H. looked at his watch.  It was nearly eleven, and our next train left at noon sharp.  We jumped into a taxi.

“Drive to the Gare de l’Est and on the way stop at Tarides!  We must have maps, good road maps of the entire north and east,” said H., turning to me.

It seemed as though he had had that thought in common with the entire Parisian population, for all down the boulevards the bookshops and stationers were already overflowing with men, chiefly in regimentals, and as to the shoe-shops and boot-makers—­there was a line waiting outside of each.  Yet there was no excitement, no shouting, not even an “extra.”

What a different sight our station presented to that of two hours before!  The great iron gates were shut, and guarded by a line of sergents de ville.  Only men joining their regiments and persons returning to their legitimate dwellings were allowed to pass.  And there were thousands of both.  Around the grillwork hovered dense groups of women, bravely waving tearless adieux to their men folk.

After assuring himself that there was still a noon train, H. led me to the restaurant directly opposite the station.

“We’ll have a bite here.  Heaven knows what time we shall reach home!”

The room was filled to overflowing; the lunchers being mostly officers.  At the table on our right sat a young fellow whose military harnessings were very new and very stiff, but in spite of the heat, a high collar and all his trappings he managed to put away a very comfortable repast.

On our left was a party composed of a captain, his wife and two other freres d’armes.  That brave little Parisian woman at once won my admiration, for though, in spite of superhuman efforts, the tears would trickle down her face, she never gave in one second to her emotion but played her part as hostess, trying her best to put her guests at ease and smilingly inquiring after their family and friends as though she were receiving under ordinary circumstances in her own home.

At a quarter before noon we left them and elbowed our way through the ever-gathering crowd towards our train.

“The twelve o’clock express—­what platform?” H. inquired.

“The ten o’clock train hasn’t gone yet, Monsieur!”

“Is there any danger of its not going?”

“Oh, no; but there’s every danger of its being the last.”

And the man spoke the truth, for as our friend the politician predicted, at noon military authority took over the station and all those who were so unfortunate as to have been left behind were obliged to wait in Paris three mortal weeks.  On the Eastern Railway all passenger service was immediately sacrificed to the transportation of troops.

It seems to me that this was the longest train I have ever seen.  The coaches stretched far out beyond the station into torrid sunlight.  Every carriage was filled up to and beyond its normal capacity.  There could be no question of what class one would travel—­it was travel where one could!  Yet no one seemed to mind.  I managed to find a seat in it compartment already occupied by two young St. Cyr students in full uniform and white gloves, a very portly aged couple and half a dozen men of the working classes.