THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



517 



laged, homes looted, men and women mur- 

 dered. Cultured people, like the Kellers, 

 tell the story quietly ; but their eyes have 

 a dangerous gleam. "I would gladly have 

 given my life," the mayor said, "if I 

 could have spared my fellow-citizens 

 those horrible atrocities." 



Unarmed men fired on ; an old woman 

 run through with a bayonet ; a mother 

 driven insane at seeing her son stabbed 

 and her daughter carried off by drunken 

 soldiers — such stories are so common in 

 the foothill towns of the Vosges that the 

 very air is polluted. The birds in the 

 chateau garden have almost forgotten 

 how to sing since the Prussians passed 

 that way. 



But on this road there is an even sadder 

 sight than grave, silent Luneville. It is 

 the skeleton of Gerbeviller, the Pompeii 

 of France. Pompeii was wrecked by the 

 might of God ; this town by human hate. 

 To reach the most spectral ruins I saw 

 in all France, we crossed a bridge which 

 will flame in history, the one held by the 

 75 chasseurs. 



THE CHASSEURS WHO ARE TRAINING 

 AMERICAN TROOPS 



We have an especial interest in the 

 chasseurs, for they have been training our 

 American boys at the front. No soldiers 

 of France are as picturesque as these sun- 

 burnt, fiery-eyed men of the Alpine and 

 Pyreneean heights, who have left the stain 

 of their loyal blood on every frontier they 

 have touched. The Germans call them 

 "the blue devils," and say they can run 

 faster than the chamois, but it is the Boche 

 who runs when they come his way. They 

 are a merry care-free lot. I heard a 

 story of one who fired in a kneeling posi- 

 tion instead of lying flat on the ground. 

 When asked by a fellow-soldier why he 

 was so foolhardy, he explained that he 

 had a bottle of wine in his pocket and 

 it had no cork. 



During the Battle of Lorraine, 75 

 chasseurs were posted at the bridge 

 which leads to Gerbeviller. As the Ger- 

 man column hove in sight they tore up 

 the pavement, threw breastworks across 

 the bridge, and stationed their machine 

 guns. This was in the early morning. 

 At four that afternoon a lone chasseur 



fired the last round of ammunition and 

 slipped away to join his companions, 51 

 of whom had survived. For eight hours 

 75 Frenchmen had held off 12,000 Ger- 

 mans. 



Angered into fury by the machine guns, 

 which had held them so long at bay, the 

 Prussians entered the town, firing and 

 burning every house they passed. Like 

 many French towns, Gerbeviller was built 

 on one long main street, with lanes lead- 

 ing from it. Only stark walls stand. Oil 

 was poured into the cellars to make more 

 of a blaze. If the people remained in 

 the houses, so much the better. . . . 



SISTER JULIE, A HEROINE AMONG HEROES 



The refugees have crept back. On a 

 mangled wall I saw the sign : "Cafe of 

 the Ruins." A girl in black was placing 

 a bunch of wild flowers before the broken 

 image of the Virgin on the wall of what 

 was once a church. Only one building 

 in the town stands — the humble little 

 hospice which shelters Sister Julie, one 

 of the great heroines of France. 



We rang the doorbell and a Sister of 

 Mercy ushered us into a narrow hallway, 

 and then into a little sitting-room with 

 oil-cloth on the table, and a few stiff- 

 backed chairs. There was a battered 

 organ and an ancient chest and two pic- 

 tures of religious subjects on the wall. 

 I can see every detail even now, for this 

 was the setting of the woman who de- 

 fied the whole German army. 



She sat upright in her chair with hands 

 crossed — a short, plump woman past 60, 

 with bright hazel eyes, rosy cheeks, and 

 a firm mouth. Sister Julie, whose name 

 before she was Mother Superior was 

 Madame Amelie Rigard, has a most au- 

 thoritative air. Beneath the cape of her 

 black habit gleams the cross of the Legion 

 of Honor, pinned there by the President 

 of the Republic, who, with many other 

 dignitaries, made a pilgrimage to this re- 

 mote village to decorate this little old 

 woman. 



Sister Julie speaks rapidly, with an oc- 

 casional gesture. She told us of the 75 

 chasseurs — how the first to be wounded 

 were brought to her house. She took off 

 the ammunition belts and sent them back 

 by a nun to the bridge. When the houses 



