Many a moving tale did the good bishop tell me as we sat in his little
house--surely the most meagre and ascetic of episcopal palaces, in which
there was nothing more sumptuous than his cherry and scarlet soutane and
his biretta.

We lay the night at an inn that must have been at one time a seigneurial
mansion, for it had a noble courtyard. I was shown to a room, and,
having unpacked my valise, I turned on the taps, but no water issued; I
applied a match to the gas-jet, but no flame appeared; I tried to open
the window, but the sash stuck. I rang the bell; that at least
responded. A maid appeared; I pointed to the taps and made
demonstrations with the gas-jet. To all of which she replied quite
simply, "Ah! monsieur, c'est la guerre!" I had heard that answer before.
With such a plea of confession and avoidance had the boots at the Hôtel
de la Poste at Rouen excused a gross omission to call me in the morning,
and thus also had the aged waiter at the Métropole disposed of a
flagrant error in my bill. But this time it was convincing enough;
gas-workers and waterworks men and carpenters were all at the war, and
in the town of Meaux water was carried in pitchers and light was
purchased at the chandler's. In France you get used to these things and
imitate with a good grace the calm stoicism of your Allies. For, after
all, the enemy was pretty near, and as I retired to my couch I could
hear the thunder of their guns.

FOOTNOTE:

[9] Reputed author of the sequel to the chronicles of Guillaume de
Nangis. See M. Lacabane in the _Bibliothèque de l'École des Chartes_ (1e
série), t. iii.