own to Villiers.
We both drove down in the victoria, and were not surprised to see my
officers of the day before seated in the hotel dining-room, finishing
breakfast.

"What are they down here for?" I queried of the proprietor.

"Oh, they belong to the _Etat Major_ and are out here to verify their
maps. The Mayor has given them an office in the town hall. They go off
on their bicycles early every morning and only return for meals."

"It's rather a treat to see a uniform out here, where hardly an officer
has appeared since last year when we had Prince George of Servia and his
staff for three days."

The general topic on the market place was certainly _not_ war, and we
drove home somewhat reassured.

Friday, the 31st, however, the tone of the newspapers was serious and
our little village began to grow alarmed when several soldiers on
holiday leave received individual official telegrams to rejoin their
regiments immediately. Little knots of peasants could be seen grouped
together along the village street, a thing unheard of in that busy
season when vineyards need so much attention. Towards noon the news ran
like wildfire that men belonging to the youngest classes had received
their official notices and we're leaving to join their corps. Yet there
was no commotion anywhere.

"It will last three weeks and they'll all come home, safe and sound.
It's bothersome, though, that the Government should choose just our
busiest season to take the men out for a holiday!" declared one peasant.

There was less hilarity in the servants' hall when I entered after
luncheon. At least I fancied so. The men had gone about their work
quicker than usual, and the women were silently washing up.

"Does Madame know that the _fils Poupard_ is leaving by the four o'clock
train---and that Cranger and Veron are going too?" asked my faithful
Catherine.

"No."

"Yes, Madame--and Honorine is in the wash-house crying as though her
heart would break."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the river. In the wash-house I
found Honorine bending over her linen, the great tears streaming down
her face, in spite of her every effort to control them.

"Why, Honorine, what's the matter?"

"He's gone, Madame--gone without my seeing him--without even a clean
pair of socks!"

"Who?"

"My son, Madame!"

And the tears burst out afresh, though in silence.

"Yes, Madame, I found this under the door when I came in at noon.--" She
drew a cru