my ambulance happened to be a fellow
I knew. The day before we started, in talking over our route with him,
I said: "I suppose we can manage to get to Rechamp now?" He looked
puzzled--it was such a little place that he'd forgotten the name. "Why
do you want to get there?" he wondered. I told him, and he gave an
exclamation. "Good God! Of course--but how extraordinary! Jean de
Rechamp's here now, in Paris, too lame for the front, and driving
a motor." We stared at each other, and he went on: "He must take my
place--he must go with you. I don't know how it can be done; but done it
shall be."

Done it was, and the next morning at daylight I found Jean de Rechamp at
the wheel of my car. He looked another fellow from the wreck I had left
in the Flemish hospital; all made over, and burning with activity, but
older, and with lines about his eyes. He had had news from his people in
the interval, and had learned that they were still at Rechamp, and well.
What was more surprising was that Mlle. Malo was with them--had never
left. Alain had been got away to England, where he remained; but none of
the others had budged. They had fitted up an ambulance in the chateau,
and Mlle. Malo and the little sister were nursing the wounded. There
were not many details in the letters, and they had been a long time on
the way; but their tone was so reassuring that Jean could give himself
up to unclouded anticipation. You may fancy if he was grateful for the
chance I was giving him; for of course he couldn't have seen his people
in any other way.

Our permits, as you know, don't as a rule let us into the firing-line:
we only take supplies to second-line ambulances, and carry back the
badly wounded in need of delicate operations. So I wasn't in the least
sure we should be allowed to go to Rechamp--though I had made up my mind
to get there, anyhow.

We were about a fortnight on the way, coming and going in Champagne and
the Argonne, and that gave us time to get to know each other. It was
bitter cold, and after our long runs over the lonely frozen hills we
used to crawl into the cafe of the inn--if there was one--and talk and
talk. We put up in fairly rough places, generally in a farm house or a
cottage packed with soldiers; for the villages have all remained empty
since the autumn, except when troops are quartered in them. Usually, to
keep warm, we had to go up after supper to the room we shared, and
get under the blankets with our clothes on.