In all that chaos, with hardly a wall intact, at the corner of what
was once the cathedral, stood a heroic marble figure of Burgomaster
Vandenpeereboom. It was quite untouched and as placid as the little
river, a benevolent figure rising from the ruins of war.
"They have come like a pestilence," said the General. "When they go
they will leave nothing. What they will do is written in what they
have done."
Monsieur le Commandant had disappeared. Now he returned triumphant,
carrying a great bundle in both arms.
"I have been to what was the house of a relative," he explained. "He
has told me that in the cellar I would find these. They will interest
you."
"These" proved to be five framed photographs of the great paintings
that had decorated the walls of the great Cloth Hall. Although they
had been hidden in a cellar, fragments of shell had broken and torn
them. But it was still possible to gain from them a faint idea of the
interior beauty of the old building before its destruction.
I examined them there in the public square, with a shell every now and
then screeching above but falling harmlessly far away.
A priest joined us. He told pathetically of watching the destruction
of the Arcade, of seeing one arch after another go down until there
was nothing left.
"They ate it," said the priest graphically.
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