My Home in the Field of Honor. Frances Wilson Huard
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