In the afternoon the old garde-champetre asked for H. in the courtyard.

“In case of mobilization,” said he, “you have three horses and your farm cart to present to the authorities.  Your cart must have its awnings complete.  And your horses harnessed with their halters!”

H. laughed and told him that he was giving himself a lot of useless trouble.

Thursday, the 30th, market day at Charly, the nearest town to Villiers.  We both drove down in the victoria, and were not surprised to see my officers of the day before seated in the hotel dining-room, finishing breakfast.

“What are they down here for?” I queried of the proprietor.

“Oh, they belong to the Etat Major and are out here to verify their maps.  The Mayor has given them an office in the town hall.  They go off on their bicycles early every morning and only return for meals.”

“It’s rather a treat to see a uniform out here, where hardly an officer has appeared since last year when we had Prince George of Servia and his staff for three days.”

The general topic on the market place was certainly not war, and we drove home somewhat reassured.

Friday, the 31st, however, the tone of the newspapers was serious and our little village began to grow alarmed when several soldiers on holiday leave received individual official telegrams to rejoin their regiments immediately.  Little knots of peasants could be seen grouped together along the village street, a thing unheard of in that busy season when vineyards need so much attention.  Towards noon the news ran like wildfire that men belonging to the youngest classes had received their official notices and we’re leaving to join their corps.  Yet there was no commotion anywhere.

“It will last three weeks and they’ll all come home, safe and sound.  It’s bothersome, though, that the Government should choose just our busiest season to take the men out for a holiday!” declared one peasant.

There was less hilarity in the servants’ hall when I entered after luncheon.  At least I fancied so.  The men had gone about their work quicker than usual, and the women were silently washing up.

“Does Madame know that the fils Poupard is leaving by the four o’clock train—–­and that Cranger and Veron are going too?” asked my faithful Catherine.

“No.”

“Yes, Madame—­and Honorine is in the wash-house crying as though her heart would break.”

I turned on my heel and walked toward the river.  In the wash-house I found Honorine bending over her linen, the great tears streaming down her face, in spite of her every effort to control them.

“Why, Honorine, what’s the matter?”

“He’s gone, Madame—­gone without my seeing him—­without even a clean pair of socks!”

“Who?”

“My son, Madame!”

And the tears burst out afresh, though in silence.