"That's just like a woman! Be a sport!" And he dashed down the hall.
We had just time to see that he had "put that uniform on." He was
going into the big game, and he was dressed for the part. In a certain
sense, all the men were, when we at last, bags in hand, gathered in
the dining room, so we were not surprised to find the Nurse in her
hospital rig, with a white cap covering her hair, and the red cross on
her arm. We knew at once that she was remaining behind with the Doctor
and the Critic.
The cars were at the door. Angéle, with her baby in her arms, was
sitting in one.
"Come on," said the Doctor, "the quicker you are out of this the
better."
And, almost without a word, like soldiers under orders, we were packed
into the two cars. The Youngster, the Lawyer, and the two officers
stood together with their heads bent over a map.
"Better take a side road," said the officer, "until you get near to
Meaux, then take the route de Senlis. It will lead you right over the
hill into the Meaux, then you will find the _route nationale_ free.
Cross the Marne there, and on into Paris by the forest of Vincennes."
"Let the Lawyer lead," said the Doctor, "and be prudent, Youngster.
You know where a letter will reach me. See that the girls get off
safely!" He shook hands all round. The cars shot out of the gate,
tooted for a passage through the straggling line of tired men in
Khaki, took the first turn to get out of the way, and shot down the
hill to the river.
"Well," said the Youngster, who was driving our car, with the
Violinist beside him, "I think we behaved fine, and, by Jove, how I
hate to go just now! But I have to join day after to-morrow, and I
suppose it will be a long time before I see anything as exciting as
this. Bother it. Well, you were amazed at the calmness only
yesterday!"
No one replied. We were all busy with our own thoughts, and with
"playing the game." In silence we crossed the first bridge. Day was
just breaking as we mounted the hill on the other side. Suddenly the
Youngster put on the brake.
"Here," he said to the Violinist, "take the wheel a moment. I must
look back."
Just as he spoke there was a tremendous explosion.
"Bomb," he cried, as he got out his glass, and, standing on the
running board, looked back. "They've got it," he yelled. "Look!"
We all piled out of the car, and ran to the edge of the hill. From
there we could look back and just see the dear old house standing on
the opposite height in its walled garden.
There was another explosion, and a puff of smoke seemed to rise right
out of the middle of the garden, where the old tree stood, under which
we had dined so many evenings.
For a few minutes we stood in silence.
It was the gentle voice of the Violinist that called us back. "Better
get on," he said. "We can do nothing now but obey orders," and quietly
we crawled back and the car started on.
We did not speak again until we ran up to the gates of Paris, and
stopped to have our papers examined for the last time. Then I said,
with a laugh: "And only think! I did not tell my story at all!"
"That's so," said the Youngster. "What a shame. Never mind, dear, you
can tell the whole story!"--And I have.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Told in a French Garden, by Mildred Aldrich