"Oh, very well! Oh, very well!"
She had found another woman in the same case as herself, or nearly so. But the husband of this one, who also had been individually called, was a captain in active service, and in garrison at Pont-à-Mousson.
"That one," Odette had said to herself; "it is all over with him."
The difference had seemed to be to her own advantage, and her courage had risen correspondingly. Jean was only a sublieutenant; he belonged only to the reserves. She was absorbed in compassion for the other woman, so different in character from herself, bravely prepared for the war and ready to sacrifice everything; who had said: "I regret that my boys are not grown; they would be so many more defenders of the country."
Odette had been as ill prepared as possible for such an utterance. Everything about it surprised her; she could not understand it in the least.
A lady had arrived from Paris, the wife of a deputy. She had said to any who would listen:
"I may as well tell you; mobilization will be ordered to-morrow."
The weather had been ideally fine, though there had been a suggestion of thunderstorms in the west. Children were playing on the beach; the sea, under a cloudless sky, was calm even to torpor. One could see Havre stretched along in the sunlight, like a greyhound panting with heat; in the distance were noble passenger-ships, and tiny sails apparently motionless. Never had the sky, the sea, the land, appeared so much to long for peace; never, perhaps, had the joy of existence been more imperious. Whatever might be the subjects of alarm, everything cried aloud that to believe in coming misfortune was impossible.
The next day, Saturday, August I, Odette, distressed by vague talk that gave no definite information, had gone to the post with a letter to her dear Jean. She had addressed it to Paris, since she had no knowledge where to reach him. It was about four o'clock. She had seen a group forming before the mayor's office, and the town drummer arriving, with a long retinue of street urchins at his heels. The drummer was a tall youth, lean and wan, grave with a gravity not usual in a town drummer who has to announce that a little, long-haired, bright-gray dog is lost. The crowd had gathered around him with frantic eagerness, while he executed his preliminary performance. Then, drawing a paper from his pocket, he had unfolded it and read at the top of his voice, without the slightest change of countenance:
"General mobilization is declared! The first day of mobilization is Sunday, August 2. No man may set out without first consulting the bill which will be immediately posted." And the drummer had beaten the ban.