I had to listen to her "tale of woe."

She had hidden practically everything--clocks, bed and table linen, all
her mattresses, except the ones she and Père slept on, practically all
their clothes, except what they had on their backs and one change. I
had not given it much thought, though I do remember her saying,
when the subterranean passage was sealed up: "Let the Boches
come! They'll find mighty little in my house."

Well--the clocks are rusted. They are soaking in kerosene now, and I
imagine it is little good that will do them. All her linen is damp and
smelly, and much of it is mildewed. As for the blankets and flannels--
ough!

I felt sympathetic, and tried to appear so. But I was in the condition of
"L'homme qui rit." The smallest effort to express an emotion tended
to make me grimace horribly. She was so funny. I was glad when she
finished saying naughty words about herself, and declaring that
"Madame was right not to upset her house," and that the next time
the Boches thought of coming here they would be welcome to
anything she had. "For," she ended, "I'll never get myself into this sort
of a mess again, my word of honor!" And she marched out of the
house, carrying the bottle of eau de Javelle with her. The whole
hamlet smells of it this minute.

I had a small-sized fit of hysterics after she had gone, and it was not
cured by opening up my waste-baskets and laying out the "treasures"
she had saved for me. I laughed until I cried.

There were my bouillion cups, and no saucers. The saucers were