Off goes the chauffeur. Half an hour after he is back with the whole family, and, amid the emotion and excitement of so unexpected a reunion, slips away without a thought of payment.
Halt in front of the Cirque d'Hiver. We pile our rifles and take off our haversacks. The crowd collects around and proves very emotional. Useless to say to one's friends or relatives—
"Don't carry things too far, we are not coming back, we are only going!"
The good-natured public will listen to nothing; they give us credit and treat us as heroes just the same.
A second halt at Rue Auber. The crowd around grows larger and larger. It appears that Paris has been really threatened. This morning's communiqué, however, states that the enemy has retired a distance of forty kilometres.
At the Gare Saint-Lazare more than two hundred out of the five hundred men belonging to the detachment have their family around them.
At nine the train is waiting and we have to leave. We embrace and shout, laugh and cry, promise to return soon and to write.
Roberty, Reymond and I have made up our mind to travel first-class. In one of the compartments a very stylish, gentlemanly-looking individual has installed himself. Strapping my helmet under my chin, I assume a tone of voice at once firm and courteous, and say—
"I beg pardon, monsieur, but you are occupying a seat reserved for the chief."
The gentleman, abashed, vaguely stammers some excuse or other, hurriedly snatches up his valise and travelling rug and looks for another seat.