That was the last time I ever saw them.  They fell “on the Field of Honour” both the same day, and hardly a month later.

But to return to my affairs.

A trifle upset by what Mr. Mortier had told me, I hurried to the nearest telephone station and asked for Villiers.  When after what seemed an interminable time I got the connection, I explained to H. what had happened.

“For Heaven’s sake leave politics alone and take the five o’clock train home!  We need you to make a second fourth at bridge.”  H.’s lightheartedness somewhat reassured me, though for prudence’s sake I went to my bank and asked to withdraw my entire account.

“Why, Madame Huard,” said the clerk in surprise, “you mean to say you are frightened?”

I explained what I had heard in the morning.

“Pensez-vous?  Non! We would be the first to be notified.  We were ever so much closer to war two years ago—­at Agadir!  There is no cause for alarm.”

He almost persuaded me, but after hesitating a moment I decided to abide by my original intentions.

“I can always put my money back in a week or so if all blows over and I find I don’t need it,” I argued.

“Certainly, Madame—­as you will.”

And the twenty-eighth of July the Societe Generale gave me all the gold I requested.

As the five o’clock express hurried me back home I began to understand the gravity of the situation—­for the “queer looking soldiers” were nearer together all along the railway line, and it dawned on me that theirs was a very serious mission—­namely, that of safeguarding the steel artery which leads from Paris to the eastern frontier.

At Charly, our station, I was much surprised to see three French officers in full uniform get off the train and step into the taxi-autobus which deposits its travelers at the only hotel in the vicinity.

At the chateau my story failed to make an impression.  The men pooh-poohed the idea of war, and returned to the evening papers and the proces Caillaux, which was the most exciting question of the moment.  In the pantry the news was greeted with hilarity, and coachman and gardener declared that they would shoulder their spades and faire la guerre en sabots.

My friend and neighbor, Elizabeth Gauthier, was the only one who took the matter seriously, and that because she had no less than five brothers and a husband who would be obliged to serve in case of serious events.  I felt rather ashamed when I saw her countenance darken, for after all, she was alone in Villiers with two tiny children; her husband, the well-known archivist, coming down but for the week-end.  “What is the sense of alarming people so uselessly?” I thought.

Wednesday, the 29th, the papers began to talk of “a tension in the political relations between France and Germany” which, however, did not quench the gaiety of a picnic luncheon in the grove by our river.