The Marne winds, steely grey,
through the white landscape, and we run down to it quickly. Soon we are
making our way on foot through the dripping streets of Meaux to the old
bridge, which the British broke down--one of three--on their retreat--so
soon to end! Then, a few minutes in the lovely cathedral--its beauty was
a great surprise to me!--a greeting to the tomb of Bossuet--ah! what a
_Discours_ he would have written on the Battle of the Marne!--and a
rapid journey of some twenty-five miles back to Paris.
But there is still a story left to tell--the story of Vareddes.
"Vareddes"--says a local historian of the battle--"is now a very quiet
place. There is no movement in the streets and little life in the
houses, where some of the injuries of war have been repaired." But there
is no spot in the wide battle-field where there burns a more passionate
hatred of a barbarous enemy. "Push open this window, enter this house,
talk with any person whatever whom you may happen to meet, and they will
tell you of the torture of old men, carried off as hostages and murdered
in cold blood, or of the agonies of fear deliberately inflicted on old
and frail women, through a whole night.
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