"Well, then, all ready for the expedition?" I said, masking my
pessimism with a smile.

For reply she handed this note which read:

"Dear Marie: I have been transferred from Corbeille to Melun. It
makes me ill to be getting ever farther and farther away.--Robert."

With the river trip cancelled, life looked more roseate to me. "And
now we can't go after all," I said, mustering this time the
appearance of sadness.

"Oh, don't look so relieved," she laughed, "because we're going
anyhow."

"But what's the use? He has gone."

"Well, we are going where he has gone, that's all," she retorted.

I pointed out the facts that only military trains were running to
Melun; that we weren't soldiers; that the river was out of the
question; that we had no aeroplane and that we couldn't go
overland in a canoe.

"But we can with our wits," Marie added.

I explained how lame my wits were in French, and that two
consecutive sentences would bring on trial for high treason to the
language.

"Oh, but you don't furnish the wits," Marie retorted. "You just
furnish the body."

In her plan of campaign I gathered that I was to act as a kind of
convoy, from which she was to dart forth, torpedoing all obstacles.
I was quite confident of her torpedoing ability but not of my fitness
to play a star part as a dour and fear-inspiring background. She
packed her bag and presently we were making our way to the
station through a blighted city.

At the Gare du Nord a cordon of soldiers had been thrown about
the station; crowds surged up against the gates, a few frantically
pleading and even crying to get through. The guards, to every plea
and threat returned a harsh "C'est impossible." Undaunted by the
despair of others, she looked straight into the eyes of the somber
gate-keeper and, with every art, told the story of Robert le
Marchand, brave young officer of France; of his American girl and
his deep longing for her. When she had stirred this lethargic
functionary into a show of interest in this girl, with a revealing
gesture she said: "And here she is; please, Monsieur, let me go."
"Ah, Mademoiselle, I would like to," he replied, "but are not all the
soldiers of France longing for wives and sweethearts! Mon Dieu! if
they all rode there would be no room for the militaire. The Boches
would take us in the midst of our farewells. There is never any end
to leave-takings."

"But, Monsieur, I did not have one good-by."

"No, Mademoiselle. C'est