None of our shops is open yet. Indeed almost no one has returned to
Couilly; and Meaux, they say, is still deserted. Yet I cannot honestly
say that I have suffered for anything. I have an abundance of fruit.
We have plenty of vegetables in Père's garden. We have milk and
eggs. Rabbits and chickens run about in the roads simply asking to
be potted. There is no petrol, but I, luckily, had a stock of candles,
and I love candlelight--it suits my house better than lamps. It is over a
fortnight since we had sugar or butter or coffee. I have tea. I never
would have supposed that I could have got along so well and not felt
deprived. I suppose we always have too much--I've had the proof.
Perhaps had there been anyone with me I should have felt it more.
Being alone I did not give it a thought.

Sunday afternoon, the weather being still fine and the distant
booming of the cannon making reading or writing impossible--I am
not yet habituated to it--I went for a walk. I took the road down the hill
in the direction of the Marne. It is a pretty walk--not a house all the
way.

It leads along what is called the Pavé du Roi, dropping down into the
plain of the valley, through the woods, until the wheat fields are
reached, and then rising from the plain, gently, to the high suspension
bridge which crosses the canal, two minutes beyond which lies the
river, here very broad and sluggish.

This part of the canal, which is perfectly straight from Condé to
Meaux, is unusually pretty. The banks are steep, and "tall poplar
trees" cast long shadows across grass-edged footpaths, above which
the high bridge is swung. There is no bridge here across the Marne;
the nearest in one direction is at the Iles-lès-Villenoy, and in the other