Refugees?

They hadn’t seen any.  Someone had heard an unaccustomed movement of wagons during the night, that was all.

A signpost, as I turned into the square, told me that I was at Jouy-sur-Morin, and a few moments later, I came upon a group of gentlemen in frock coats standing talking on an embankment below the church.  If it had been in the afternoon instead of five A. M., I should have thought this assembly perfectly in harmony with the landscape.  In fact they looked so much like H.’s caricatures of his provincial compatriots that I couldn’t help smiling as I passed.  This mutational gathering of the municipal council was the only outward sign of anxiety to be found in this picturesque township.

The arrival of our caravan produced quite a sensation among the early risers at Jouy, thought the enthusiasm for telling their story had somewhat subsided among my servants.  They were footsore, sleepy, and hungry.

The gentlemen in frock coats were too busy in their own affairs to give us much attention, and I was about to leave when one of them called me over and asked a few questions.  Anxious to be off, I answered briefly.  The man probably took me for a poor demented female; how could he think otherwise down here in his little valley, where not a sound of gun and shell had penetrated as yet?

History will tell you how, a few hours later, Jouy-sur-Morin was the scene of one of the bloodiest battles of the Marne.

At the dairy, my appearance aroused much curiosity, and when I brought out the money to pay for my milk, the woman held up her hand.  “No, never; I couldn’t take pay from such forlorn creatures as you!”

This unexpected pity brought the blood to my cheeks.  I was hot with indignation.  Until now we had wanted for nothing, and with gold in my pocket charity was an insult.  I straightened my tie, looked at my dusty boots, and realized for the first time that my face was drawn with fatigue and anxiety—­that my hair, though tidy, was sadly out of curl.  Leaving my change on the table, I turned on my heel and departed.  Explanations were tiresome and useless.

We crossed a railroad track and then the river—­the Grand Morin—­and in a grass-grown granite quarry halted for breakfast, sheltering ourselves from the blistering sun in the shade of the immense rocks.

The boys took the horses down to the river to drink and bathe, and a few seconds later came back for towels and soap.

What a happy idea!  A quarter of a mile higher up the bank I found a well secluded spot, and plunged into the refreshing current.  It was the first time I had had my boots off since leaving Villiers.  Thanks to a small pocket glass and a fresh white blouse, I made myself quite presentable and as I approached our camp, the appetizing odor of fresh fried country sausage tickled my nostrils and made me glad to be alive.

Hot coffee accompanied by buttered toast had been prepared by the girls during my absence, and we needed no coaxing to persuade us to do the meal justice.  Already accustomed to this gypsy life, George’s dry humor began to show itself, and now and again the silence would be broken by peals of laughter, caused by some quaint joke.