortunes, considering the
prices that they charged the unfortunate _poilu_, dreaming of some small
luxury out of his five sous a day. But as one of them, a stout, smiling
lady, explained to Joan, with a gesture: "It is not often that one has a
war."
Joan had gone out in September, and for a while the weather was pleasant.
The men, wrapped up in their great-coats, would sleep for preference
under the great sycamore trees. Through open doorways she would catch
glimpses of picturesque groups of eager card-players, crowded round a
flickering candle. From the darkness there would steal the sound of
flute or zither, of voices singing.
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