A melancholy day—spent in absently watching the country roll past, one's mind always hypnotized by the thought of defeat....
Often the train does not go faster than a man walking.
IV. FROM THE MARNE TO THE AISNE
Sunday, September 6
When we awoke, in a fine morning lightly veiled by silvery mists, the suburbs of Paris were already visible.
We passed through the forest of Fontainebleau, where troops were camping amid the broom and bracken, and rolled on through the woods in which the white walls and red roofs of the villas made a gay splash on the green background. The gardens were a mass of flowers; huge sunflowers turned their golden faces towards us.
We almost forgot the tragedy of the moment.
Sunday! The bells were ringing. Besides, Paris was quite close now, and the magnetic power of the great city was already making itself felt. The Parisians in the carriage could hardly keep still.