And the women, holding their blue bundles on their knees in the crowded compartment—for in democratic France demos is not allowed the luxury of luggage-racks—looked at the future with anxious eyes. What would become of them? The government would take their men. Their men would be killed or maimed. Even if the men returned safe and sound, in the meantime, how would they live? Ah, mon Dieu! Cette rosse de guerre! They cursed the war as though it were a foul and conscious entity.
The interminable journey, by day, by night, with tedious waits at great ghostly junctions, at last was over. Martin emerged from the station of Brantôme and immediately before him stood the familiar ramshackle omnibus of the Hôtel des Grottes. Old Grégoire, the driver, on beholding him staggered back and almost fell over the step of the vehicle.
“Monsieur Martin! C’est vous?”
Recovering, he advanced with great, sun-glazed hand.
“Yes. It is indeed I,” laughed Martin.
“It is everybody that will be content,” cried Grégoire. “How one has talked of you, and wished you were back. And now, that this sacrée guerre is coming——”
“That’s why I’ve come,” said Martin. “How are monsieur and mademoiselle?”
Both were well. It was they who would be glad to see Monsieur Martin. The old fellow, red-faced, white-haired, clean shaven, with a comfortable gash of a mouth, clapped him on the shoulder.
“Mais v’là un solide gaillard?”
“Tu trouves?”