"Could that have been a convoy caught by the mine? Or was it a dumping ground for the cars unable to follow in the retreat?"
The mine crater, which was big enough to hold a small villa, was overgrown now at the bottom with a little grass and moss.
On and on and on--till she fancied the moon, too, had turned as the sun had done, and started a downward course. It grew no colder, she grew no hungrier--but losing count of time, slipped on between the flying tree trunks, full of unwearied content. At last a light shone through the trees, and by a wooden bridge which led over another crater she came on a lonely house. "Café" was written on the door, but the shutters were tight shut, and only a line of light shone from a crack.
From within came sounds of laughter and men's voices. She knocked, and there was an instant silence, but no one came to answer. At length the bolts were withdrawn and the head of an old woman appeared through the door, which was cautiously opened a little.
"You don't know what you speak of! We have no eggs."
"No, no, nothing at all. Go on to Charleville. We have nothing."
But the door shut again, the bolts were shot, and a man's voice growled in the hidden room behind.
"Dubious hole. Yet it looks as though a big town were near----" And down the next slope she ran into Charleville. The town had been long abed, the street lamps were out, the cobbles wet and shining.
On the main boulevard one dark figure hurried along.
"Which is the 'Silver Lion'?" she called, her voice echoing in the empty street.
Soon, between rugs on a bed in the "Silver Lion," between a single sheet doubled in two, she slept--propping the lockless door with her suitcase.
The Renault slept or watched below in the courtyard, the moon sank, the small hours passed, the day broke, the first day in Charleville.
A stuffed bird stood upon a windless branch and through a window of blue and orange squares of glass a broken moon stared in.
A bedroom, formed from a sitting-room, a basin to wash in upon a red plush table--no glass, no jug, no lock upon the door. Instead, gilt mirrors, three bell ropes and a barometer. A bed with a mattress upon it and nothing more.
Beyond, a town without lights, without a station, without a milkshop, without a meat shop, without sheets, without blankets, crockery, cooking pans, or locks upon the doors. A population half-fed and poor. A sky black as ink and liquid as a river.