“Get in at once,” I said, and we rolled off.

It was not long before I had drawn his history from this village alderman, an Alsatian by birth, and his tales of the war of 1870 helped to wile away the time we were obliged to spend idling along the roadside while our chauffeur repaired our first puncture.  The emergency wheel clapped on, we were soon en route again.  My companion duly uncovered as we passed the monument to the soldiers of the Franco-Prussian War, almost hidden in a lovely chestnut grove, in the heart of the forest of Hartennes.

On the outskirts of Soissons we came upon a squadron of the Ninth Territorial Regiment, resting after the morning exercises.  These soldiers much resembled the “bushy-bearded” creatures whom I had seen guarding the Eastern Railway, save that they were even more picturesque, for most of them wore straw sombreros.  As we passed the captain on his horse, my companion lifted his hat and the officer replied with a salute.

“A friend of yours?” I ventured.

“No.  Never saw him before.”

“But you bowed, I thought.”

“Certainly.  He’s an officer on duty in time of war, and all civilians owe him that courtesy.”

I liked that and fancied it were old-time urbanity, though often since I have seen it proved that the custom is not obsolete.

A little further on we came to a very jolly squadron, the cooks, who were peeling fresh vegetables and pouring them into immense wash-boilers, which, when filled, two privates seized by the handles and carried towards a big barracks some hundred yards distant.

Presently we hit a cobbled road which must have been a joy to all heavy machines, but which nearly jolted us out of our light vehicle.  Patience and good humor were very rapidly disappearing when we rounded a curve, struck the good macadam, and I saw the twin spires of St. Jean rising majestically against the clear blue summer sky.

At our right I noticed the entrance gate to a chateau over which hung a big Red Cross, such as I coveted for my home, and then in a moment we were already in a faubourg of Soissons.  It was not unlike the entrance to any other provincial city in ordinary times, save that there were many red-trousered men mixed in with the other population.  There were no chains across the road, but four soldiers in uniform mounted guard.  We showed patte blanche and proceeded to ask for the Red Cross headquarters.

“Madame Macherez is the president.  You must go to her.  Cross the city and go out east towards St. Paul.  Her chateau is there.”

Naturally we headed straight for our destination, but were stopped every other minute by police who side-tracked us into back streets.  The big thoroughfares must be kept clear for the army!

I set down my old friend near the town hall, and told him that I should be returning about noon.  If he were ready, I would be glad to give him a lift.  Would he meet us in front of the Hotel du Soleil d’Or?