izes, instead of milk wagons and cartloads of colourful
fruits; women working instead of men; children on their way to school,
sedately talking of "_papa au Front_," instead of playing games. But
outside the suburbs the real thrills began.

There were the toy-like fortifications of which Paris was proud in the
'fifties; there was the black tangle of barbed wire, and the trace of
trenches (a mere depression on the earth's surface, as if a serpent had
laid its heavy length on a great, green velvet cushion) with which Paris
had hoped to delay the German wave. Only a little way on, we shot
through the sleepy-looking village of Bourget where Napoleon stopped a
few hours after Waterloo, rather than enter Paris by daylight; and Brian
had a story of the place. A French soldier, a friend of his (nearly
everyone he meets is Brian's friend!) who was born there, told him that
on each anniversary the ghost of the "Little Corporal" appears,
travel-stained and worn, on the road leading to Bourget. For many years
his custom was to show himself for a second to some seeing eye, then
vanish like a mirage of the desert. But since 1914 his way is different.
He does not confine his visit to the hamlet of sad memories. He walks
the country side, his hands behind him, his head bent as of old; or he
rides a horse that is slightly lame, inspecting with thoughtful gaze the
frenzied industries of war, war such as he--the war-genius--never saw in
his visions of the future: the immense aerodromes, the bomb sheds, the
wireless stations and observation towers, the giant "_saucisses_"
resting under green canvas, ready to rise at dawn; and all the other
astounding features of the landscape so peaceful in his day.

Even now parts of it are peaceful, often the very spots marked by
history, where it seems as if each tree should be decorated by a Croix
de Guerre. For instance, there was the place--a junction of roads--where
the Uhlans with a glitter of helmets came proudly galloping toward
Paris, and to their blank amazement and rage had to turn back. As we
halted to take in the scene, it was mysterious as dreamland in the
morning mist. Nothing moved save two teams of cream-coloured oxen, their
moon-white sides dazzling behind a silver veil. The pale road stretched
before us so straight and far that it seemed to descend from the sky
like a waterfall. Only the trees had a martial look, like tall, dark
soldiers drawn up in line for parade.

It was not till