My Home In The Field of Honor | Page 6

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