When they had passed the shattered staging of the past they came out
upon the country which had been occupied by Germans but not by warfare.
Here the fields, uncultivated, had grown wild, but round the sparse
villages little patches of ground had been dug and sown. Not a cow
grazed anywhere, not a sheep or a goat. No hens raced wildly across
village streets. Far ahead on the white ribbon of road a black figure
toiled in the gutter, and Fanny debated with herself: "Might I offer
a lift?"
Looking ahead she saw no village or cottage within sight, and with a
murmured apology to the Russian she pulled up beside the old woman whom
she had overtaken.
"Where are you going?"
"To Briey."
"We, too. Get in, madame."
The Russian made no comment. The old crone, knuckled, hard-breathing,
climbed in, holding uncertainly to the windscreen and pulling after her
her basket and umbrella.
"Cover yourself, madame," ordered Fanny, as to a child, and handed her
a rug.
"I have never been in an auto before," whispered the old creature
against a wind which made her breathless. "I have seen them pass."
"You are not afraid?"
"Oh, no!"
"Cover yourself well, well."
Gallant old women, toiling like ants upon the long stretches of road,
who, suddenly finding themselves projected through the air at a pace
they had never experienced in their lives before, would say not a word,
though the colour be whipped to their cheeks and their eyes rained tears
until, clinging to the arm of the driver: "Stop here, mademoiselle!"
they would whisper, expecting the car to rear and stop dead at their own
doorstep; and finding themselves still carried on, and half believing
themselves kidnapped: "Ah, mademoiselle, stop, stop.
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