It was perfectly true: the Gare de Lyon was shut to all civilians; the
first shadow of war had come. As if drawn by a magnet the old men were
there, the men who remembered the last time when the Prussian swine had
stamped their way across the fields of France. Their eyes were bright,
their shoulders thrown back as they glanced appraisingly at the next
generation--their sons who would wipe out Sedan for ever from the pages
of history. There was something grimly pathetic and grimly inspiring
in the presence of those old soldiers: the men who had failed through
no fault of their own.

"Not again," they seemed to say; "for God's sake, not a second time.
This time--Victory. Wipe it out--that stain."

They had failed, true; but there were others who would succeed; and it
was their presence that made one feel the unconquerable spirit of
France.

III

The French officer in charge was polite, but firmly non-committal.

"There is a train which will leave here about midnight, we hope. If
you can get a seat on it--well and good. If not----" he shrugged his
shoulders superbly, and the conversation closed.

It was a troop train apparently, and in the course of time it would
arrive at Marseilles--perhaps. It would not be comfortable. "Mais,
que voulez-vous, M'sieur? c'est la guerre."

At first he had not been genial; but when he had grasped the fact that
mufti invariably cloaked the British officer, _en permission_, he had
become more friendly.

He advised dinner; in these days, as he truly remarked, one never
knows. Also, what was England going to do?

"Fight," Draycott answered promptly, with an assurance he did not feel.
"Fight, mon Colonel; ca va sans dire."

"C'est bien," he murmured, and stood up. "Vive l'Angleterre." Gravely
he saluted, and Draycott took off his hat.

"Mon Colonel, vive la France." They shook hands; and having once again
solemnly saluted one another, he took the Frenchman's advice and went
in search of dinner.

In the restaurant itself everything seemed normal. To the close
observer there was possibly an undue proportion of women who did not
eat, but who watched with hungry, loving eyes the men who were with
them. Now and again one would look round, and in her face was the
pitiful look of the hunted animal; then _he_ would speak, and with a
smile on her lips and a jest on her tongue she would cover a heart that
seemed like to burst with the agony of it. Inexorably the clock moved