"
"My son wrote me it was the most wonderful old chateau in France," she
pleaded. "I've got in my pocket now a snapshot he sent me."
The Frenchman couldn't resist. You know how charming the French are to
old ladies. "It isn't as safe as--as the Bank of England!" he laughed.
"Sometimes they keep this road rather hot. But to-day, I have told you,
things are quiet all along. We will take what Madame calls a tiny
glimpse."
Orders were given to our chauffeur. Brian was with the O'Farrells,
coming on behind, and of course the Red Cross taxi followed at our heels
like a faithful dachshund. Our big car flew swiftly, and the little one
did its jolting best to keep up the pace, for time wouldn't wait for
us--and these autumn days are cutting themselves short.
Presently we saw a thing which proved that the road was indeed "hot"
sometimes: a neat, round shell-hole, which looked ominously new! We
swung past it with a bump, and flashed into sight of a ruin which
dwarfed all others we had seen--yes, dwarfed even cathedrals! A long
line of ramparts rising from a high headland of gray-white
chalk-ramparts crowned with broken, round towers, which the sun was
painting with heraldic gold: the stump of a tremendous keep that reared
its bulk like a giant in his death struggle, for a last look over his
shield of shattered walls. This was what German malice had made of
Coucy, pride of France, architectural masterpiece of feudal times!
"This is as far as I dare go!" our lieutenant said, with a brusque
gesture which bade the chauffeur stop.
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