The people of Boulogne could not understand, no Frenchman of the north
can understand, why their ports and towns are silent after the tramp of
so many regiments who have left a great tract of country open and
undefended. In that corner of France the people listen intently for the
first clatter of hoofs and for the first cry "Les Uhlans." Rumors came
that the enemy has been seen in neighboring towns and villages. Can one
wonder that mothers and fathers rush from their houses and wander forth
in a blind, unreasoning way to swell the panic tide of fugitives,
homeless and without food, dropping here and there on the wayside in
utter weariness?
I was lucky in getting out of Boulogne on the last train bound for
Paris, though not guaranteed to reach the capital. As a matter of fact,
I was even more lucky because it did not arrive at its destination and
enabled me to alight in the war zone and proceed to more interesting
places.
I will tell at once the story of the French retirement when the Germans
advanced from Namur down the valley of the Meuse, winning the way at a
cost of human life as great as that of defeat, yet winning their way.
For France the story of that retirement is as glorious as anything in
her history.
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