The general topic on the market place was certainly not war, and we drove home somewhat reassured.
Friday, the 31st, however, the tone of the newspapers was serious and our little village began to grow alarmed when several soldiers on holiday leave received individual official telegrams to rejoin their regiments immediately. Little knots of peasants could be seen grouped together along the village street, a thing unheard of in that busy season when vineyards need so much attention. Towards noon the news ran like wildfire that men belonging to the youngest classes had received their official notices and we're leaving to join their corps. Yet there was no commotion anywhere.
"It will last three weeks and they'll all come home, safe and sound. It's bothersome, though, that the Government should choose just our busiest season to take the men out for a holiday!" declared one peasant.
There was less hilarity in the servants' hall when I entered after luncheon. At least I fancied so. The men had gone about their work quicker than usual, and the women were silently washing up.
"Does Madame know that the fils Poupard is leaving by the four o'clock train—-and that Cranger and Veron are going too?" asked my faithful Catherine.
"No."
"Yes, Madame—and Honorine is in the wash-house crying as though her heart would break."
I turned on my heel and walked toward the river. In the wash-house I found Honorine bending over her linen, the great tears streaming down her face, in spite of her every effort to control them.
"Why, Honorine, what's the matter?"
"He's gone, Madame—gone without my seeing him—without even a clean pair of socks!"