tions of interior walls and the stump of its tower,
white, formless, ghostly.
"I was in Arras a few weeks before the war began," Williams said. "Had to change trains, and was just too short of time to run down and see this place. Isn't much to look at now, is it?"
Of the old Spanish houses several were completely down. Others retained just enough form to expose the brutality of their wounds. With a sense of sheer gratitude we followed Williams down stone steps into the cellar of one of these. The bombardment was a trifle muffled here. An elderly French woman and her pretty daughter greeted us.
"You're not afraid to stay?" I asked.
The girl tossed her head. The woman laughed. She indicated a cook stove, a table, a bed, a rough counter, half a dozen chairs.
"They've driven us downstairs, but why should we be driven from our home and our business? We are quite comfortable, and we do a little trade with soldiers. Monsieur has seen Arras during the bombardment. Perhaps he would like to see what it was like before. An album artistique might interest monsieur."
She smiled at my bewilderment, fetching a tastefully made up blue book with silk cords and tassels. It was impossible not to buy the thing,
