, "that French aviators dropped bombs on the railway at
Nuremberg. The general of the third Bavarian army corps, which was
stationed in the vicinity, assured me that he knew nothing of the
attempt except from the newspapers...."

But a blow had just been struck that announced the rising of the
curtain on the most frightful tragedy the universe has ever known.
This announcement was contained in the brief, plain words of the
declaration of war.

De Schoen left the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where he had been
courteously received for many years, and made his way out. He was
escorted by M. Philippe Berthelot, who was at the time _directeur
politique_ at the Quai d'Orsay. As he was going out of the door, de
Schoen pointed to the city, which, with its trees, its houses, and its
monuments, could be seen clearly on the other side of the Seine.

"Poor Paris," he exclaimed, "what will happen to her?"

At the same time he offered his hand to M. Berthelot, but the latter
contented himself with a silent bow, as if he had neither seen the
proffered hand nor heard the question.

It was a quarter before seven o'clock in the evening. From that time
on France has been at war with Germany.

* * * * *

Mobilization had commenced the previous evening. To be exact, it was
on Sunday, August third, at midnight.

How many times the French people had thought of that mobilization
during the last twenty years, in proportion as Germany grew more
aggressive, more brutal and more insulting! Personally I had often
looked at the little red ticket fastened to my military card, on which
were written these brief words:

In time of mobilization, Lieutenant Lauzanne (Stephane) will
report on the second day of mobilization to the railroad
station nearest his home and there entrain immediately for
Alencon.

And each time I looked at the little red card, I felt a bit
anxious.... Mobilization! The railroad station! The first train! What
a mob of people, what an overturning of everything, what a lot of
disorder there would be! Well, there had been neither disorder nor
disturbance nor a mob, for everything had taken place in a manner that
was marvelously simple and calm.

Monday, August third, at sunrise I had gone to the Gare des Invalides.
There was no mob, there was no crowd. Some policemen were walking in
solitary state along the sidewalk, which was deserted. The station
master, to whom I pre