“Yes, Madame, I found this under the door when I came in at noon.—­” She drew a crumpled paper from her apron pocket.  I smoothed it out and read: 

“Je viens de recevior ma feuille.  Je pars de suite.  Je prends les deux francs sur la cheminee.  Jean.” (I’ve just received my notice.  Am leaving at once.  Have taken the two francs that are on the mantel.  Jean.)

I cannot say what an impression that brief but heroic note made upon me.  In my mind it has always stood as characteristic of that wonderful national resolution to do one’s duty, and to make the least possible fuss about it.

At tea-time the male contingent of the house-party was decidedly restless.

“Let’s go up to Paris and see what’s going on.”

“There’s no use doing that.  Elizabeth Gauthier went this morning and will be back in an hour with all the news.  It’s too late to go to town, anyway!”

“Well, if things don’t look better to-morrow I’ve got to go.  My military book is somewhere in my desk at home and it’s best to have it en regle in case of necessity,” said Delorme.

“Mine’s at home, too,” echoed our friend Boutiteron.

“We’ll all go to-morrow, and make a day of it,” decided H.

Just then the silhouette of the three officers on bicycles passed up the road.

“Let’s go out and ask them what’s up,” suggested someone.

“Pooh!  Do you think they know anything more than we do?  And if they do know something, they wouldn’t tell you! Don’t make a fool of yourself, Hugues!”

Presently Elizabeth Gauthier arrived, placid and cool as though everything were normal.  “Paris is calm; calm as Paris always is in August.”

“But the papers?  Your husband?  What does he say?”

“There are no extras—­Leon doesn’t seem over-alarmed, though as captain in the reserves he would have to leave within an hour after any declaration of hostilities.  He has a special mission to perform.  But he’s certain of coming down by the five o’clock train to-morrow.”

We went in to dinner but conversation lagged.  Each one seemed preoccupied and no one minded the long silences.  We were so quiet that the Angelus ringing at Charly, some four miles away, roused us with something of a shock.

Saturday morning, August 1st, the carryall rolled up to the station for the early train.  All made a general rush for the papers which had just arrived and all of us were equally horrified when a glance showed the headline-Jaures, the Great Socialist Leader, Assassinated.  Decidedly the plot thickened and naturally we all jumped to the same conclusion—­a political crime.

“There’s a stronger hand than the murderer’s back of that felony,” murmured a plain man from the corner of our compartment.

“What makes you say that?”

“Why, can’t you see, Monsieur, that our enemies are counting on the deed to stir up the revolutionary party and breed discord in the country!  It’s as plain as day!”