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.