We did not leave Paris until six—­it was already dark—­and there were few lights along the road.  The Germans would love to destroy this road, which is on the direct line to the front, but I cannot imagine a bomb from an aeroplane reaching it at night, except by accident.

By the way, the attitude of the public towards these war airships is queer.  It seems a great deal more curiosity than fear.  I had heard this stated, and I had a chance to see it exemplified.  Just as Amelie and I were stumbling in the dusk over the rough pavement of the court, we heard an aeroplane overhead.  Everyone stopped short and looked up.  Some fool called “Une Taube—­une Taube!” People already inside the station turned and ran back to see.  Of course, it wasn’t a Taube.  Still, the fact that someone said it was, and that everyone ran out to look up at it, was significant, as I am sure they would have done just the same if it had really been a German machine.

We came back even more slowly than we had gone up.  It took ten minutes by my watch to cross the bridge at Chalifere.  We jigged a bit and stopped; staggered a bit, and trembled, and stopped; crawled a bit, and whistled.  I had a feeling that if anyone disobeyed the order pasted on every window, and leaned out, we should topple over into the stream.  Still, no one seemed to mind.  With the curtains drawn, everyone tried to read, by the dim light, a newspaper.  It is remarkable how even ordinary people face danger if a panic can be prevented.  The really great person is the one who even in a panic does not lose his head, and the next best thing to not being feazed at danger is, I believe, to be literally paralyzed.  Total immobility often passes for pluck.

It was nearly half past eight when we reached Esbly; the town was absolutely dark.  Pere was there with the donkey cart, and it took nearly an hour and a half to climb the hill to Huiry.  It was pitch dark, and oh, so cold!  Both Conde and Voisins, as well as Esbly, had street lamps—­gas—­before the war, but it was cut off when mobilization began, and so the road was black.  This ordinary voyage seemed like journeying in a wilderness, and I was as tired as if I had been to London, which I take to be the hardest trip for the time it consumes that I know.  I used to go to London in seven hours, and this trip to Paris and back had taken four hours and a half by train and three by carriage.

I found your letter dated September 25—­in reply to my first one mailed after the battle.  I am shocked to hear that I was spectacular.  I did not mean to be.  I apologize.  Please imagine me very red in the face and feeling a little bit silly.  I should not mind your looking on me as a heroine and all those other names you throw at me if I had had time to flee along the roads with all I could save of my home on my back, as I saw thousands doing.

But I cannot pick up your bouquets, considering that all I had to do was “sit tight” for a few days, and watch—­at a safe distance—­a battle sweep back.  All you must say about that is “she did have luck.”  That’s what I say every day.