Letter from Mrs. Martin to Mrs. Guérin CF 64
My dear sister,
17 January 1871.
I don't know if you know that the Prussians have been with us since Monday morning at seven o'clock; They marched in front of the house until one o'clock in the afternoon, they are twenty-five thousand in number. I could not describe our anxieties to you. Saturday evening, the Prefect called together the National Guard, he wanted us to defend the city. On his order, preparations were begun during the night to blow up the three bridges, but a petition was made to prevent it from continuing, and at about eleven o'clock in the morning the work was happily stopped.
All the inhabitants are in consternation. Our poor motives went to fight against the Prussians who were a league from the town; we heard the cannon on three different roads: road to Mamers, road to Aunay and road to Le Mans, until six o'clock in the evening.
It was pitiful to see our poor soldiers return, some without feet, others without hands; I have seen some whose faces were all bloody; finally, there have been many wounded, all the ambulances are full; we do not know the number of dead, among whom there are a number of francs‑tireurs.
Is it reasonable, when you have so few men to oppose the enemy, to send them like this to the slaughter, against an army like the one we had before our eyes?
No one had any idea what it was; the Prussians have a formidable war machine. It's something very sinister to see their battalions with black flags and a skull on their helmet. How come not everyone recognizes that this war is a punishment?
On Monday, about three o'clock, all the gates were marked for so many enemy soldiers to be lodged; a tall sergeant came to ask us to visit the house. I took him to the first floor, telling him that we had four children; he didn't try to go upstairs, luckily for us. Finally, nine are imposed on us and we have nothing to complain about; in our neighborhood, small shopkeepers who have only two apartments receive fifteen, twenty and even twenty-five. The ones we have aren't mean or looters, but they're greedy like I've never seen, they eat everything without bread! This morning, they asked me for a cheese; I made them buy a big one and they ate it at four, without a pittance! They swallow a mutton stew like soup.
I don't mind them; when they ask me too much, I tell them it's impossible. This morning they brought enough meat to feed thirty people, we are cooking it for them.
We were forced to leave the first floor completely to them and go down to the ground floor. If I told you everything, I would make a book of it.
The city refused to pay the amount demanded of it and we were threatened with reprisals. Finally, the Duke of Mecklenburg contented himself with three hundred thousand francs, in return for an enormous quantity of material. All the cattle in the area have been brought to them. Now no more milk anywhere; what will my little Céline do, she who drank a liter a day! And how will the poor mothers who have very small children do? No more meat either in any butcher's shop; finally, the city is in desolation. Everyone is crying except me.
My husband is sad, he can neither eat nor sleep; I think he's going to get sick.
I forgot to tell you that at the beginning, during the bombardment of the city, there was a lumberyard and several houses burned, shrapnel fell even in our street; a projectile smashed a storefront very close to us; we had to go down to the cellar.
But I must finish telling you all these horrors. I fear, my dear Sister, that your city will suffer the same fate. May the good Lord preserve you from it! It's really heartbreaking. We receive no news from Le Mans, all the lines are cut and also the telegraph.
I thank you a thousand times for the beautiful New Year's gifts you sent to the children, it's far too much for this unhappy year. Little Céline was amazed by her doll and her box. It turned out perfectly because she had been very unwell with rashes all over her body and a terrible fever for four days. I was two nights without sleeping, I didn't know what to do with this poor little girl. Anyway, thank God, she's fine, it doesn't seem like it any more.
Marie and Pauline colored pictures all day and argued quite a bit over that famous box of paint; one said, "It's mine." The other replied: "It's mine too, my aunt said I use it." But Pauline, who is so lively, lost her brushes, applied too many colours; to end it, I picked up the box until further notice.
Pauline's white book is too beautiful, she is delighted with it, but will this poor little girl use it this year?
I am very afraid that she will not be able to make her first Communion, because I do not know when they will be able to return to the Visitation.
Write to me as soon as possible, please. I am worried about you because of the occupation of the country.
