The reply was in French:
"Comprend pas, monsieur!" Evidently he was about to signal the engineer to start.
"Stop! I command you to stop!" shouted the major again.
The Frenchman understood the action, if he failed to understand the words. "Il faut partir tout de suite, monsieur," he replied with respectful firmness, and then, placing the bugle to his lips, he blew a signal to the engineer and the train started.
The major sprang from the platform just in time to catch his coach. He had not received the papers, and had had an unintelligible wordy duel in which he had been vanquished. He was boiling with rage.
"If I had my way," he stormed, "there would be only one language in the world!"
We were off once more. We had but a faint idea of where we were going, but we were on our way.
CHAPTER VI
When we awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and through the train windows we could see the steep banks of the Seine as we wound along that picturesque river toward Rouen. From time to time we passed small villages, the red tile of their roofs contrasting prettily with the snow-white of the walls. Some houses were decorated with bright blue or green, and as they swept by the window in kaleidoscopic array, the scene was one of manifold variety.
The French love a dash of colour; it is manifest everywhere—in their clothes, their houses and their military uniforms. In the larger cities where civilisation is over-developed, and humanity is more effete, the bright colours have given place to pale and delicate shades—an indication of that transformation of life which we call art. But in these little country villages, a thousand years or more behind the times, Dame Nature still holds sway, and the primary colours riot in their rugged strength. Centuries from now these rural hamlets, grown to greater size, losing their primitive audacity, will fade as well; and looking back will marvel at the boldness of their youth.