My Home In The Field of Honor | Page 5

which is the "biggest" of the big stores in Paris.
Every day in the week, and Sundays included, it is usually so crowded
with buyers and sellers that one has to elbow one's way, and literally
serve one's self. To our amazement it was empty--literally empty. Not a
single customer--not a single clerk to be seen. The long stretches of
floor and counters were vacant as though the store were closed. I
gasped a little in surprise and just as I did so a female voice from
behind a distant desk called out:
"What is your pleasure, Madame?"
I turned, and a little woman in black advanced towards me.
"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