Laroche at last.
There, the Paris papers had just arrived. We threw ourselves upon them. I managed to get one. I was surrounded at once. People squashed up against me to get at least a glimpse of the stop-press and headlines. I was not very accommodating about exhibiting my paper, and I soon succeeded in shaking them off, and getting back to my carriage.
The train started off again.
Standing up in the corridor, I admit that I read and re-read the leading article without skipping a single line.
I expected a good leader and was not disappointed. I relished the indispensable paragraph on the past and future of France, on the sacred union in face of the enemy.
My neighbour nudged me with his elbow.
"Oh! Isn't it just what everyone is thinking?"
"Yes, yes."
Exact information was what I really thirsted for. I remember two headlines: "To-morrow?" and "A Day at the Quai d'Orsay." In a prominent position the President's Proclamation. The article was a success: the obvious thing to say. "Mobilisation is not war." But there was no mistaking it; the spark had caught, the fire was already crackling.
I learnt the news of the preceding days, including the assassination of Jaurès, merely from allusions—to me they were so many claps of thunder!