“There’s a horse missing—­been stolen!”

“No!  Impossible!”

“The stable’s empty!”

I hurried to the spot, and found that he told the truth.

“George!” I called, as my boy came around the corner of the house.  “George, Cesar’s been stolen!”

“Who says so, Madame?”

“Emile—­the stable’s empty.”

Calmly and easily George walked over towards Emile, and taking him by the collar, shook him violently.  “Look here, you!  What do you mean by frightening Madame like that?  Are you her servant?  No!  Well, then, mind your own business!”

And opening a second door alongside the other, we found Cesar and
Sausage munching their oats.

It was no easy job harnessing in the dark and backing the heavy carts out of the narrow yard into the still narrower street.  But in ten minutes our caravan was again en route.

We crossed the public square, now almost empty of men, horses and motors, and took the only road leading south.

The first gray streaks of daylight lighted the east as we turned the corner, and we were obliged to pull suddenly to the extreme right, for a heavy Parisian motorbus swung round the bend and rushed on past us.

Straining my eyes, I perceived that there was not one but hundreds of them, following each other at top speed down the hill.  There were armed men standing inside them, armed men on the platforms and steps, armed men even on the roofs and it was indeed a strange sight to see Madeleine-Bastille and the Galeries Lafayette out here in the open country, jammed full of grim infantrymen preparing for the fray.

Suddenly a tremendous explosion rent the air and shook the ground so that the horses stopped and trembled.

“There goes the bridge at Nogent!” cried George.  “No—­the power house at La Tretoire!”

“En avant!” I called, knowing that the signal for battle had now been given.

VI

We had gone about two miles when the sight of my greyhounds tied behind the farm cart made me think of my little Boston bull.

“Where’s Betsy?” I asked of those perched on the hay.

Julie, Nini and Yvonne grew white.

It took little time to discover that no one had seen her that morning.  It was evident she had been forgotten—­left to die tied to the brass rail inside an abandoned bakery, for it was there I had fastened her on arriving the night before.  Pedaling ahead till I reached Leon who led the procession—­

“Keep straight on this road.  If it should fork, take the direction of the La Ferte Gauche.  I’ll be back in no time.”  Then turning about, I started a parallel race with an autobus, much to the delight of the occupants.

Useless to say that my adversary gained on the up-grade, turned the corner, was gone, and was followed by another long before I reached the public square, breathless and full of anxiety.