"Yes, I know the place looks queer, but you see all our clerks are young
men and everyone of them has been obliged to join his regiment since
closing time last evening!"
"Leave farming alone and come over to Conard's. He's bound to have some
news," said H. impatiently.
Conard's is a big publishing firm on the boulevard, renowned as a
meeting place for most of the well-known political men.
Conard greeted us in silence. He knew no more than we, and we fell to
talking of the latest events and trying to come to a conclusion. Then
one of the _habitués_ stepped in.
"_Eh bien, Monsieur_, what news?"
The person addressed kept on perusing the titles of the books spread
along the counter, and drawing a long puff from his cigarette and
without lifting his eyes, said, "The mobilization is for four o'clock!
Official. Have you something entertaining to read on my way to the
front?"
"_What?_"
"Yes, gentlemen."
"War?"'
"It looks very much like it!"
Though almost expected, the news gave us a thrill. We stood spellbound
and tongue-tied.
What to do? There were so many decisions to be made at a moment's
notice! H. was for our coming to Paris, as all the men must necessarily
leave the chateau.
"Mobilization doesn't necessarily mean war, man. Besides if it does
come it can't last long. You'd better go back to your place in the
country, Huard. A big estate like that needs looking after," said
Conard.
"Where do you live?" questioned the gentleman who had given us the news.
"Villiers--sixty miles _east_ of Paris."
"Well, if you decide to go there I advise you to take the soonest train.
The eastern railway belongs to the army, and only the army, beginning at
noon to-day."
H. looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven, and our next train left
at noon sharp. We jumped into a taxi.
"Drive to the Gare de l'Est and on the way stop at Tarides! We must
have maps, good road maps of the entire north and east," said H.,
turning to me.
It seemed as though he had had that thought in common with the entire
Parisian population, for all down the boulevards the bookshops and
stationers were already overflowing with men, chiefly in regimentals,
and as to the shoe-shops and boot-makers--there was a line waiting
outside of each. Yet there was no excitement, no shouting, not even an
"extra."
What a different sight our station presented to that of two hours
before! The great iron gates were shut, and guarded by a line of
_sergents de ville_. Only men joining their regiments and persons
returning to their legitimate dwellings were allowed to pass. And there
were thousands of both. Around the grillwork hovered dense groups of
women, bravely waving tearless adieux to their men folk.
After assuring himself that there was still a noon train, H. led me to
the restaurant directly opposite the station.
"We'll have a bite here. Heaven knows what time we shall reach home!"
The room was filled to overflowing; the lunchers being mostly officers.
At the table on our right sat a young fellow whose military harnessings
were very new and very stiff, but in spite of the heat, a high collar
and all his trappings he managed to put away a very comfortable repast.
On our left was a party composed of a captain, his wife and two other
_freres d'armes_. That brave little Parisian woman at once won my
admiration, for though, in spite of superhuman efforts, the tears would
trickle down her face, she never gave in one second to her emotion but
played her part as hostess, trying her best to put her guests at ease
and smilingly inquiring after their family and friends as though she
were receiving under ordinary circumstances in her own home.
At a quarter before noon we left them and elbowed our way through the
ever-gathering crowd towards our train.
"The twelve o'clock express--what platform?" H. inquired.
"The ten o'clock train hasn't gone yet, Monsieur!"
"Is there any danger of its _not_ going?"
"Oh, no; but there's every danger of its being the last."
And the man spoke the truth, for as our friend the politician predicted,
at noon military authority took over the station and all those who were
so unfortunate as to have been left behind were obliged to wait in Paris
three mortal weeks. On the Eastern Railway all passenger service was
immediately sacrificed to the transportation of troops.
It seems to me that this was the longest train I have ever seen. The
coaches stretched far out beyond the station into torrid sunlight. Every
carriage was filled up to and beyond its normal capacity. There could
be no question of what class one would travel--it was travel where one
could! Yet no one seemed to mind. I managed to find a seat in it
compartment already occupied by two young St. Cyr students in full
uniform and white gloves, a very portly aged couple and half a dozen men
of the working classes.
"We'll take turns at sitting, Monsieur," said one of them as H. pushed
further on into the corridor.
At the end of five minutes' time the conversation had become general.
Although as yet there had been no official declaration everyone present
was convinced that the news would shortly be made public, and though the
crowd was certainly not a merry one, it was certainly not sad. Most of
the men had received their orders in the morning, and had said good-bye
to their loved ones at home. In consequence, there were no
heart-rending scenes of farewell, no tearful leave-takings from family
and friends, no useless manifestations.
Through the doorway of our stifling compartment, which up until the last
moment was left open for air, we could see the train on the opposite
platform silently, rapidly filling with men, each carrying a new pair of
shoes either slung over the shoulders or neatly tied in a box or paper
parcel. Then without any warning, without any hilarious vociferations
on the part of its occupants, it quietly drew out of the station, to be
instantly replaced by another train of cars.
Five times we watched the same operation recommence ere the ten o'clock
train decided to leave Paris. Then as the guard went along the platform
slamming the doors, a boyish face poked its way into the aperture of our
compartment.
"Hello, Louis," said he, addressing one of the workmen. "Hello, Louis,
you here, too?"
"_Eh bien, cette fois je crois quon y va! Hein?_"
Our door closed and the trainman whistled.
"_Bon voyage!_" shouted the boy through the window.
"The same to you," replied the other. That was all.
It was not a very eventful journey. It was merely hot and lengthy. We
stopped at every little way station either to let down or take on
passengers. We were side-tracked and forgotten for what seemed hours
at a time, to allow speedy express trains filled with men and bound for
the eastern frontier to pass on and be gone.
At Changis-St. Jean I put my head out of the window and there witnessed
a most touching sight. A youngish man in a well-fitting captain's
uniform, accompanied by his wife and two pretty babies, was preparing to
take his leave. He was evidently well known and esteemed in his little
village, for the curate, the mayor, the municipal council and numerous
friends had come to see him off. The couple bore up bravely until the
whistle blew-then, clasping each other in an almost brutal embrace, they
parted, he to jump into the moving train mid the shouts of well-wishers,
and she, her shoulders shaking with emotion, to return to her empty
home.
Four months later, almost to a day, I again put my head out of the car
window as we stopped at Changis. Imagine my surprise on seeing almost
the same group! I recognized the mayor, the curate and the others, and
a little shiver went down my back as I caught sight of the pretty
captain's wife--her eyes red and swollen beneath the long widow's veil
that covered her face. That same hopeful little assembly of August
first had once again gathered on the station platform to take possession
of and to conduct to their last resting place the mortal remains of
their heroic defunct.
Naturally, as they did not expect us before six at the château, there
was no carriage to meet us.
"We'll take the hotel taxi as far as Charly, and from there we'll
telephone home," said H. as we got down from the train.
But there was neither hotel trap nor vehicle of any description at the
station. True it was that our train was nearly two hours late! The idea
of walking some four miles in the broiling sun was anything but amusing,
but there seemed to be nothing else to do. So after a quarter of an
hour uselessly spent in trying to get a carriage about our lonesome
station, we started off on foot. We had scarcely gone two hundred yards
when we caught sight of a PARISIAN taxi! H. hailed him!
"What are you doing down _here?_"
"I brought down a gentleman who was in a hurry. You see there are no
more trains out of Paris on this line since noon! And there are not
likely to be any for some time to come."
"Will you take us as far as Charly?"
"If it's on the way to Paris--yes! I'm in a hurry to get back. I've
got to join my regiment at the Gaxe du Nord before midnight, but I'd
like to ring in another job like this before that. It's worth while at
150 per trip!"
"You've got to cross Charly--there's no other way to Paris."
So we made our price and were whisked into our little market-town.
The inhabitants were on their doorsteps or chatting in little groups,
and we created quite a sensation in our Parisian vehicle. H. went to
the Gendarmerie at once to see if there was any official news by wire
since we had left town.
"You're the one who ought to bring us news, Monsieur," said the
_brigadier_. "What do they say in Paris?"
"The mobilization will be posted at four o'clock."
A hearty peal of laughter, that was most refreshing in the tension of
the moment, burst from all three gendarmes.
"Well, it's five minutes of four now. And if what you say is so, I
should think we'd know something about it by this time! Don't worry.
It's not so bad as you fancy--"
H. shook hands and we left. At the hotel we got the chateau on the wire
and asked for the victoria at once. As the horse had to be harnessed and
there is a two-mile drive down to Charley, we stopped a moment and spoke
to the proprietress of the hotel.
"How does it happen that your motor was not at the station?" said H.
"Oh," she replied, "our officers hired it early this morning and my
husband bad to drive them post-haste to Soissons. He hasn't got back
yet!"
Before going farther in my narrative I shall say here, lest I forget it,
that two of the supposed officers were caught within the fortnight and
shot at Meaux as German spies--the third managed to make his escape.
Hearing the carriage coming down the hill, we walked towards the
doorway. At that same moment we saw the white-trousered _gendarme_
hastening towards the town hall. Catching might of H., he held up the
sealed envelope he held in his band, and shouted, "You were right,
Monsieur. It has come!"
We jumped into the victoria, but as we crossed the square the
_garde-champetre_ caught the bridle and stopped our turnout.
"One moment, Monsieur."
Then the town-crier appeared, instantly causing the staggering groups to
cluster into one. He had no need to ring his bell. He merely lifted
his hand and obtained instant silence, and then slowly read out in deep,
solemn, measured tones, which I shall never forget until my dying day.
"_Extrme urgence. Ordre de mobilisation generale. Le premier jour de
la mobilization est le dimanche deux aout!_"
That was all! It was enough! The tension of those last two days was
broken. No matter what the news, it was a relief. And we drove away
'mid the rising hum of hundreds of tongues, loosened after the agonizing
suspense.
The news had not yet reached Villiers when we drove through the village
street. We turned into the chateau and found Elizabeth Gauthier, her
children and almost all the servants, grouped near the entrance ball.
They looked towards us with an appealing gaze.
As H. opened his mouth to answer, the sharp pealing of the _tocsin_,
such as it rings only in cases of great emergency, followed by the
rolling of the drum, told them better than we could that the worst bad
come.
The servants retired in silence and still the bell rang on. Presently
we could hear the clicking of the sabots on the bard road as the
peasants hurried from the fields towards the _Mairie_.
I can see us all now, standing there in the brilliant afternoon
sunlight--Elizabeth murmuring between her sobs, "O God, don't take my
husband!" little Jules clinging to her skirts, amazed at her distress,
and happy, lighthearted, curly-headed baby Colette, chasing butterflies
on the lawn in front of us!