4 August, 1914.
EVERY day some of the men about here start for the front, but it is at the Esbly station, where I have just been, that the leave-takings are the most heart-rending.
The men are very grave, but they start off without a complaint, without a murmur. And if they are courageous, the women who accompany them, understanding fully their own great duty, do not give way to their feelings for a single instant. They are determined that no tears of theirs shall make harder the task of father or husband. It is really sublime.
Huge bunches and garlands of roses are twined over the cars. Here and there is the vivid note of our national bouquet of simple wildflowers—cornflowers, daisies, and poppies, scarce at this season. In the cannon's mouth and on the gun-carriages are branches of laurel.
Inscriptions chalked on all the cars bear witness to the good morale of our troops.
On the locomotive of a return train we read:
Our souls to God,
Our blood to our country,
Our hearts to our women,
Our bodies to the wicked.
How very French that is!
It is as if these trains, decked with flowers and flags, were on their way to a vast festival. When each train comes to a standstill there is an impressive moment of silence, broken by cheers as it moves off.
Although I was deeply stirred by these departures, I stayed a long time at the station, filled with admiration at the ardor with which every man answers the call of his country. It is a sight never to be forgotten.