“The key to the wine cellar!” demanded the ruffian. In the twinkling of an eyelid the cellar was emptied, and several hundred bottles of champagne and other wine—if there is any other wine—were at the throats of the German soldiers. The same thing happened elsewhere. Stores and _cafés_ were cleared of their stock of wines and liqueurs in bottle and barrel. What the soldiers could not drink or carry away they spilt.
“Pas une bouteille! Pas une bouteille!” cried the distracted mayor as he showed me over the devastated cellars of his son-in-law, who had gone to the war. “Pas une bouteille!” He emphasised his ejaculation by biting his thumb.
“I gave a dozen bottles of good old wine for the sick and wounded,” said the dame of the inn, “but the brigands drank it, laughed in my face, and said, ‘Krieg guerre nichts payer.’” The result of this orgie was that hundreds of German cavalrymen were dead drunk on Sunday, and that fourteen did not recover from their debauch until the French arrived at Beton-Bazoches.
A French dragoon, wandering through the town and hearing snores that sounded like a whole battery of artillery in action, stuck his lance into what looked like a huge parcel wrapped in a blanket. To his amazement the parcel stirred. Another prod of the lance, and there came out of the blanket the head of a bearded Uhlan. One more touch of cold steel, and the mouth opened with a roar of laughter.
“Ja! Ja!” cried the Uhlan, stepping in lively style out of the blanket to avoid another prod of the lance. He was immediately recognised as the ruffian who had taken the key of the inn cellar, and had pleaded war as an excuse for non-payment of his score. He was searched, and on him were found 2,000 francs, which had doubtless been stolen.
On Sunday the Germans set fire to the stables and granaries of the modest little château, whose owner was absent, and next day they tried to burn some of the houses and shops, but were in too great a hurry to set them alight.
On Monday morning they posted their artillery on a height commanding the road to the west along which the French cavalry was advancing. But the enemy did not wait to be attacked. After firing a few shots they removed the guns to another hill on the east, only to abandon it promptly. Then they rode away, leaving in the village seven killed, twenty-three wounded, and fourteen drunken brigands. As they retired the Germans thrust their lances into the bodies of two wounded French soldiers.