Between the excitement and all the work that had to be done at Villiers, time passed with phenomenal rapidity. As yet we had had no occasion to perceive the lack of mail and daily papers, and though I had always had a sub-conscious feeling that H. would eventually receive his marching orders, it was rather a shock when they came. Being in a frontier department he was called out earlier than expected. And instead of being sent around-circuit way to reach his regiment south of Paris, he was ordered to gain Chateau Thierry at once, and there await instructions.
Of course I packed and unpacked his bag for the twentieth time since Sunday, in the hope of finding a tiny space to squeeze in one more useful article—and then descending, I jumped into the cart and waited for him to join me. In spite of the solemnity of the moment, I couldn't help laughing when he appeared, for disdaining the immaculate costume I had carefully laid out, he had put on a most disreputable-looking pair of trousers, and an old paint-stained Norfolk jacket. A faded flannel shirt and a silk bandanna tied about his throat completed this weird accoutrement, which was topped by a long-vizored cap and a dilapidated canvas gunny sack, the latter but half full and slung lightly over one shoulder. Anticipating my question, he explained that it was useless to throw away a perfectly new suit of clothes. When he should receive his uniform, his civilian outfit ought to be put in safe keeping for his return. This was customary in time of peace, but who could tell?—he might never even get a uniform, let alone hoping to see the clothes again.
And then, when I began examining the paltry contents of his sack, he made light of my disappointment, saying that his father, who had served in the campaign of 1870, had always told him that a ball of strong string and a jackknife were sufficient baggage for any soldier. I supposed he ought to know, and was just going to ask another question, when—
"Listen," he said, as he put his foot on the step. "Listen—before I forget. My will is at my notary's in Paris, and on your table is a letter to your father—if anything happens to me you know what to do."
We drove away in silence.
I let the horses walk almost all the way home and my thoughts were busy, very busy along the way. Here I was alone—husband and friends had vanished as by magic. My nearest relatives over five thousand miles away—and communication with the outside world entirely cut off, for Heaven knew how long. Evidently there was nothing to do but to face the situation, especially as all those in my employ save Julie were under twenty, and looked to me for moral support. This was no time to collapse. If I broke down anarchy would reign at once.
But what to do? Go on living like a hermit on that great big estate? The idea appalled me. It seemed such a useless existence—and in a few moments' time I had decided to turn the place into a hospital. But how and to whom should I offer it?
I stopped at the Gendarmerie, where our friends were able to give me information.
"The nearest sanitary formation was Soissons—the Red Cross Society. The president would probably be able to help me—" So I thanked the gendarme and left there, having decided to drive thence on the morrow.
Soissons is but twenty miles as a bird flies, but almost double that by the winding roadway, and I was calculating what time I should start and where I would rest the span, as I entered the yard.