Then they blew them
up, making their quarters meanwhile at a safe distance, in the convent.
As for that convent--you will see what happened there when the Boches
had no further use for it!
In happy days before the war, whose joys we took comfortably for
granted, Chauny had several chateaux of beauty and charm. It had pretty
houses and lots of fine shops and a park. It was proud of its _mairie_
and church and great _usine_ (now a sight of horror), and the newer
parts of the town did honour to their architects. But--Chauny was on the
direct road between Cologne and Paris. Nobody thought much about this
fact then, except that it helped travel and so was good for the
country. It is only now that one knows what a price Chauny paid for the
advantage. Instead of a beautiful town there remains a heap of cinders,
with here and there a wrecked facade of pitiful grace or broken dignity
to tell where stood the proudest buildings.
The sky was empty of enemy 'planes; but our guide hurried us through the
town, where the new road shone white in contrast with our cars; and
having hidden the autos under a group of trees outside, led us on foot
toward the convent. The approach was exquisite: a long, long avenue of
architectural elms, arbour-like in shade, once the favourite evening
promenade of Chauny. That tunnel of emerald and gold would have been an
interlude of peace between two tragedies--tragedy of the town, tragedy
of the convent--if the ground hadn't been strewn with torn papers, like
leaves scattered by the wind: official records flung out of strong boxes
by ruthless German hands, poor remnants no longer of value, and saved
from destruction only by the kindly trees, friends of happy memories.
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